:Be not afraid: Mehiel said again, and–wearing Kit’s body like a suit of armor –raised his sword of light and purity to parry Lucifer’s blow.
But Lucifer barely tapped the blade, teasing, and stepped back, opening his guard to all but bare his chest. «Brother,» he said mockingly, «how it pleases me to fence with thee. Come, strike.»
His words resonated in Kit, and Kit shook his head, knowing that the words were meant for Mehiel. Mehiel, who knotted Kit’s fist on the butt of the poker and slipped steadily to the side, tapping lightly not at Lucifer’s breast but at Lucifer’s blade.
«Come,» the Devil whispered. «This is not stage fighting. Strike at me.»
And Mehiel did, but it was a wild blow and Lucifer deflected it without obvious effort. The angel in Kit said nothing, but Kit felt his confusion, his passion–
–his memory of Lucifer’s fingers lovingly carding Kit’s hair. Strike him!Kit urged, and Mehiel swung again.
Inadequate. And Lucifer did not strike back.
Mehiel lowered his sword and stepped away. «I cannot.»
Mehiel!
«I cannot,» the angel repeated. «I cannot strike. God forgive me. I pity Lucifer.»
Then let me strike him,Kit replied, and lifted the iron poker in his hand.
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
–William Shakespeare, King Lear,Act I, scene i
Kit moved like a serpent, Will thought, and not a man. No. Not a serpent.
A dragon.
Will almost saw the massive wings that hurled him forward, didsee the halo of light that curled and flickered about his head and hands, the power and fluidity in his gestures as Murchaud fell and Kit lunged toward Lucifer. Will had just enough time to hear weapon crash against weapon once and then again before a hard arm clipped his neck and he found himself dragged backward, too startled at first to react.
“Master Shakespeare.” Robert Poley’s voice. Robert Poley’s broad‑palmed hand and rough fingers clenched upon Will’s jaw, stretching the tight muscles of his neck. He dragged Will backward, off balance, far stronger than Will. His other hand caught Will’s right wrist in a numbing grip, immobilizing the knife Will hadn’t had time to resheathe. “Do you suppose Master Merlin would surrender to ensure your safety? ”
“‘Tis possible,” Will admitted through gritted teeth, determined not to give Poley the satisfaction of hearing his fear. Foolish, he thought, as his heart raced dizzyingly. He bit his lips and let his body go slack, trying to roll and fall forward to the water‑slick tiles. Poley kept him upright with ease, his livery stiff against Will’s back, the ornate buttons gouging Will’s skin through layers of cloth. Lucifer was laughing, defending himself delightedly from the slender light‑wrapped figure who pressed him only tentatively. “But I do not think Master Merlin is in command, at present.”
“Pity,” Poley said, his grip tightening. At the foot of the dais, Will could hear Tom and Ben engaged in a passage of arms with whatever men remained. Poley sneered, still backing away, still dragging Will. “Then I’m afraid I have no use for you–”
Will heard another set of wing beats. Smaller, lighter, a cracking sound like paper shaken in the air. He ducked, bruising his throat on Poley’s thumb, and kicked back hard against the side of the other man’s knee just as something black and heavy barreled shrieking into Poley’s face.
Poley swore and pressed his face to Will’s shoulder, protecting his eyes. A good conceit, except his right hand’s grip loosened on Will’s wrist, and Will was ready for it. He ducked under the buffet of the raven’s wings and slammed the dagger into Poley’s right thigh. Poley staggered backward, fingers clenching on Will’s jaw, and Will clung to the dagger and let himself fall forward, shielding his face with his flat left hand.
Hot, raw‑smelling blood spurted, soaked his sleeve to his skin, sprayed his breeches and the back of his calf. He went to his knees and then forward as Poley fell.
The stones slammed the wind from Will, and somehow Will kept his dagger and rolled. He came up, saw blood fountaining, and backed away on his hands and knees until he was out of range. Somehow, the dagger remained in his hand. The pommel scraped on stone harshly enough to make him grit his teeth.
Will had opened a gash like a gaping mouth in Robin Poley’s inner thigh. Poley twitched and kicked on the stones, groaning as if he’d been kicked in the gut, red blood spurting between his clutching fingers and his other hand raised in a futile attempt to keep the croaking, stabbing raven from his eyes.
Will scrambled to his feet, spitting blood, wiping blood from his face with blood‑soaked hands, and turned to go to Kit‑
–just as Lucifer saluted with his star‑black blade, chuckled, and vanished like a cloud blown to tatters across the moon. Kit, committing to a lunge behind his poker as if behind a rapier thrust, measured his length on the silted tiles.
Poley fell slack, bubbling. The raven raised its head, jet eyes gleaming in the darkness, blood and vitreous fluid dripping from its beak, and regarded Will with feral intensity. Will looked away with an effort, eyes seeking Ben, or Tom.
Or Kit, who pushed himself up onto his hands and knees – naked again, no longer clothed in light, the bloody patterns marked on his skin blurred with effort –and swore most vilely. He turned over his shoulder, and met Will’s eyes. “I swear to God he planned that,” Kit said, and flopped over like a fish thrashing on a deck.
“Does that mean you know what he’s playing at?”
Kit shook his head, modesty abandoned. “Unless he was trying to awaken Mehiel,” Kit said, holding up a hand that briefly flickered gold. “In which case, he’s succeeded admirably. I don’t honestly believe he wants the Prometheans in power, though. Otherwise he wouldn’t keep interfering with their plans for him.”
Will saw movement alongside the shadows near the far wall. A lean figure in dark clothing, forcing himself to his feet. “Your Prince is still bleeding, Kit – ”
“Murchaud!” Blinking, startled, as if he had utterly forgotten the Elf‑knight’s existence, Kit turned away from the mortal men and hurried to Murchaud’s side. Kit pulled Murchaud upright, checking his injuries with a fussiness that left Will tasting bile and jealousy. “Art well?” Kit answered, and even by torchlight Will didn’t miss his hopeful smile.
“I’ll live,” the elf answered, straightening. “There is no iron in Lucifer’s blade, and naught else can harm me for long.” He glanced about the room, squeezing Kit’s hand before he let it fall. “It will bleed, but that is all. In any case, the Faeries will be here shortly, and even if Baines’ plans for Kit have been altered, there’s a scene or two yet to play.”
Will dragged himself up and staggered away from Poley’s corpse, threw his own blood‑slaked cloak over Kit’s bloody and goosefleshed body. Then he sank down on the wet tiles beside Kit and Murchaud, crossed his legs, leaned his elbows on his knees, and pressed his forehead into his hands. “This is all too complicated for me.”
Kit dropped down beside Will and lay back on the floor as if he reclined in a featherbed, drawing the cloak around him. Tom and Ben staggered over to them. “A timely rescue, gentlemen. Now find me a pair of trousers, and we’ll see if we can manage a timelier one.”
Ben limped heavily, blood staining the outside of his breeches. “Can’t find Baines,” he said, bending down to brace his hands on his knees, breathing like a runner.
“Bloody buggered Christ,” Kit answered, sitting up so Will could see the long curve of his back. “I imagine he’ll find us before the evening’s out. It’s all for naught. The war’s over for England and James anyway: the portents have spoken, and the Tower’s bastions are breached with the deaths of the ravens – ”