Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(63)

She chuckled at my expression, a throaty sensual sound that crawled down my spine like a centipede.

“I wondered, you know”—she spoke in a heavy Spanish accent—“what you would look like now.” My knuckles whitened on the pommel as she shrugged and moved closer, so that her knee grazed mine. “My son’s pictures do not do you justice.”

Bran moved his horse to my other side. They hemmed me in, and I felt the familiar tightening begin to swell in my chest.

“You were right,” she said to Bran. “She is pretty.”

“Mother,” Bran started, but someone called out, cutting him off.

“Lady Celia.” My head whipped around at the familiar voice. “May we get on with this? I have other duties to attend.”

I hadn’t even noticed him, all my attention focused on my mother’s enemy.

Thomas Becket pursed his lips as he looked me over. “I have a cell ready for her.”

“Cell?” Bran asked.

“Yes.” Celia clapped her hands, delighted. “Sarah’s daughter shall go with the good father.” She gestured at Phoebe, who was glaring hard at her over the gag. “I had thought to let Moira’s granddaughter go. Then I remembered years ago overhearing her warn her son away from me. So I believe they shall both suffer.”

“Milady,” Becket interjected, “I have no time for this. I want the girl taken into custody. Now. I must return to His Grace.”

Celia’s dark eyes flew to his face. “You will get me the Jews’ stone, yes?”

“Yes, but the king—”

“No excuses,” she snapped. “That was our arrangement when I came to you all those months ago. I gave you the gold to finance your rise, did I not? And I told you of the holy visions, yes? That you would become powerful. The king’s right hand? That if you get me this stone, you will rise as high as the king himself. And are these things not coming to pass?”

Thomas Becket blanched. “Yes, milady,” he mumbled. “You did. They . . . they have.”

“Then take the girl,” Celia said. “And get me the stone.” Her upper lip peeled back from white teeth. “Or go back to being nothing but a lowly priest. A nothing. The son of a petty knight.”

I tried to catch Bran’s gaze, but he was staring down at his horse’s mane, frowning. As Celia turned away from Becket, her eyes rolled to the sky in contempt.

She hates him, I realized. She’s just using his greed to get to the Nonius Stone.

I swallowed down the shards of fear and straightened in my saddle. As a plan began to coil out before me, Celia raised a hand.

“Guards,” she called. “You may dice for the little redhead. Whoever wins can take her. Do what you will. Pass her around if you wish. I care not. The other will enjoy the hospitality of the good father’s prison cell.”





Chapter 31


EVERY CELL IN MY BODY TIGHTENED. FOCUS, WALTON. For God’s sake, focus. Figure this out.

The clamor in my head quieted. I opened my eyes to see the calculated paths of escape forming before me in brilliant neon swoops. I discarded one after the other, until only one route remained.

Celia walked her horse over to whisper with Flint. The guards crouched near the front steps, throwing dice against the cobbles. The dice rattled as they hit the stone. The younger guard groaned and let Phoebe’s reins dangle to the ground.

The bearded one chuckled. “Mine.”

“Hope, you have to believe me.” Bran’s whisper brushed against, but didn’t penetrate, my concentration. “I didn’t know about Becket.”

My eyes caught Phoebe’s, and I mouthed, Hold on.

With one finger, I tapped the high front of my own saddle. Phoebe nodded, and her tied hands moved to grip the squared-off section.

Bran, a horrified expression tugging down his mouth, trotted over to his mother. The two of them began arguing in rapid-fire Spanish.

Slowly, discreetly, I gathered my reins and took a deep breath. “Now!” I screamed at Phoebe, who kicked her horse into motion.

The startled animal leaped toward mine. I pressed my knees into my horse’s sides, turning her parallel with my friend’s mount. Bending low, I snatched up Phoebe’s dangling leads.

“Oy!” One of the guards yelled behind us. “Milady!”

Shouts and a crash sounded behind us. Footsteps pounded. The gate was open, but Celia savagely wrenched her horse around and moved to block our exit. I gathered Phoebe’s reins and pulled her closer. “Right through,” I said.

Her clenched teeth glowed white as she nodded and hunkered over her animal’s neck. Celia drew something from her sleeve. I burrowed my heels into my horse’s sides. Go. Go. Go.

Celia stood her ground. My horse tried to veer, but I held the reins taut. It was a game of chicken, and from the triumphant leer on Celia’s face, I wasn’t sure who’d win.

Racing at my side, Phoebe muttered a prayer. My eyes were fixed on Celia. On the knife clutched in her hand. We were on a collision course. She wasn’t backing down, but neither was I.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a horse suddenly rear, forelegs flailing at the winter air. Bran’s mount leapt forward, plunging into the side of his mother’s beast, causing it to stumble out of our path. Moonlight flashed on steel as we surged past. Then we were out the gate and galloping down the street. I had no idea if Bran had done it on purpose or if his horse had simply gone skittish.