Starling (101 page)

enough to let Cristian draw her blood for some spell that promised
to raise the dead. She prayed, for everyone’s sake, that the enchantment wouldn’t work with anyone else’s blood either.
She heard footsteps from beyond the bookcase and started to
panic. Cristian was returning, and she still hadn’t managed to find
anything to defend herself with. She hurried back toward the divan,
passing by the easel as she did. Perfect! Nestled among the collection
of brushes was a shiny scalpel that artists sometimes used for detail
work. She grabbed it, slid it up her sleeve, and then returned to her
seat, adjusting the billowing fabric of her dress so that the scalpel was
completely hidden from view.
Wood scraped against stone as the bookshelf slid back and Cristian’s form appeared in the wall’s opening. Quickly he stepped
through, muttering under his breath, not even bothering to pull the
bookcase back into place.
As Cass watched, Cristian poured from a pitcher of ale. The
foamy liquid sloshed over the edge of the tankard he held in his trembling right hand. She coughed again, a muted bleating sound. “Thank
you,” she said meekly, feeling anything but meek.
The scalpel blade was cool against her wrist. She just needed
Cristian to come close enough for her to stab him. She would bury
the point exactly where she had put pressure on the guard. If she
severed a big vessel, he would lose too much blood to come after her.
She didn’t even care if she killed him.
Cristian approached with the mug of ale. Cass’s heart battered
against her rib cage. This was it, her one chance. She prayed he
couldn’t see her trembling, that he couldn’t sense the whirling of
her thoughts, the rushing of her blood beneath her skin. The cuff
of her sleeve hung over her fingers. She maneuvered the scalpel into
her palm, visualizing the arc of her arm through the air, imagining
the feel of the blade cutting into Cristian’s flesh. The complex layer
of smells—decay, rosewater, incense—tickled her throat as her senses
sharpened. Her mouth went dry, her muscles tense.
The moment Cristian bent over to hand her the tankard, Cass
jammed the scalpel into his neck. Blood spurted out. Roaring in
pain, he dropped the mug of ale. His hand flailed toward his neck,
reaching for the scalpel. A spattering of crimson rain sprayed across
the front of her bodice as he yanked the blade from his throat. Cass
pushed him backward and got to her feet, heading quickly for the
opening that led back into his quarters. To her horror, she saw that
he was stumbling after her, the bloody scalpel now clutched in his
fist. She lurched through the opening in the wall, grabbed the fireplace poker from the corner of the adjoining room, and ran out into
the corridor. Holding her breath, she pressed her body against the
wall, listening as Cristian’s footsteps came closer.
A step.
A hot, angry breath.
Another step.
Cass sensed him in the doorway before she could see him. Stepping forward, she swung the poker with all her might. It slammed
into his face with a brutal crunching sound, the impact jarring her all
the way to her bare feet. Cristian flew backward, his body connecting sharply with the floor. Blood flowed from his neck and nose,
painting the stones red.
Dropping the poker, Cass turned and hurried down the hallway,
one hand clutching the wall for balance.