Starling (59 page)

dagger.” He smirked. “Too weak.”
Cass lunged for him, her head filled with blood and death. She
wanted to end him, to slice that smirk right off his face. Piero caught
her right wrist before the dagger could find its target. He twisted her
arm behind her.
“Drop it,” he said.
“Die,” Cass responded through gritted teeth. She stomped
down on Piero’s foot. He cried out and loosened his grip. Pulling
free, Cass grabbed the nearest thing—the metal bucket from the
washing table—and flung it at Piero’s head.
Water drenched him. The empty bucket clanged against the
stone, floor leaving behind a puddle. Piero snatched the bucket and
threw it back at Cass. She reached up to block it from hitting her face,
but the sharp impact jolted her and she stumbled, flailing her arms
and ending up on the bed.
Piero pounced, dripping wet. His handkerchief was damp, but
still thick with chemicals. Cass lashed out with her dagger. The blade
found the thin fabric of his shirt, but missed the flesh beneath. Piero
dropped his rag long enough to pin her hand against the bed. Before
he could strip her of her weapon, she kicked at his midsection with
both feet. She exhaled hard with relief as they connected and sent
him reeling toward the far side of the room.
Jumping up from the bed, Cass realized she was still trapped.
Piero lay between her and the door. She needed to incapacitate him,
just for a second so she could get past. She advanced slowly, her dagger poised. But where to strike? Muscle. Bone. A pool of blood. Cass
saw the future. But as Piero struggled to his feet, the candelabra
groaned above their heads. He stood almost directly beneath it.
Lunging toward the wall, Cass sliced through the fraying rope that
was holding up the tarnished fixture. It crashed to the floor, landing
hard across Piero’s chest.
He roared in pain as he tried to crawl out from beneath the candelabra, but he was tangled in the chains. Cass considered the doorway beyond his struggling figure for a single moment but then turned
toward the open window and leapt up onto the sill. The cobblestones
below wavered in front of her eyes. Earlier she had thought of the
passersby as splotches of paint moving along the gray walkway. If she
fell, she would be nothing but a smear of blood.
Desperately, she grabbed onto the trellis of ivy that grew along the
wall. She remembered how Madalena’s husband, Marco, had once
climbed an ivy trellis to enter Mada’s bedroom. Cass prayed that
these wooden slats were equally strong.
Her legs flailed as she worked her way down the trellis, her feet
struggling to find footholds amidst the tangle of vines and wood. She
had made it about halfway to the ground when the trellis started to
pull away from the side of Palazzo Dolce. Cass whimpered.
Don’t look down.
She looked down. Her feet dangled only about ten feet from the
ground, but the deserted street seemed a hundred miles away. The
trellis splintered with a vicious crack, and Cass began to fall.