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“Yes,” the Hellequin said.
“And what will happen to you?”
But the Hellequin merely shook his head and mounted the big black horse. …
—From The Legend of the Hellequin
Godric felt his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. His left arm ached, deep and compelling, and his hand shook just a little as he pressed the short sword to Kershaw’s vulnerable armpit. He stared at Trevillion and wanted to hiss. Wanted to spit and howl. He was fated to be taken tonight, it seemed, but he would drag Kershaw with him, clasping him to his bloody bosom as he went down. Something flickered in Trevillion’s eyes, perhaps a premonition, as Godric’s muscles tensed, preparing to shove the sword tip through skin and muscle, tendon and bone.
“Nooooo!” It was Alf’s voice, hoarse and loud. The girl wrenched herself away from her stunned guard, running to Godric. “You can’t take the Ghost, you soddin’ redcoats. This toff steals little girls. If’n you—”
But her words were cut off as Kershaw took advantage of the confusion. He grabbed Alf’s hair, bending back her head, exposing a throat much too thin and tender and placed the blade of his sword against it.
Godric lunged, sinking his short sword into Kershaw, pushing until the hilt hit his coat.
Kershaw wheezed.
Alf screamed, high and feminine.
Godric twisted the blade, staring fiercely into Kershaw’s muddy eyes as they dimmed and he dropped his sword. He yanked the bloody short sword from the body and Kershaw’s corpse fell gracelessly to the cobblestones.
“Hold your fire!” Trevillion screamed. “Hold your blasted fire!”
For a moment everyone froze, the only sound the nervous stomping of the horses and the whimpering of the two girls.
One of the guards took off at a run.
Trevillion nodded in his direction and a mounted man cantered after him.
“Arrest them all,” Trevillion growled, dismounting, “save for the Ghost. He’s mine.”
He unsheathed his sword.
Godric backed a step. He had no particular urge to kill the dragoon captain—the soldier was only doing his job, after all.
Captain Trevillion glared at the mounted dragoons behind Godric. “Did you not hear me, Stockard? I said the Ghost is mine.”
The soldiers trotted to the side, leaving Godric and Trevillion alone in an open space. Godric gripped his sword, feeling the hilt under his sweaty palm. The night was thick with the stink of blood and horses and the natural miasma of St. Giles.
Trevillion moved forward slowly, forcing Godric back. He lunged, but his attack was oddly clumsy. Perhaps the dragoon hadn’t much practice with his sword. Trevillion jabbed again and Godric easily knocked his sword aside, frowning now, trying to understand what the other man was doing. Was he herding him into a corner? But the space behind him was open.
Trevillion thrust again, this time engaging Godric a little more skillfully, still pushing him back because Godric really didn’t want this fight.
Their swords locked, each man straining into the other, sweat running down Godric’s back, and then Trevillion rolled his eyes and leaned close. “Run, you idiot.”
Godric realized that they’d moved several yards away from the other dragoons, close to the crossroads where a dark alley led.
Trevillion shoved hard against him.
Godric spun and fled, expecting any minute to feel a bullet hit his back or the thunder of hooves trampling him down.
They never came. Instead, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye as Alf scaled a tenement wall as nimbly as a monkey while the dragoons shouted helplessly below.
He ran flat out, his boots ringing on the cobblestones. He ran until the blood roared in his veins, until the breath sobbed in his lungs. He ran until the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children came into sight, a familiar carriage at the end of the lane and a cloaked female figure just about to mount the steps.
He stopped, hands propped on knees, his chest heaving, and craned his neck to stare as the woman turned around.
The hood of her velvet cloak was pushed back, glossy, dark curls tumbling to her shoulders. Those shoulders were square, a pistol gripped firmly in her right hand, and determination shone in her pretty eyes.
