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“Holy Mary, Joseph, and John. ’E’s a devil, he is,” Smith spat. “Workin’ Satan’s evil.”
C
limbing to his feet, Kilronan snatched her hand. Dragged her away, ignoring the curses following them up the alley. They made it as far as the next doorway before Kilronan swayed, his body convulsing in a jerk of broken magic that had him stumbling against the frame.
“Damn, that’s done it,” he muttered as the spell dissolved and the men recovered.
Smith uncurled, pounding toward them. Neddie close behind.
They bulled into Kilronan, dropping him to his knees. Raining blows and kicks until the earl could do little but suffer through the attack. Curling his body into a protective ball. Protecting his kidneys. His head.
Cat shouted. Tried pulling them off, but they smacked her aside, their original purpose forgotten amid their need to destroy what they didn’t understand.
Frantically she searched the alley for a weapon—a brick, a broken piece of wood, anything.
There.
In the doorway they’d only just passed.
A gleam of metal. A bent wooden handle.
Smith’s knife.
Cat dove. Grabbed the blade up, holding it before her as if it might bite. Shouted to be heard over the curses and the sickening thud of fists on flesh. “Get off him!”
They paused as she took a reckless step into the fray. Pricked Neddie in the ribs.
“Now,” she hissed.
His eye fell to the knife, and he gave a rough snarl of laughter. Moved to wrestle it from her hand.
She lashed out with a wild thrust that bit deep into his arm. Followed it up with another that grazed his ribs as he yelped, backing out of range.
Smith, too, had abandoned his thrashing of Kilronan and now watched her with a leery eye. “Careful, bitch, afore ya hurt yourself.”
“Your concern’s touching.” She followed Smith’s movements while trying to keep one eye on Neddie.
Smith lunged while Neddie sought to attack from behind. She sliced Smith hard on his wrist, squirming at the feel of his flesh parting and crunching under her cut. He screamed, yanking his arm away.
Neddie never reached her.
Kilronan had fumbled himself up onto his feet and crushed Neddie a blow to his side, punching the wind out of the man. Sending him reeling.
Straightening, he faced the men down. Eyes feral bright in a face carved of stone. “Who sent you?”
Neddie, clutching his side, splashed back up the alley while Smith, a hand clamped on his bloodied wrist, wavered. Cast Kilronan and then Cat a long, fuming look. Plunged past them to fade into the market crowds.
Cat’s limbs shook, a woozy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Though because of the blow from Neddie or because of the man standing stiff with fury before her, she couldn’t say.
“I can explain—” she began, the sheepish pleading sounding ridiculous to her own ears. What could she explain? The naive, romantical notions that had triggered her avalanche fall from a life of respectability? The blood and the pain and the terror as her child entered the world? The crushing weight of grief as he departed?
His gaze flicked over her, and she knew none of it would matter to him. He would judge her as the others had. Nothing she said in response would matter.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She straightened in surprise. “But . . . Geordie . . . he . . .”
He blinked, pain replacing the impenetrable, bronze brown stare. Pushed aside his coat. Touched a hand to the spreading stain across his waistcoat, his fingers coming away tipped in red. “Save your arguments, Cat, unless you wish to carry me back to Henry Street.”
