Leander swept out an arm. “All this—what is any of it for? Did you hear the Moriarty boy? Monsters. It takes the son of professional sadists to call us what we are. And you follow along in her thrall. I thought—I thought, somehow, that Charlotte would find a way to transcend it. But even now she’s putting blood before justice. Her and her mother both. I find myself wanting to thank you, Emma, for tending to me instead of just throwing me into a cage . . . but is that Stockholm syndrome?” He swept a shaking hand over his hair. “God only knows. I want out.”
“Wait—” August stepped between us, his back to me. From this angle, he looked exactly like his brother. The close-cropped blond hair. The dark clothes. The slight hunch of the shoulders, like a man always looking up at the guillotine. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry for what I said. It doesn’t have to be the truth. This doesn’t have to be the end of all of us. I’d had the same plan, you know, to run—but what if we both stayed? Built a bridge between our families? It was my plan to begin with, and it failed, but we could find a way to make it work. There are sane men on both sides. There has to be a way for us all to work this—” He reached a hand out to Leander, touched his chest.
The smallest sound. Like a can being opened, or the click of a door shutting behind you. Like your mother shutting off the light when you were ready to go to sleep. I couldn’t place it. Couldn’t tell where it came from. I didn’t connect it with the way that August dropped, suddenly, to his knees, and then fell in a slow dive face-first onto the ground.
While Leander and I were staring dumbly down at August in the snow—even now, a dark halo was gathering around his hair—Holmes was tracking the shooter. “There,” she snarled, pointing at a cluster of trees across the field, and took off unerringly, an arrow loosed from a bow.
I followed her. I didn’t know what else to do. Had I just seen August shot down? Had Hadrian or Phillipa escaped to do it, or was it someone else—was it Alistair? He’d gone sprawling when I kicked him, but he’d had enough time to recover. Had he decided to cut his losses and start killing any Moriarty he could get within his crosshairs? Money, I thought, and keeping up this old monolith of a house, and all the things you’re willing to give up to keep it—
August. Holmes’s biggest mistake. Our saving grace with a knife to his neck. Hamlet, prince of goddamn Denmark. Shot dead on the Holmeses’ back lawn.
The copse of trees was right before us. “I see you,” Holmes said, her coat flapping behind her as she skidded to a stop. “Come down. Come down.” Her voice broke on the edge of the last word. “Come down and face me.”
With a rustle of branches, a man dropped down to the snow. He held a rifle in one hand, a scope affixed to the top. His collar was turned up against the cold. “Lottie,” Milo said shakily. “Is Hadrian still alive?”
“You—what did you do?”
“I put Hadrian down,” he said, his eyes wild. “I came here as quickly as I could, Lottie, I have something to tell you—something—”
“Milo, what have you done?”
Her brother shook his head, as if to clear it. “My team told me he’d escaped from his holding cell on the plane. I saw him threatening our uncle. I put him down. Lottie, you need to know something about Lucien—”
As gently as my hammering heart would let me, I said, “You’ve made a mistake.”
He frowned, as though that’d never been said to him before. “What mistake? Is Leander all right? I admit I took a risky shot, but I’m fairly sure that I saw—”
Charlotte Holmes put her hands to her face. She was crying. “Milo,” she said. “Milo. Milo, no. No, you didn’t.”
In the distance, a car started up. There was yelling, someone crying out, Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, and then wheels on loose gravel. When I turned to look, a lone figure, a man, was standing in front of the Holmeses’ dark estate. Like someone locked out of their home, or a drifter looking for a place to spend the night.
Emma was gone. Hadrian and Phillipa—where were they?
“I—” Milo was shaking. He held the gun out in front of him. “Is August—and Hadrian—God, Lottie, I can’t do this anymore. Lucien disappeared. He disappeared. There’s no footage, no intel, no . . . I can’t keep doing this. How could I, and succeed?”
The master of the universe, asking us this question.
Holmes wrenched the rifle from his hands. Without looking down, she stripped the gun of its clip and dropped it all on the ground.
“Leander’s done,” she said. “August is dead. Is this it for you, too? Are you leaving the two of us here to pick up this mess?”
“It’s your mess,” Milo said. “Isn’t it time you did?”
I was only half-hearing it, what they were saying. In the distance, the ocean raged louder. The cold bit at my hands. August Moriarty was spread-eagled, and it wasn’t a dream, I could see the outline of his coat in the snow. I couldn’t look at them, either of them, Holmes or Holmes, two faces of the same terrible god staring out in opposite directions. Passing their judgments. Firing their guns. And the figure in front of the house—he was gone, the field empty now, and the ocean was deafening.
But it wasn’t the ocean. It was sirens, a cacophony of sirens, and by the time the red and blue lights reached the top of the drive, Charlotte Holmes and I were alone.
Epilogue
FROM: Felix M < [email protected] > TO: James Watson Jr. < [email protected] > SUBJECT LINE: Sorry to spoil your holiday Dear Jamie,
Well, here we go. Trying this out. One of those time-delay email tools. This should arrive around the New Year, after you’re safely home. I don’t want a fight. I don’t want to talk about this in person. So I’m taking the coward’s way out.
Most likely, we won’t see each other again. That isn’t any judgment on you; please don’t take it that way. (I know you’re taking it that way. Stop.) But I’m realizing that mine isn’t any kind of life, not even for a man that’s dead. Sitting in this cell of a room in Prague isn’t helping matters, I’m sure, but it’s more than that. I need out. The auction tonight will happen, and whatever awful thing Charlotte’s been brewing will happen, and you’ll be the collateral damage, one way or another.
How could you look at a girl like that and trust her with anything other than your life?
That isn’t me being flippant, understand. I imagine she’d do anything to keep you alive. But giving her your heart is like handing a glass figurine to a child. She’ll flip it over, peer through it like a lens. Shake it to see if it makes a sound. In the end, it will slip her hands and shatter. In the end, it’s your fault. You were the one who gave it to her.
I imagine you’re thinking, August and his terrible metaphors. I do know you’re better with words than I am. I see you scribbling in that journal, trying to put down a version of you and her that makes some sense. A story you can tell with confidence. I know what it’s like, trying to make a myth out of your life while you’re living it. But this isn’t a story. It isn’t a history. It isn’t anything other than a horrible gamble, and Jamie, I know my older brother, and you tangling yourself up in someone else’s business won’t get you anything but dead.
And if you find yourself reading this and thinking, Moriarty is being horribly condescending, you’re not my dad, etc., then think of this as a letter I should’ve written myself, years ago. Think of yourself as another version of me. And if that makes you angry, too . . . then just think of yourself, full stop.
If you can’t do that, run.
Happy New Year, Jamie,
August