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Metal clashes above me—how are they doing that? Is there a building up there I can’t see?—briefly pulling the attention of the man pinning Paulson to the ground. “I truly am sorry you are meeting this end. But I must defend our world, and that includes defending the crown.” In a blur of movement, he draws a blade and drives it down into the man’s chest.
I swallow back a scream as I shut my eyes tightly and scramble back into the brush, trying to get as far as I can away from the man.
He killed him! Where the hellamI?
“Who’s out there?” The man wipes his blade on the shirt of the now-dead Paulson, then looks out into the trees—almost right at me.
I hold my breath, focusing only on keeping as quiet as possible. The last thing I want is to meet my end by way of sword in a random-ass place I accidentally stumbled into.
After a moment, he turns away and jumps, disappearing from sight.
I gape at where he’d been standing.
Where in the actual hell am I? Am I dead? Is this some kind of purgatory? I don’t—another body slams to the ground, this time followed by a dozen living ones. They land heavily, boots like thunder claps against the ground, blades raised as they fight.
In some scene straight out of a fantasy movie, they battle; swords clashing, eyes wide, expressions furious. The man from earlier is back on the ground, facing off with one wearing the same bright green leathers as the ones currently getting their asses kicked by men in white.
They fight, and I try to shield myself, not wanting to see anyone else die but also not wanting to be caught off guard. The last damn thing I want is to close my eyes, only to open them and have a sword in my face.
A man in green roars and rushes toward the man who killed Paulson. “In the name of the one true king! Long live Raff—”
He doesn’t even hesitate as he spins his blade and rotates around, impaling his attacker. Grinning the entire time—sadistic bastard—he yanks his blade free and starts in on another man, then another, until the only ones who remain are men in white and the ground is littered with the dead bodies of the men wearing green leather.
“Well fought, men.” The man in white puts his blade back into its holster—if that’s what you call the thing that holds a sword—then turns to face his men, who all snap to attention like they do in cheesy military movies.
Only, where I might find it amusing if these men were acting, the dead men on the ground make it impossible to see anything but the horror. Where in the world am I? There’s no way I’m still in Dublin…right? I’m pretty sure murder is outlawed here, and I would have known if there were some kind of war going on.
Both of those things lead me to wonder—am I actually dead?
Something cool presses against my wrist, and I glance down, stifling a scream as an immense red and black snake slithers out of the brush, wrapping itself around my arm. I try not to move now, for fear I’ll scare it and it’ll sink its fangs into me.
But it seems I’m either facing the blades or the snake.
I’m choosing the snake.
“Head back to the castle, and take pride in knowing you stopped yet another uprising of rebels!”
Loud cheering breaks out amongst the men, and the snake wraps even more tightly around my wrist. I stifle a sob.A little longer, Ember. You got this.
Inner pep talk aside, my heart is hammering so loudly against my ribs I’m sure it’s going to lead the killers right to me.
As if on cue, the leader turns toward me, eyes narrowing as he studies the trees. It seems luck may be on my side, though, because he turns away a moment later and jumps into the air again with the other men following him.
I wait a breath of a moment then slowly try to remove my wrist from the snake. It clings to me, and I whimper, not wanting to move but also desperately needing to get away from the situation I’m in now.
Death by snake? No freaking thank you.
It raises its head toward me, looking at me with beady eyes as it opens its mouth, showing two huge, barbed fangs. Do snakes have barbed fangs? Why the hell does it have barbed fangs?
Unable to hold it in any longer, I scream, the shrill sound sending birds retreating up into the sky from the trees around me.
In a blur of movement, a hand reaches down and grabs the snake by the throat, flinging it back into the trees and pulling me up at the same time. My back slams into a tree trunk, and I find myself staring up into the impossibly golden eyes of the man who murdered another by the name of Paulson.
“Well, well, well,” he says softly, releasing me and stepping back so I can get my bearings. “What have we here?”
* * *
“Please, let me go.”I squirm against his hold as he drags me up marble steps and into a foyer so crisp I can see my reflection. And what a reflection it is. Hair wild, one strap of my tank top torn, I look like I spent more than an hour in the woods.
