Red, White and Blue (Book Two of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty Six: Pinned and Poised

He was very careful to avoid the heart. If he stabbed her there, she would die instantly, and he wanted her to know – he wanted her to realize – he wanted her to suffer.

"You left me for Robin?" he spat. "The man who killed your family? The man I hated more than anyone else on earth? Did you even care what that would do to me?" 

He must have punctured one of her lungs, because she was taking deep, rapid, ragged breaths – the kind you take when you've just plunged unexpectedly into cold water. 

With the arrow still sticking into her, and his fingers still buried in her hair, he turned her head to see her face. With all that cheerful resignation – all that determination to die tonight – she was still surprised. She hadn't expected it to come from him.

"J-Jack?" 

"Why so shocked?" he demanded, trying to smile, but only managing to snarl at her. "I'm the war-monger from India. Why would you ever expect me to be anything else? And you're the manipulative bitch from Helen of Camden. Why would I ever expect you to be anything else?" 

He snapped off the tip of the arrow and yanked it out of her. Her breath was still rattling in her throat, but she didn't scream. When he caught her by the hair again and turned her round to face him, her eyes were clenched shut. 

"By the way, it was my left hand that stabbed you," he went on. "I'm in control of it now. I'm in control of everything, even my memories." He pulled her ear close to his mouth and whispered, "Little cricket." 

The bunch of forget-me-nots was still pinned to her bodice. What with this, the white satin, and the blood spreading out from her wound, she was arrayed in the colours of the American flag.

Jack hesitated, feeling the first, treacherous fluttering of unease. The flag had been trying to tell him something, hadn't it? If it represented a memory, and he had all his memories back, why didn't he understand what it meant? Why was it still lurking behind his eyes like a locked box?

Surely it couldn't matter? He had the most recent memories, and they were all of Ellini being a treacherous bitch. He knew how the story ended. But hadn't there been something about the endings not being important? Or, anyway, not as important as the bits you passed through on the way?

He should have been paying closer attention to his surroundings. Even when he didn't care about her, Ellini made him stupid.

He caught the movement reflected in her eyes much too late, and barely had time to brace himself before the gargoyle seized him round the neck and threw him against the wall. 

He cracked his head hard against the stone, but before he could crumple, there was a flash of silver, and a sharp pain in his wrists that warned him to stay on his feet, no matter what.

He looked up, ignoring the blood coursing down his arms, and saw two crescent-shaped sickles curled tight around his wrists, biting into the stone wall on either side.

There was no room for manoeuvre. The blades were already close enough to cut him. If he struggled, he might be able to dislodge the sickles, but he might also end up severing his hands. He had to stay upright – and very still – if he wanted to keep all his limbs attached.

He tried to kick out at the gargoyle, but it had retreated to a safe distance. And the other figure – the one he could have kicked himself for not noticing before – was standing a good way off, watching his struggles with interest.

He was holding another sickle in his hand – this one much larger, perhaps intended to pin his neck to the stone. He seemed to be debating whether or not he would have to use it.