Long Live the Queen (Book 5 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Twenty Two: In the Cinders

Ellini lay on her back, staring up at the sky. Shards of glass rained down around her, twisted and blackened chunks of metal that were all that was left of the candelabras, scraps of velvet curtain, still burning as they fell. She had to roll to avoid something hot and charred that she fervently hoped was not a piece of person.

There would be more. She could hear the screech of collapsing timbers, the ominous whump of the flames as they found more oxygen to feed on. She had to move, or everything he'd done would be for nothing.

But she couldn't believe what he'd done. It was as though some cardboard cut-out had wrenched its limbs out of their familiar positions and walked. Perhaps that was what Myrrha had thought too, as the fire took her.

Could the fire take her? Could a demon be burned?

Two things occurred to Ellini while she lay there, on her mattress of highly flammable straw. They weren't backed up with any arguments, but they still persuaded her to get to her feet. The first was the thought of the elemental, lying on the steps of the Turl Street Music Rooms. The second was the thought of Jack.

She couldn't picture either of them – her vision was streaked with the afterimage of the flames, like claw-marks on the inside of her eyelids – but she knew they were in the world somewhere, waiting to see what she would do next.

She staggered upright, raising her hood to keep the debris off her. She didn't know what would happen if the sparks settled in her hair. And she was still so – so what? Shocked? Angry? Upset?

No, she wasn't even shocked yet. She didn't think she believed it yet. She kept expecting to see him leaning casually against the nearest wall – or Myrrha, shuffling her cards and saying it had all been a trick, and the contest was still going on, and she was losing.

There was another explosion behind her. The flames had found the armoury, with all its powder-kegs – or the cellar, with its casks of wine and whisky. Ellini felt something scythe past her shoulder, cutting into the red cloak. She ducked under an archway and tried to shelter there as the sparks rained down around her.

When she looked back, it was to see the central tower of Pandemonium wreathed in smoke, and toppling. Birds were flying out of it as if they had only just noticed the fire. Perhaps they were Ellini's birds, and had lingered to make sure of Myrrha's death.

Don't think about death, she urged herself. Don't think it's all over. If you hang around, Myrrha will probably fight her way out from under the debris.

For one hideous moment, Ellini pictured it: her hair singed down to the scalp, one eye bloody and blind, her fingers curling.

She steadied herself against the archway and hurried on.

But she couldn't help remembering Robin's letter. She couldn't stop herself from taking it out, raising a hand to shield it from the falling sparks, and tearing it open. The first words were not encouraging:

Ellini,

If you're not already running, RUN.

She stuffed letter and envelope back in her pocket and staggered away from the burning ruin of Pandemonium.

She climbed over the black railings in Princes Street – where they bisected a large oak tree, and where there were plenty of branches to help her climb. The hem of her cloak got shredded on the spikes. There were several strips of crimson satin littering the ground by the time she'd struggled over.

She would have to abandon it before she went any further. It was too conspicuous. She didn't know what means Myrrha would use to track her down, but at least she could ensure against the obvious ones.