The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,59

of her heart.

She didn’t know who or what she expected to emerge from the dark hall, but it certainly wasn’t the Lord Chancellor.

Had he escaped from the Secret Service? Or had he been delivered to this dangerous, powerful man by agents from within?

As much as Francesca despised Sir Hubert, she fought a spurt of pity. Not because she’d forgiven him his unforgivable sins, but because he appeared so pitiable. To see the man who held an office arguably as high as the Prime Minister, a man who held power over all the courts of Great Brittan, stripped bare and brought so low was less than palatable.

For an old man, he had the body of a toddler, wobbly and potbellied, wrinkled and dimpled at the joints. He walked without chains, cuffs, or ropes. The stags didn’t touch him; in fact, it appeared that the Lord Chancellor led them to the dais. The Crimson Council parted for him and then closed ranks as he passed, like displaced liquid forming around a sinking ship.

Francesca was both mortified and mystified. Again, she clung to the knife she’d strapped to her arm, waiting for someone to make a move.

It was the Lord Chancellor who spoke first. “As a member of the Triad, I prostrate myself at the will of the wild. It is our way to prey upon the weak. To cast out from our presence one who has failed us absolutely. I have endangered the council, have profaned its precepts, and in doing so I am condemned by the laws of the realm to forfeit my life.”

“What is it you desire?” Kenway asked, his voice echoing into fractures around the chamber, seeming to come from many directions at once.

“I offer myself in the stead of the sacred seven. I will be the vessel of devotion. The bond that ties our council together. My actions will renew our vow to Predonius Primus.”

Predonius Primus. Francesca searched her knowledge of Latin. The alpha predator.

Kenway turned to the room at large. “The actions of this…” He paused and raked Hubert with a withering glare. “Man robbed us of our sacrifices. The rite of devotion has always been a sacrifice of innocence. Of blood. On this day, unfortunately, we will only be allowed one of these, as innocence is beyond you. But … you offer something else that will redeem you, Hubert.”

He did? Francesca watched with trapped breath screaming in her lungs. The Lord Chancellor had not one redeeming quality. He’d been a cog in the machine that had caused the Mont Claire Massacre. He’d captured young girls and kept them chained like dogs in the catacombs beneath Cecelia’s estate. He’d perverted justice of the realm during his tenure countless times to serve his causes. His and, it would seem, the Crimson Council’s.

She’d have not lost any sleep if he hanged in the tower.

So why did the thought of watching him die make her feel weak-kneed?

“In lieu of innocence you offer us influence. May your sacrifice be deemed sufficient.”

“May it be so.” Hubert lowered his head, and Kenway put his hand upon it as if he were the pope blessing a supplicant.

Francesca readied herself for the worst. Tensed with a frenzy of thought. Would he stab himself? Commit some sort of seppuku, right here in front of a crowd of onlookers?

Or would Kenway murder him in front of everyone?

What would she do in response?

She was supposed to watch. But could she really bring herself to witness a murder? A suicide?

She was in too deep. And she was utterly alone.

Suddenly she wanted Chandler. Because even though he fought with her, he would also fight beside her. This she knew absolutely.

Kenway took a knife out of his robes and held it out to the Lord Chancellor, who took it almost gratefully.

Francesca steeled herself, prepared for the worst. She’d known tonight would be strange, and dangerous. This was the moment she’d hoped for and feared: She was bearing witness to something she could use against them one day. This was what infiltrators had to do.

And she had to remain silent.

The Lord Chancellor held the dagger against his forearm and sliced. Some of the crowd gasped; others remained still as the blood flowed, but not so much as Francesca had feared.

Not enough to be fatal.

He brought the cut to his pale and doughy chest and drew the three-headed snake, or at least, she thought it was. That finished, a bandage was brought to him by a nubile handmaiden and pressed to the shallow