These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(20)
I did not remember that.
Shivering, I hurried away, splashing through foul puddles and dank recesses without hesitation. I rounded a corner chemist shop, found that the next street looked completely wrong, spun around to retrace my steps, and crashed right into the two reeking men from the magic show. My muttered apologies and attempts to slip by failed as their wide, swaggering frames blocked my path. They didn’t look to be the friendliest of guides.
“ ’Ere she is! ’Ello, poppet. Whereya runnin’ off to?” one voice scratched like sandpaper.
“ ’Ow much fer the both o’ us?” the other said.
I endeavored to turn around, but one shuffled in front of me. “Oy, take a look at those lips! Come on, darlin’, ’ow much?” he yelled.
My heart started to pound, furiously begging my legs to move. I made a dash, but the men were faster than drunkards rightfully should have been. One seized my arm and swung me back while the other clutched my neck with his grimy fingers. I struggled to utter words, sounds, anything as I heard the metal clang of a dropped blade and scraping as one of them picked it up.
“Lucky us. No one’s ’ere,” a voice in my ear cackled to the other man. “Who needs a room?”
“No, no! Please—”
The taste of dirt hit me as a thick, fetid hand smothered my cry for help. Another hand pulled my neckline apart with a horrifying tear, and my final, frantic lunge away was stopped short by two hairy arms pinning me to a strange, damp body. The edge of the knife pricked my burning throat as their whispered threats lingered in my ear. The suffocating stench of tobacco and ale filled my lungs, violating all my senses.
I kicked. I kicked so hard, and it did nothing but hurry them along. Hands seized my feet, and a voice cursed at me as they carried me off the sidewalk and down an alley—an alley far too dark to see what they would do next.
AND FAR TOO dark for them to see me.
My hand flew up, clawing at the closest face, fingers digging into hair, flesh, eyes with every shred of fury I could summon from within. Thick wetness dribbled down my palm, and a loud, gruff scream tore straight through my ears. The blade dropped away, and the holds on me loosened for a brief, startling second.
My feet kicked hard again, flailing and hitting and thrusting into what felt like a face, a stomach, a groin, and then they touched solid ground. I scrambled backward, bumping into a body and shoving it away and spinning around in the dark, looking for the yellow glow of gaslight. Hearing grunts and footsteps behind me, I dashed toward the street, my skirts tangling, my slippers half sliding off, my balance and breath leaving me. If I could just make it down the street, a constable would hear me. Someone. Anyone. And that was when a third silhouetted man arrived, standing between me and my freedom.
I flew at him like a feral cat, aiming for the eyes, trying to do what worked before, refusing to be taken again. The collision sent him stumbling back a step, but as I attacked with all my momentum to throw him off balance, that unmistakable sensation surged through my body, and I felt myself being whirled around and pushed into a pool of light. The world stopped spinning to settle on Mr. Braddock’s eyes, glaring into mine as waves of energy passed between his hands to my arms, where he clutched me.
The scuffle of footsteps snapped his attention to the alley. He pivoted back and swung his fist at the man in front, catching him straight on his nose and sending him stumbling and slamming into the other. But they didn’t fall. With a newfound rage, the two staggered forward.
“Lucky one that was,” one of them said, wiping his bloody face.
The other pointed his knife at Mr. Braddock and smirked.“We’ll be the lucky ones. I get his coat.”
“Long as I get the bitch first.”
And the one in front charged with his knife, thrusting at Mr. Braddock’s head to avoid bloodying the coat. Mr. Braddock gracefully sidestepped the lunge and grabbed the unbalanced drunkard’s wrist. Impossibly fast and forceful, he contorted the wailing man’s arm and twisted him around. I heard the snap of bones. With a yell, the second attacker launched a hard, clumsy kick at Mr. Braddock’s side but found his foot lodged in his friend’s stomach. Mr. Braddock’s human shield crumpled to the floor. As the second drunkard realized his mistake, his eyes widened, and his crooked jaw would have dropped, had a skyward fist not collided with it first and sent him sailing backward onto the hard pavement.
That should have ended it, but the first attacker clambered back into the fray, broken arm held in tightly, and tackled Mr. Braddock from behind before I could shout a word of warning. Surprised but still upright, Mr. Braddock hurriedly spun around, attempting to dislodge the desperate attacker, who was futilely trying to drag him to the ground. After a few punches from Mr. Braddock, the drunkard’s tight hold with his good hand finally loosened, and he collapsed to the ground between us, while Mr. Braddock stood over him watching, his brow furrowed.
I could do nothing but gape at the sight. My knees buckled, and I sat down hard on the street, my skirts fanning out along the dirty pavement. My thoughts would not stop. They seemed to weigh down on me, every single awful thing that had almost happened. I did my best to push them away, to think on what really had happened. My heavy breath, held for entirely too long, escaped in a loud gasp and turned Mr. Braddock’s attention to me.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, slipping a pair of kid gloves over his blood-speckled hands.