Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

When Anna lunged the next time, Imogen feinted to the side, slashing under one of the thing’s limbs at what might have been ribs. It howled, lashing out with a clawed hand to rip open Imogen’s back. White-hot fire ripped down her shoulders, sending her to her knees. Anna pounced, mouth gaping, but Imogen rolled away in the nick of time. After a lifetime of sickness, pain didn’t slow her down.

Both sisters scrambled upright at the same time. “Let’s end this,” Imogen muttered, and this time she went on the attack.

Anna clearly wasn’t expecting it. The knife slid smoothly into the creature’s throat, burying itself to the hilt and growing icy to the touch. A terrified wheeze escaped Anna, and for the first time, Imogen saw the flicker of real emotion. It was pure, abject terror.

For the barest second, Imogen balked. But backing away meant surrendering all that she was. She had been the lucky one, but she had paid with nightmares and illness, never quite living for all that she had survived. But the evil dreams had been Anna invading her sleep, and without that drain on her soul, there was every chance she could live in good health.

“I have too much to live for.” And Imogen ripped the knife free.

Anna screamed. So did Imogen. A sensation like a blanket of ice smashed into her as the other half of her twin’s soul tore free. Agony blinded her as she fell to the hard floor, the knife still clutched in her hand. Anna was down, too, flailing and scrabbling at her throat as black ooze poured out. Imogen got to her hands and knees, crawling across Magnus’s scrawled symbols, knowing she had to get home, but even more aware that she couldn’t leave until Anna was finally dead.

The monstrous thing thrashed, the pits of its eyes growing even darker. Imogen rose to her knees, raised the knife in both hands, and thrust downward with all her strength. The blade scraped on bone, but slid to find the heart. There was a rending sound, and Anna stilled.

“Be at peace, sister,” Imogen said softly.

She knelt there for a long time, at first solemn, and then too exhausted to move. A corner of her knew that she would never be the same. The shadow of what she’d just done would never leave her.

Most of her knew she would be a thousand times stronger. As Anna’s tortured form dissolved, the room slowly faded back to the clock’s interior. Only the mysterious door that had stood in the tower room’s outer wall remained.

And she ached to go home. Imogen picked up Evelina’s knife from the floor, thrusting it through the sash of her gown. The ticking had returned, driving Imogen to her feet. She was going to return to Hilliard House and push this blasted clock down the stairs.

Imogen opened the door homeward and stepped through.

And then she fell. At first it was hard to say if she fell down, or even if it was head or feet first, or if she spun in a whirlpool or just dropped like a stone. It was just blackness and falling and she wondered if she would ever reach the end. Leaving the clock was only that. She had yet to find her body. Panic began to squeeze her and she tried to cry out … but then she knew she wasn’t alone—and for once that thought didn’t fill her with dismay. Anna was gone.

Strong arms caught her and she automatically grabbed for balance. She was suddenly aware of broad shoulders and a muscular chest, and the warm, comfortable feeling of home.

“Hello,” said Bucky. “I’ve come to take you home.”

They were the best words she’d ever heard.

IMOGEN OPENED HER eyes to see Bucky asleep and snoring slightly, his head propped up on one hand, the other hand clutching hers. She felt slightly drugged, as if she’d forgotten how to move, or she would have done something about Mouse and Bird, who were chasing each other across the bed.

Ouch, stop catching my tail, you disgusting chicken .

As if you haven’t caught my feathers in your nasty little rodent teeth .

She could still hear them! Mouse tackled Bird and they rolled over and over, tumbling over her knees.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Hm?” Bucky came awake, blinking. And then he looked down, and met her eyes.

And grinned. It was the sweetest smile.

“Still waiting to marry me?” she asked, her voice scratchy with disuse.

He leaned down and gave her a kiss that any fairy-tale princess might have envied. Neither of them noticed Poppy as she peeked inside the door, and then quickly backed out again.

London, October 25, 1889

HILLIARD HOUSE

8:15 p.m. Friday

BANCROFT GLARED AT THE CAT SITTING ON HIS DESK. THE ragged yellow thing belonged to the cook, but keeping it in the kitchen was like catching smoke in a butterfly net and every so often it found its way here to deposit hair and paw prints across his private papers.

“Shoo,” he said, waving a hand.

The cat rolled onto its back and admired the tiger’s head on the wall as if it were its own reflection. Bancroft subsided into the leather armchair by the fire, too disheartened to argue, and put his head in his hands.

He should have been celebrating. The Baskervilles had won. There would be a procession and fireworks and speeches tomorrow. It would be a chance for the populace to admire their long-lost heir—and more to the point, it was time for Bancroft to collect his prize. Somewhere under the cat’s filthy paws was an invitation to be part of Prince Edmond’s household. If he played his cards right, the future held more. This was everything for which Bancroft had risked reputation, fortune, and life since the day he had left Austria and returned home.

And it tasted like ash. Oh, Adele had extended her congratulations, but he might have been the neighbor reporting that his bitch had whelped. Her mind was on other things and, to be honest, so was his. Everywhere he turned, everyone he spoke to had something more immediate to attend to than his elevation to the prince’s retinue.

Imogen had returned to them, but with such a strange tale that he wondered if she was right in the head. The doctors proclaimed her in perfect health, but none of them could tell him if she had gone mad. Either she had, and it was a matter of time before she broke down utterly, or her twin really had dragged her inside Magnus’s clock.

He wasn’t sure which outcome he dreaded more, but he and Penner had dismantled the clock and burned it. The one positive outcome he could point to was that he seemed not to mind Bucky Penner half so much anymore, and the young man would marry Imogen as soon as it could be decently arranged.

And that would be as soon as they were out of mourning for Tobias. Bancroft leaned his head back against the thick padding of the chair, fighting the ache in his throat. It seemed like only yesterday that his son had stood in this very room, attempting to hide his idiot escapade with that mechanical squid he’d ridden into the opera. As if his own father hadn’t known—but there were times when a parent had to pretend to be deaf and blind because that was the only way a child found his way. Not that Tobias ever had the least idea where he was going. But according to Alice, and the prince, and even Evelina Cooper, who had cried and cried when she had told the tale, he’d given his life so that they could go free. In the end, his son had been the hero Bancroft himself could never be.

His son had died in the Black Kingdom. There was another letter on the desk and under the cat and of a very different nature from the first. The Mercantile Fellowship of the Black Dragons of the Hidden Sea had written, and the letter was signed by Han Lo. All it said was, The scales are balanced, the alchemy is done. That which dwells beneath the streets shall remain below. The kingdom remains in health .