Perfect Shadows - By Siobhan Burke Page 0,20

throw myself from the bed but my drugged body would not respond and I thrashed wildly. Skeres, with an oath, leapt towards the cot, catching up the heavy wooden flagon from the table and striking me a vicious blow to the top of the head, knocking me stunned to the floor; I had heard rather than felt the bones of my skull crack. I was still conscious but unable to move, then Skeres was on me. He placed a knee on my chest, pinning me down and binding my weakly twitching arms to the floor in an iron grip. I turned my head and saw Poley, my sword clutched to his chest, gazing at me in disbelief. “You should have heeded my warning, Kit,” he whispered. I turned a little more and shuddered at the obscene glee on Frizer’s usually solemn face.

“Go and watch at the door,” Frizer snapped at Poley, then sauntered over tome, slipping his dagger from its sheath. “See this, Kit, my pretty lad? I bought this special, just for you. Cost me twelve pennies, it did, and worth every one of ’em. Oh yes indeed.” Frizer’s words, half-heard the day I was taken from Scadbury, echoed in my mind, suddenly clear: “Two may keep a secret if one of them is dead.” I tried to laugh, but all that came out was a muffled groan. True, I had not expected to live to grow old, but I had never thought that death could come for me so very soon, nor yet take me so very easily.

“Why?” The word was almost unrecognizable, but Frizer pounced on it.

“Why? Why, what did you think, sweet, kind Kit? That you could dance and drink and never have to pay? You’ll pay right enough now, my lad. You’ve been winking at your damnation for far too long! My master’s head may be softer than his heart, but even he could see that you’d gone too far this time!”

“I only regret that the last thing I’ll ever see is your ugly face, Ingram,” I slurred. His habitually pious expression twisted into a snarl.

“This will mend both your manners and your mouth!”

“Murderers!” I gasped as Frizer pulled a white silk handkerchief from his sleeve, placed his knees to hold my head immobile and stuffed my mouth with it. Then, with a look of unholy relish, he slowly plunged the dagger into my right eye. I felt the searing pain, saw the tearing light, heard the guttural laughter of my murderers and my own stifled outcry dying away. Then there was nothing.

Chapter 8

Nicolas sat and stared at the fire, waiting for Rózsa to join him, as they had so often awaited young Marlowe. As he turned at her footstep, she caught sight of his face and crossed the room swift as a shadow. “Nicolas?”

“It has happened—Kit died in Deptford yesterday.”

“How?” Her voice was barely audible, her hands crushing the velvet of the doublet she carried.

“I do not yet know how he died but I do mean to find out. I beg you to wait here, child, while I do.”

“Wait,” Rózsa said. Nicolas had expected her to ask to accompany him, but she did not. She stared at the crimson cloth bulging between her fingers for a moment, then looked up defiantly. “I made the exchange with him,” she said flatly, and Nicolas nodded.

“Yes, I was almost certain you had. Did you tell him of the possible consequences?” She shook her head, and he sighed. “This does complicate things,” he muttered, then kissed her forehead, and gave her a brief hug.” We will save him, child. Never fear,” he said, and went out.

Several hours later he returned and sat staring at the fire without looking at Rózsa, who still awaited him there. Finally she spoke, sharply. “Well?”

“I have learned how he died, from the one that engineered the murder and stood looking on while it was carried out.” Tersely he gave her the dreadful details of her mortal lover’s death.

“I trust you killed that treacherous, scabby little pimp!” she burst out, but he shook his head.

“You know I did not, and you know why—that is not our way, Rózsa. If he rises, the vengeance must be Kit’s to work as he wills. If he is truly dead, then, and only then, will you and I see to it that this traitor’s life, and the lives of all Kit’s murderers are both very painful and very short. But our time runs out—the inquest is tomorrow and

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