These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(40)

Somehow, I found the legs to follow. “And you must let Mr. Braddock go.”

Dr. Beck motioned to Claude, who obeyed and lowered the gas lamp as we drew closer. “If you can heal,” he said.

“I can,” I insisted. “I promise.”

Dr. Beck knelt beside Mr. Braddock. In one swift motion, he pulled a knife out of his jacket pocket and slashed a long, cruel cut into Mr. Braddock’s back as I screamed. “Then prove it.”

My stomach sank, along with the rest of my body, and before I knew it, I was on the ground pressing my hands over Mr. Braddock’s gushing wound, willing it to close, to fix this whole mess, to bring Rose back.

With Claude and Dr. Beck standing over me, I swallowed my fear, removed my blood-drenched hand, and found the open cut staring back at me. No.

Dr. Beck shook his head. “As I thought. Just because you’re siblings does not mean you and Miss Rosamund both have the same ability. I’ve found no such correlation in my research.”

“It’s t-true, I promise you, it’s true.” My voice was as broken as my newfound power, and tears fell fast down my cheeks.

“I hope this same sense of selflessness runs in your family. Then Miss Rosamund and I shall get along very well,” he said, turning to go. “Finish it!”

Claude’s heavy tread approached, the lamppost scraping and rattling along the wooden planks. Clutching Mr. Braddock to myself, I slid us backward, inch by inch, as if the extra step would somehow keep us from Claude.

Suddenly, Dr. Beck spun around, calling out urgently, “Claude, watch—”

A gunshot cracked through the silence, striking the railing near Claude. A carriage screeched behind me as the bridge started to vibrate. Claude froze, watching its approach, then turned to find Dr. Beck already backing away.

“Let’s go!”

Another gunshot rang through the air, and Claude retreated, not waiting to see if our savior’s aim would improve upon his approach. He disappeared down the street and into the distant darkness as the carriage rumbled close. Only when the horses whinnied to a stop and Mr. Kent leaped down next to us did my breath return in a gasp of relief.

“Miss Wyndham! Are you all right? What’s happened?” he asked, reaching out to calm me down. I wanted so badly to close my eyes, collapse in his arms, and sleep for days.

Instead I ignored his hand on mine, concentrating on the injured man in my lap. I forced back a wave of nausea as I stared down at the deathly pale face. The only color interrupting Mr. Braddock’s gray pallor was the sticky red blood still issuing from his forehead.

“I don’t know—Rose is gone—she’s gone—and he was protecting me from Claude,” I babbled. “We—we have to help him.”

I pressed my cheek against his, feeling his faint response tingle in my blood: weak, but it was there. A ragged breath scratched along his throat.

“Mr. Braddock, if you don’t wake up, I shall kill you myself.”

“It will be all right,” Mr. Kent reassured me as we tugged Mr. Braddock up, pulling his arms around our shoulders. “God, he is much heavier than he looks, isn’t he? Must be that large head.”

We laid Mr. Braddock down in Mr. Kent’s carriage, then squeezed ourselves in. “The closest hospital!” Mr. Kent called out to his driver.

“No!” I shouted, shaking my head fervently. The hospital would contact the police, and the police would contact Dr. Beck. We needed a quiet, safe place to treat him. With no other choice, I provided the driver with the Lodges’ address. Mr. Braddock had to live. Then we could worry about the rest.

“How did you find me?” The words slipped out of me. I needed a distraction as I pulled Mr. Braddock onto my lap, cradling him as if my arms were the only things keeping him in one piece.

Mr. Kent’s jaw set, but he answered civilly enough. “I saw a strange woman in the dress your sister was wearing earlier. Curious business, that. But she told me where you were—after enough money changed hands, of course.”

“Yes, of course, I will explain . . .” But I couldn’t. My words drifted away, leaving me unable to think on anything besides Mr. Braddock. Blood still seeped out of the cut on his back, soaking my hands, my dress, my thoughts. He had said I was a miraculous healer. He said I restored Miss Lodge to full health. I’d seen my hands heal. It was true. And I wanted it to be true. As we rolled down the bumpy streets, I closed my eyes, willing my body to access my power, whatever part it was that would make him better.

Please. I believed. Damn it all, I believed.





THE ENTIRELY HEALTHY Miss Lodge greeted us at her front door and let out a soft gasp, taking in the entirely bloody Mr. Braddock. With the quiet, incurious assistance of Cushing, we hauled Mr. Braddock’s body up the stairs and into a dark-paneled guest room. My arms trembled with exertion, and my eyes itched with tears I would not allow to fall. As we set him on the bed, I held Miss Lodge’s disbelieving gaze, unnaturally shiny over the candle.

It was true. She really had recovered. And now I burdened her with this.

“I’m terribly sorry for troubling you,” I whispered. “We just needed to treat him quickly.”

At that, she snapped into action, swiftly rearranging the bedsheets around Mr. Braddock with an agitated energy. “No, no, please. Thank you for bringing him,” she said with a rushed imitation of a smile. Her eyes finally landed on my dress and widened. “You’re—you’re covered in blood, Miss Wyndham. Are you hurt? We will call for a doctor.”