The Liberator of London

Chapter 11

 I wake to the sound of yells outside my bedroom window. In a hurry, I throw off my sheets and run to my dresser. After lighting the candelabra, the silver glint of a collier flintlock revolver captures me and I, it. Upon my investigations in my mother's secret crypt, I stumbled upon a weapon infirmary–this is the only one I know how to use, as she taught me to shoot some time ago.

Armed, I throw open my door and enter the dark hallway. Millie peaks out from her bedroom and I tell her to lie under her bed. Clara sleeps with Theodore since he is the youngest; I wake them and have them hide with Millie.

Gunfire cracks through the night.

I crouch low at the end of the stairs. I drop my light and the carpet catches fire. Cursing under breath, I stomp it out as fast as possible with my boot.

Bullets assault the front door. Splinters fly. I lean on the wall and cover my ears. More rounds. Pain-induced howels. Grunts. More gunfire. The door is kicked open and a hooded figure enters.

Jacob!

The light from the street lamps illuminates the entranceway just enough so we can recognize each other. He holds up a finger and tosses an empty pistol with a curse. The night is silent. I wonder if I should scurry back up the stairs, but any movements would alert the adversary to our immediate location. I see a shadow approach the door. I wave at Jacob, trying to get his attention so I can throw him my revolver. He is completely focused on the door, his back pressed to the wall. He draws his head back as the man approaches. He whistles. A man in a red coat steps in. With the stealth and strength of a black panther, Jacob seizes him and impales his abdomen with his hidden blade. A barrage of bullets spray; Jacob uses his kill as a human shield. The sickening sound of bullets splattering flesh and blood fills the night. My heart falls–Jacob and the body sink to the floor. Three men rush in. One snicker at the hapless assassin, cocking his gun. "Not so big now, are ya?"

Jacob clenches his teeth.

I stand, aim, and breath, then fire.

The man had not seen me and do not see where the bullets are flying from. I keep shooting, walking down the stairs. They fall like flies after scrambling around as if caught in a jar. My aim is far from perfect; by the time I deem the three men dead, there are no more bullets in the chamber.

I come to Jacob when I see the coast is clear. "Jacob."

He pushes off the body. "Not a moment too late."

I am standing in a pool of dead men. One of the men lays slumped against a wall, his blood-splattered about his hanging head. His eyes are blue. Cold, dead, and blue. The look of shock grips his features. Between his bushy brows is a meaty hole.

Jacob appears by my side, observing the damage. He opens his mouth to make a witty comment I presume, but upon seeing my troubled state, he quiets himself and stares with me in silence.

"I'm not a killer," I murmur.

He looks ready to say something, but grabs my hand instead; I do not realize it is shaking until I feel his hand as still and calm as can be. "We have company," he says, yanking me to the stairs. "Don't suppose you have any more bullets in there?"

I shake my head.

Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. Jacob's arm is pushing me behind him. We look around. We slowly step in reverse up the stairs. More glass shattering. What on earth. . .

A fiery cloth wrapped around a staff is tossed through the entrance. I see men outside, breaking the windows with their flaming sticks and setting fire where they can–fire billows out and consumes the walls and ceilings. I gasp at the fire as it licks at the wooden pillars. I am stunned in place, and only break from my trance when I hear a high-pitched shrill from upstairs. "Jacob! The children!" I yell, turning to dash upstairs.