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116
First thing I see when we reach the end of the hall is the guard who locked me in the cell now slumped on the ground, and the man responsible for putting me there bleeding out from a knife wound.
“What have you done?” I cry, pausing to approach the groundskeeper who, from what I can tell, will soon be dead if he’s not already.
“I did what I had to,” Killian snaps. “Now come. And hurry. We need to keep moving before someone finds us both here.”
I know he’s right. There’s not even a second to spare. But that small leather pouch is still tied at the groundskeeper’s waist, and even if there’s only the most miniscule chance that the guard might’ve returned the golden ball to him, I still need to check.
I bend down beside him. My gaze skimming past the wound in his belly, I focus on the strange round symbol tattooed on the crook of his arm. An intricate series of interlinking circles—a design that’s somehow familiar.
I lean closer, wanting to get a better look, when Killian says, “No use mourning the Timekeeper.”
I turn to Killian in confusion. “The what?”
But he just shakes his head and says, “You done there?”
I return to the dying man before me, loosen the drawstring of the small leather bag, and sneak a finger inside. Only to exhale in relief when I find the sun has sunk to the bottom.
After stashing the golden ball into one of my pockets, I get to my feet with Killian’s help, and together we race toward a spiral stairway.
“How long do we have?” he asks as I rush to keep up.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “My mask stopped working just after I arrived.”
He glances over his shoulder. “That was no accident,” he says, his tone unmistakably cryptic, leaving me to wonder if it’s how he ended up stuck here. But there’s no time to discuss. We need to keep moving.
“Take my hand and walk quickly,” he says. “But don’t run until it’s safe.”
“But we need to get to the portal!” I argue.
“First, we need to get out of here without attracting any undue notice.”
I walk alongside him, keeping my eye on the prize—the exit, the garden beyond, and, with any luck, the sculpture ofDeceitthat leads to the doorway that I fiercely hope will stay open long enough for us to reach it.
I had two hours. And the last time I checked, I’d already burned through a good portion of that. Considering the events that unfolded since then, it feels like I’ve been here for days. If the portal is closed and we’re trapped in 1745 with an angry man locked away in a cell, a murdered groundskeeper, and a guard who can awaken at any second, then Killian is doomed, and I’m… Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter, since I’ll cease to exist.
The thought alone is enough to quicken my pace. I don’t care what Killian says, we can’t afford any delays. But Killian has other ideas, and the next thing I know, he’s lifted me off my feet, swooped me into his arms, and practically swallowed me in his embrace.
“What the hell?” I punch him hard on the shoulder. “I knew I couldn’t trust you! I knew—” I press the blade to his chest, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Don’t fight me,” he says, breathing into my ear. “Or do fight me, but only in a way that looks playful.”
“What the fu—”
Next thing I know, he covers my mouth with his, but unlike Jago, Killian doesn’t fake the kiss. His lips are gentle, warm, and all too familiar. But unlike the last time we kissed, I’m not in a Fade and I absolutely cannot, will not, play along with his game.
I peek an eye open to see two guards storming toward us. They slow as they pass, taking a moment to scrutinize Killian and me in a way that has me certain they can see right through this facade of a clinch.
Killian clutches me tighter, whispering, “I’m sorry, but please, just go with it for now,” then continues to push his lips against mine.
The guards pass, hurrying in the direction we came from, as Killian loosens his grip and starts to pull away, but not before I sink my teeth deep into his bottom lip.
“Good God!”he cries, depositing me back on my feet, and raising both hands in surrender.
“I don’t know how long you’ve been gone—” I glance over my shoulder as I make to flee. “But the rules have changed. You need to ask for consent.”
He wipes a hand dramatically over his mouth, as though erasing the kiss from his lips, or maybe he’s checking for blood—it’s hard to tell. “I needed it to look authentic.” He hurries alongside me. “Do you seriously believe the French can’t tell the difference? Not to mention there are blood spatters on your dress that my coat can’t hide—do you really want them to see that? And, for the record, judging by the way you kissed me back, and how quickly the guards moved on, I’m thinking they weren’t the only ones fooled.”
