Page 9 of Immortal Rose

Scooping the bottles into my wicker basket, I took off.

The scent of the soldiers exploded behind me as they came upon the remnants of the market. I glared down at the rattling bundle of bottles pressed to my chest. I might as well have been wearing a bloody bell for how easy I was making it for them.

Bloody moon, bloody Toady—bloody Sloggers. The soldiers had probably tracked those men here, damn them.

Within two heartbeats my old ankle boots were soaked through, my hems stained and splattered. That was why you wore only gray or brown to the Brickbats. Any other color would be sacrificed to the rookery’s filthy fingers or mark you as a peacock ready to have your feathers plucked.

I made a right where the alley narrowed, a left at the spot Mr. Higgins had been gutted like a fish for his fine new hat, another left at the burnt-out husk that had once been a cobbler’s shop before the Tremont Terrors had gotten their paws on fireworks.

It was only by virtue of how often I’d run these lanes that I was sure-footed enough not to twist an ankle on the uneven stones. It was all too easy to get lost in the dark, labyrinthine sprawl of the back lanes. They’d been the delight of murderers and thieves over the centuries for this very reason—the blind turns opportunities, the shadows protective of their own.

I slid to a stop at a crossway between four tenements, taking the measure of each path. Right would take me deeper into the rookery, and left—

Foul panting breath, sweat-damp wool, and gunpowder found me again. Close—too close. The sound of quick footfalls followed, the last warning I’d receive.

I lifted my narrow skirt and swung left, my heart thundering. The Coffin. I’d lose them near the Coffin, where the roads circled back onto each other like serpents devouring their tails. I could hide in the deconsecrated church’s crypt or by running flat out to the river if it came to it.

“There!” a man shouted. “There she is!”

I ran faster, my boots sliding through the muck, crashing my left shoulder into a sharp corner of brick. I sucked in a breath of pain as the stone tore the tufted sleeve of my dress and scraped the skin there raw. Finding my footing once more, I continued, consoling myself by imagining the soldiers’ fine emerald King’s Guard uniforms splattered with the same filth.

Nearly there, I thought, taking a right when the scent of another soldier, this one reeking of whatever stew he’d eaten for supper, slithered down the lane to my left.

The damp air was a muddle of fading essences, trails of all those who had walked them in the days before or fled through them only moments ago, having had the same idea I did.

The alley tightened around me like a fist, forcing me to turn sideways to pass through. The clatter of musket and sword and those heavy, unrelenting footsteps were the only sounds I heard over my own heartbeat.

Nearly there, I told myself again.

But I heard it then—the echo of a shout. A woman’s piercing wail. Arabella?

I hesitated, and it cost me. It always cost me.

With my gaze turned back toward the clamor, my body slammed straight into a hard wall of wool and muscle.

“Ah, there you are.”

I jerked back in alarm, but the soldier, looking remarkably unharassed in his prim uniform, clapped two hands around my arms like irons. Breath tore in and out of me as I forced my gaze up—and up—into the soldier’s face. The white handkerchief tied beneath his nose fluttered with his soft chuckle. Eyes as silver as coins bore into mine.

A shiver passed down my spine and straight into my soul. How . . . ?

The basket slid from my nerveless fingers, the bottles hidden inside clattering horribly as it hit the cobblestones.

I inhaled sharply. But there was nothing—not an essence, not even the smell of wool or leather. It was impossible, and yet . . .

I could puzzle it out later, when I was well away from here. From him, whatever he was.

“Let me go!” I demanded, craning my head around, searching for my way out.

Nearby, a tenement leaned toward the street like a curious bystander.

I spun up my best east city accent. “Help! Help! The swad’s going to kill me!”

This time, the soldier reared back. I almost laughed at how offended he appeared at the suggestion.

When he spoke, his accent was as clear as cut crystal. “I most certainly am not—though that can be arranged.”

A toff, then? A second or third son, more like, whose father had bought his commission. A soft-belly lad. Untested. Probably pissing himself in terror being made to march into the Brickbats.