Kester Grant - The Court of Miracles

She tries to sit up but is too weak, so I try help her. Trembling, she edges away from me, her hands raised to protect herself—she’s afraid I’m here to give her a beating.

“Zelle, it’s me. It’s Nina …”

Between her fingers her good eye finally focuses on my face and she gives a sharp intake of breath.

“No, no, no …”

She’s shaking violently now, wet and cold, as I try to drag her to her feet.

“Zelle, please, we have to go before they wake. Come quickly.”

“No!” She twists out of my grasp and tears herself away from me, backing into the wall. “I won’t go, I won’t, I won’t. They broke his hands. They broke him …” She stops, and something in her gaze hardens.

“Zelle,” I say calmly. I approach her slowly, like a person trying to tame a frightened beast.

I hear the creak of a door opening downstairs, and a raised voice berating someone. I curse under my breath. The Fleshers have arrived, and they must have realized that something is wrong. Voices grow louder. I don’t have much time.

“Zelle, it’s me, Nina, ” I say.

“Nina? Nina, no … not Nina. Not Nina …” Her words are slurred, her voice ragged. “You must leave, before they come … They broke him. They broke—”

“Shhh,” I say, even as footsteps pound up the stairs. It’s only moments now until they begin to check on the girls, until they find me here with her.

Azelma’s eyes focus on my face, and for the first time since I have stood here before her, I think she truly sees me.

Boots thunder down the hallway. Doors slam. Voices call out that the girls are asleep. Azelma’s eyes dart to her window, terror raw on her face.

“You must go,” she says urgently.

“Not without you.” I reach for her. “Come with me.” She looks at my hand, and she takes it. We dash to the window, which I throw open, and I clamber onto the ledge, then turn to her.

I see it then, the clarity amid her confusion, the resolve beneath her fear. My sister stares into my eyes; she is so close I feel her breath against my cheek.

“Run,” she says, and she pushes me as behind her the door flies open. I watch my sister’s face as I fall in slow motion, and then abruptly she is gone and a man is leaning out, yelling and pointing.

I hit the ground with a shuddering impact. Pain laces my side. The wind has been knocked out of me, and I gasp for breath, willing my limbs to move, finding that they obey far more slowly than I can afford. I barely manage to rise to my feet as several men burst out of the building. They’re giants, like all of the Tiger’s sons, chosen for their brawn, their complete absence of morals, and their unspeakable propensity for inflicting pain. They circle me like sharks. They ask no questions; they don’t want to know who I am or why I am there. My being there is enough for them.

The sun is setting fast. I have time to call out only once, so I whistle loud and sharp, the call of the Thieves, knowing that even if anyone hears, it will probably be too late.

A voice rings out, and the words are so ridiculous that even in the depths of my fear, I almost laugh.

“Six grown men against a child seems incredibly cowardly to me.” The voice is amused, young. Its owner clearly has no idea that he is addressing some of the most dangerous men in the whole city.

“If we could return home without getting into any trouble for once, I would be most grateful,” says another, wearier voice.

“They’ve got a child there, St. Juste. Take a look.”

“Dear heavens, you’re right.” Which is followed by a barked order. “Unhand that child immediately or you will have cause to regret it!”

The voice—St. Juste’s, it seems—is well modulated, educated; the voice of someone who is used to being listened to.

The Fleshers, however, listen to no one but the Tiger, so they ignore St. Juste and lunge at me. Two of them grab me from behind, and I’m thrown to the ground. They begin to kick me, and I scratch and yowl, striking out with a dagger that’s been tucked into my boot.

Then someone fires a gun and the Fleshers freeze: men unaccustomed to being crossed rarely carry weapons.

“I will shoot you if you do not unhand that poor child. And what’s more, Grantaire will shoot you as well, and he is far less likely to kill you.”

“I object to that!” says the other man now. “I can shoot perfectly well in my cups, I can! Watch …”

Another shot rings out, and one of the Fleshers yelps and raises a hand to his ear.

“See, I meant to clip that one.”

The Fleshers look at one another. As a Guild, they are not known for their brains. The Tiger adopts only the most violent children, the ones who will obey without question; figuring out a complex problem like this is beyond them.

He takes a second shot, and another Flesher swears and grabs his leg, nearly crumpling to the ground. I can hear the Fleshers scuttling heavily away, but surely only to get weapons and return. I take a second to appreciate the fact that I am still alive.

“I say, Grantaire, that was good! Did you mean to get him right above the knee?”

Someone turns me over, and I am greeted by the sight of two faces staring down at me. One has a mess of black hair, a green waistcoat, and a roguish smile.

“Oh, good, it’s alive!” he says.

The other face scowls at me as if disappointed that I have survived. Even from this perspective I can make out the grim features of a young god, his face carved of marble and determination and framed with a halo of ice-blond hair tied at the nape of his neck. He is beautiful and terrible at the same time in his tailcoat of deep red, with a cravat artfully undone at his throat. In his hand is a fine pistol of gold filigree, which he tucks into his waistband so he can scoop me up and put me on my feet.