see, through the crack in the floorboards, was a portion of his hair. She was aware of each individual hair, reddish brown, the odor of sweat and fear, the position of her arms and legs, the weight of the weapon in her hand.
Her pursuer struck down at her. She took three quick steps backward, allowing his whipsword to crash into the floor between them. Then she moved forward, her whipsword straight in front of her, long and thin and deadly. He turned at the last moment, realizing her intent, and her sword pierced his side, sliding between ribs.
He gasped.
There was blood now, on her arms, but it wasn’t hers and it wasn’t his. It was dripping onto her skin from above.
Archie’s face was at the crack in the floor, looking down at her, and he was no longer struggling.
“Archie!” Catherine cried. “I’m coming. Wait for me!”
Her attacker was grievously wounded, but he was still coming after her, bellowing like a cornered animal. He’d turned himself around and was using his other arm to wield his whipsword frantically, viciously.
“Archie…” Catherine said.
His blood continued to patter down around her. She could see individual drops, highlighted from above.
The focal was buzzing discordantly through Catherine’s head. The electricity was painful now, piercing. Her thoughts were tumbling against each other, as though her mind had divided itself into two camps and they were arguing.
I can save him. I will save him.
He’s already dead.
This is my fault. I tried to learn things I shouldn’t know.
I will know everything. No one can stop me.
They’re going to kill me.
No one will kill me. I will kill them first. I will make them pay. They will all pay.
Her attacker was within reach again. When he struck, she moved inside the blow. His fist crashed into the focal on her head, and the force of the impact sent his whipsword flying from his hand.
Catherine collapsed her own sword into something short and thick and deadly sharp, then plunged it forward into the boy’s heart.
He folded onto himself on the floor of the narrow space. Catherine leaned against the wall, her breath coming hard. When the boy’s body settled, his face became visible in the light through the ceiling. He was younger than she’d thought. He looked about fourteen.
I don’t kill children. I believe in justice.
I kill them if I have to. I kill anyone if I have to.
You must do anything to protect your family. Anything.
Above her was motion. The last attacker was still alive. It sounded as though he were pulling himself across the floor, moaning as he went. Catherine crawled over the body of the boy—probably the youngest brother—and made her way back down the narrow passage, then up the stairs.
She emerged into the kitchen and saw her own trail of blood, which had led the boy straight to her down the escape passage. The second dead brother was lying on the dining room floor.
Archie was in the living room, his head against the floorboards, a pool of blood growing around him and trickling through the crack in the floor.
“Archie…”
She knelt and carefully turned him over. His face was hollow and gray. His skin was already cooling, and there was no heartbeat at his neck. An hour before, he had lain next to her on the bed and showered her belly with kisses. She had brushed the hair away from his handsome face, and had been foolish enough to feel happy.
She pushed the bloody hair from his face and held his head in her hands. The spark of life was gone from his eyes.
She sat that way for some time, until a noise roused her. She looked up to see the third attacker in the entryway, pulling himself toward the front door, a smeared trail of blood behind him.
Catherine crawled over to him on all fours. When he saw her coming, he rolled onto his back and held up his last weapon, one of their kitchen knives. He’d been grievously wounded in his lower abdomen, and the blood there was dark and thick and pulsing. He did not have long to live.
He might have been twenty years old, or younger, but the pain written on his face made him look ancient. He wore heavy boots, and these added to a resemblance to Briac Kincaid, a resemblance his brother Anthony had shared. Did the Middle think all of these boys were interchangeable pawns? She batted the knife out of his hand, and he put up almost no resistance—he knew