Tarnished Knight - By Bec McMaster Page 0,21

‘Chapel from fixing to mess with him, but he’d earned it in blood and pain over the years.

Behind him he heard Blade whispering to Annie. The blood roared through his veins, red rushing through his eyes. Seeing Higgins step off the platform onto the train tracks made the hunger roar. Rip lifted the last Slasher over his head and hurled him after the bastard.

“Coward!” he snapped, striding forward. Dropping onto the tracks he stepped over the Slasher he’d just thrown. “You want to frighten little girls? You want to abduct women who can’t lift a ‘and to you--” And there was his mother’s face again, wide-eyed and pleading as she lifted her arms up to protect her head.

Mama, no!

And Whitey, bringing the bottle down for the last time. The last fucking time ever--

Fury roared through him. Higgins shoved the hunchback toward him and Rip barely paused to throw him aside.

“You come and fight, you fuckin’ coward. You fight me, fight a man.”

Higgins stepped back into the mouth of the tunnel. Silver glinted at the sides but Rip was too enraged to care.

“I think not,” Higgins said. He took a step back, then another, eyes glittering in a watchful way.

Rip stepped toward the mouth of the tunnel—

“Don’t move!” Blade snapped.

Only years of responding to that tone made his body freeze. A flicker of disappointment flashed through Higgins’s eyes then he shrugged and took another step back. “Another time, p’raps.” Dragging a small metal box out of his pocket, he pressed the button in the middle of it.

With a groan, one of the silver blades on the side of the tunnel dropped, swinging past Rip’s nose by an inch. Rip leapt back as other blades released from the sides of the tunnel, whooshing past with deadly force. Like the swinging pendulum on a grandfather clock, each blade moved independently of the others so that all he could see were flashes of Higgins, slowly stepping back through them.

An entire bloody gauntlet of them.

“Been makin’ a few adjustments to me new home,” Higgins called. Doffing his hat, he stepped back, slashes of him appearing between each swinging blade. “Tick, tock, gentlemen.” Then with a laugh he disappeared into the darkness.

“Damn it!” Rip kicked the side of the tunnel and shot a frustrated look toward his master. “I damned well ‘ad ‘im.”

“Aye, ‘e knew it too,” Blade murmured, staring through narrowed eyes after Higgins. “Them’s the sort as always runs when the ship starts sinkin’. Like bleedin’ rats.”

Blade knelt down, gathering Annie into his arms. He looked up, black eyes gleaming. The blood from her wrists dripped all over her gown and she gave a weak whimper. Rip realized he was staring.

“I got ‘er,” Blade said, lifting her wrist to his mouth and licking the wound. “Get on after ‘im. I’ll send Will to ‘elp you and meet you back at the Warren when you both done.”

Rip’s breath caught. He couldn’t look away from the blood.

Blade’s eyes narrowed as he put his mouth to the woman’s wrist and suckled. “Go,” he snapped. “Bring me back his bleedin’ ‘ead.”

Rip nodded sharply, jerking around and facing the swinging pendulums. Blade could do what he couldn’t; use his saliva to heal the broken skin, hopefully before she lost too much blood. Rip would never have been able to control himself in such a way.

Each scythe swung in a random pattern, leaving bare inches between them. Not enough for his body to rest between each blade. He’d need to time this perfectly…

Taking a deep breath he stepped forward, feeling a cool breeze over his face as the first scythe swung past. Another step, an odd dancing movement, again, and again. Focusing sharply on each blade until he was finally at the end of the gauntlet. Breathing hard, Rip stared into the darkness. The same vinegary tang he’d smelt at Flash Jacky’s cancelled out all other scents, burning through his nostrils until his eyes watered and that was all he could smell. A beaker of chemical to obliterate any trace of Higgins.

Couldn’t track him by scent then.

Well, that was fine with him. He’d spent thirty-five years without enhanced senses. He knew this world, of darkness and grime. And he wasn’t afraid of the dark. Not anymore.

Indeed, the dark should fear him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Night was falling.

Esme looked up from the stove as her ears caught the faintest hint of noise. Swallowing hard, she put her wooden spoon down on the bench and hurried to the door to peer out. The yard was