She froze. A habitual reaction. He snared her cold hand and brought it soft and trembling to his mouth. Ice ran down her arms, her spine. She needed to let him get close anyway. Needed him stirred up so he thought she was easy prey.
Five yards back was the edge, with a railing to stop anyone accidentally toppling over. She didn’t aim for this to be accidental.
“There.” His lips pressed against her knuckles like an amorous snail, wet and squishy. He cupped her breast, wriggled his hand into her cleavage. She could feel his fingers scrabbling about until he grabbed her nipple and clamped down hard enough to make her wince.
She had to be certain Inkline died. The man always had liked kissing her, groping her. She knocked away his hand, though it made his fingers jerk painfully on her nipple, and fled a few more steps.
“No. No more.” She put a tremor in her voice, kept on backing away, then let him catch her again.
“What? Shy?” He chuckled.
A few more unsteady steps with him pushing…and her bottom hit the railing. Inkline put a hand either side to trap her against the rail. Predictable, arrogant man.
Up close, silvered by the moon high to her right, his lips shone wet and dark; his eyes were wide, devouring her.
“Better, pet. Stay.” He leaned in, angling his mouth.
Sharp time.
She took his forearm, slithered down, and ducked beneath his arm, whipped around behind, and pushed. He went over the rail like a fish sliding over a dam, with a death grip on her wrist that twisted painfully. A jerk, as his weight yanked on her arm. He tumbled sideways slowly, legs, arm flailing.
She overbalanced, bent at the waist across the railing. Another second, they’d both be falling.
The scuffle of shoes from behind warned of others. If they shot her, Inkline would fall.
She twisted to free her arm, but the swinging weight and his strength defeated her. Inkline’s mouth was wide, lips stretched, teeth bared. If she fell, death would take her. Irrevocable. Sharp time couldn’t stop death.
The parapet dragged on her dress, ripped fabric—another inch, and she’d be too far over to pull back.
The lights below called to her. Inkline screamed, but the sound hadn’t hit. She leaned into the pull, let herself slide, headfirst, toward the ground. Trails of superheated air sped past her ear, shedding red sparks, heading inward to the roof—bullets from somewhere out there. The watchtowers, of course. Inkline’s head exploded in a puff of slow-moving blood.
Snipers. What the—
A sword flashed, carved straight through Inkline at the elbow. She threw her left hand up, clawed fingernails into stone, swung from head down to right way up to hang from her hands. Her back felt like a target. She hauled herself onto the palace roof.
Sharp time…ended.
Where are those snipers?
She staggered and sprawled onto the tiles, on top of a soft body. She’d survived. Her nails were torn to the bleeding edge, her thighs and waist had been scraped raw…but she lived.
“Francine?”
Her friend grinned back from underneath her, clapped her on the arm. “Whew. Thought I was too late there. Let’s go.” She wriggled out from under Claire, went to rise.
“No!” Claire slapped her back down. “Stay. There’s snipers.” She glanced about. Three bodies dead or at least unmoving. No more bullets incoming yet. They’d have to crawl. No telling who those snipers would shoot.
Inkline is dead.
She looked at Francine. At least the woman had managed to pull on a pair of loose pants and a black top along with snagging her favorite Hai-na-go sword. Curved and super sharp, the blade had severed Inkline’s arm like it was made of cheese.
In the moonlight, Francine’s face was a study in chiaroscuro—classic lines of black and gray and silver—serenity, beauty, and a no-nonsense attitude to life. She laid her hand across the back of Francine’s shoulder. Death had been so damn close. Elbow propped, she sucked in a lungful of air. Calm.
Francine just waited. Like always, she was the tougher one. Nothing knocked her off center.
“Thank you. Thank you for helping me.”
Francine grinned and patted the hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s what I was here for. Not Inkline—that bastard can rot, and those others, pah, no better.”
“Inkline’s dead,” she whispered.
“Yeah. Unless he’s very good at bouncing and can regrow his head. And we might be dead too unless you got friends here.”
Claire sighed, her throat full of putty. “I’ve got you. That’s about it.” She should have jumped with Inkline. Then she wouldn’t have to remember Theo.
“That’ll have to do. We can get out of here. You know, those snipers didn’t shoot at you. Maybe we’re okay?”
“I don’t think they were aiming at me. You, though, be careful.” She figured they were Dankyo’s snipers.
Security erupted onto the rooftop—boiling out the door like ants on a picnic mission and climbing up from below the edge of the building. Clever. A bit late, though, to catch her or Inkline going over. She hoped none of them had been brushed off the side of the building by Inkline’s body.