harm. Van Gast forced the words out in a whisper past the choke of his throat. She’d be safe, but not for him. “Run now, Josie love. You take his gold and run. Trouble bone says so.”
She shook her head, her hair flicking about her like feathered waves, but Rillen cocked the pistol, shoved the cool barrel right into his cheek.
“Run, love, and live.”
She opened her mouth—to protest, to scream, to shout bloody murder, he didn’t know, but Skrymir took her arm, whispered in her ear. She stayed quiet then, but her mouth twisted into a bitter line. She made no protest when the guards hustled them out of the strong room, but kept her eyes on Van Gast as long as she could. Then she was gone, and it was only Van Gast and Rillen, with Ilsa wide eyed, licking her lips as though what had happened was a tasty treat that she savored.
“Very good, Van Gast,” Rillen said, in the sort of tone some people used on dogs. “Now, I want you to shoot my father.”
Chapter Seventeen
Holden followed Tallia down a dark and winding corridor, fitfully lit by guttering lamps that seemed to enhance the shadows rather than dispel them. They came to a doorway, shadowed and unkempt-looking as though no one used it much.
“This will get us nearer the cells. But, Holden, how are we—”
“We’ll think of something.” It was strange how the fear—of the guards, of Rillen, of being hanged from Oku’s wall by a nail through his wrist—wasn’t stopping him. Before, when he’d been bonded, his whole life was fear. Yet this was different, this was fear that made his heart thud in short, hard bursts, fear that made his hand tingle, that made him feel alive. Fear that made order, straight lines, comfort out of shadowy chaos. The tiles on the floor, the orderly pattern soothed him, but not to numbness as he’d once let them. His eyes followed the pattern and let his mind free, to think, to hope, to plan. To let the joy/fear thrill through him. Now he saw why Van Gast did this, why he lived his life as he did. He found he was grinning.
“How far to the guards, do you think?” he asked.
Tallia looked at him as though he was mad, but her smile was back, the bubbly bounce of her step. Almost as though she knew something he didn’t, which was not only very likely but not comforting.
“Not far. Look, Holden, I want to get them out as much as you do, but stop a minute. No one has ever escaped the Yelen. Not ever. Josie had a plan, and it’s gone wrong. She was never supposed to be in the cells, or not like that. Only Van, playing his part. It’s gone wrong, and that maid in the kitchen confirmed it. She said all of them are in the cells, even Skrymir. That’s not part of the plan.”
Holden was tempted to believe her, tempted to think the way she looked at him meant something, but the weight of Ilsa was heavy on him.
Tallia pushed open the door on squealing hinges that set Holden’s teeth on edge and his heart to hammering. He tightened his grip on the sword and wished he still had his other hand for the pistol. Instead he’d had to trust that to Tallia, one reason he kept behind her.
This corridor was better kept than the last, lit with many lamps that banished all shadows. Yet the prospect of it was gloomy, somehow, a weight on the shoulders, a press on the mind. Holden was sure he heard muffled screams echoing through the walls.
“The guards will begin beyond the door at the end. Many guards, I don’t know how many. And all rabidly loyal to Rillen.” She said no more, but stood and watched him with a wary look.
No plan in mind. None of Van Gast’s fearsome confidence. No fighting, biting Josie to help him. If this were a game of bones, he’d have just rolled Dead Man’s Hand. What would Van do?
Holden grinned again. Easy. Van Gast would say “Fuck it, let’s do it.” It made everything so gloriously simple.
His hand was slick with sweat so he had to keep adjusting his grip on the sword, but he opened his mouth to say it—just as the door at the end opened. Tallia grabbed his tunic and ducked down a side corridor.
A murmur of voices came toward them, the jingle of swords in