his knees, but the creature had given up the fight. Black ichor dripped from its ruined eyeball as it undulated into the far corner of the room. Draped in shadows, it vanished like the remnants of a dream, and the eerie sensation with it.
Caim climbed to his feet. He ached from neck to toe, but he had survived. He tore his gaze away from the corner and hobbled to the door, down the hallway. The girl had a good lead on him, too damned good by half and him with an injured foot, but how well did she know Low Town? Not at all, most likely. He glanced through a grimy skylight as he passed under it. Night had settled over the city. That worked to his advantage. The darkness would make her flight more difficult. She might wander the Gutters for hours before finding her way to a landmark she could recognize. If Kit was doing her job, he would find Josephine in plenty of time, unless someone else found her first. An image of the girl, cornered in an alley by a Low Town street gang, blasted through his mind as he reached the stairwell. He leapt down the steps three at a time, heedless of the burning pain in his ankle. Down the stairs and across the foyer. He shoved open the heavy door.
Knives bared and ready for anything, he limped out into the night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
og swirled around Josey's ankles as she dashed across the slick cobblestones. The night's cold went right through her nightgown. She had to find help. But who would aid her? She didn't even know where she was. Shabby buildings leaned over the street like drunken titans. Where were the streetlights? Impenetrable darkness swathed everything.
She went to the nearest door and found it locked tight. The windows were dark. She pounded on the thick timbers, but didn't wait for an answer. The killer would be right behind her. She dared not glance over her shoulder. If she saw him, chasing behind her like the shadow of Death incarnate, the fear would paralyze her.
A faint clink of metal echoed in the fog somewhere ahead. Josey couldn't identify the sound in the dark, but she was past caring. Anything was better than falling back into the clutches of her father's murderer.
She ran toward the noise. Her breath came in short gasps. A nimbus of spectral light illuminated an intersection of three streets. At their nexus stood a man holding a lantern, the point of a pike glittering above his head.
"Who's that?" he called out.
Tears sprang to Josey's eyes as she made out the black coat of the night watchman's uniform.
"Help me, please!" she cried.
The watchman raised a hand to his lips. A whistle's shrill call cut through the gloom and fog. More watchmen appeared behind him. Josey staggered toward them. Leather-clad arms caught her as she swooned. Piercing eyes stabbed at her from behind steely faceplates.
"She ain't no Gutters wench," said one. "Think she's the one we was told about?"
"What's your name, girl?" asked another, rolling his r's with a thick western accent.
Josey drew in a deep breath. Her heart bounced hard against the inside of her ribs. "I am Josephine ... of the House Frenig. Please, help me."
The westerner nodded. The stripes sewn onto his sleeve marked him as a higher rank than the others. "We've been looking for you, m'lady. Your disappearance has caused quite a stir."
Josey allowed herself to nestle in his arms. She wanted to cry. It was over. She was safe. Then she remembered what the killer had done to the men in her father's bedchamber.
"There's a man after me!" she said. "He's dangerous. He killed my father."
"You're safe now, m'lady. Can you walk?"
"Yes, I think so."
She leaned on the watchman's strong arm and let him escort her down the street. The lantern-holder led the way. She glanced over her shoulder, but there were only fleeing shadows. She let out a cleansing breath. He's gone. He can't get me now. But I'll see him hanged, for Father's sake.
Caim. That was his name, the name of a dead man. She tried to convince herself it was over as the watchmen fell in around her, but the memories of her trials buzzed inside her head like a swarm of cicadas.
There was no sign of the girl at the intersection of Winder and Silverpike Row.
A night fog had rolled in from the bay to blanket the cobblestones. Two shapes slouched in the alley