Roman and Shane passed over the threshold to the realm above.
The light was dim, but as Shane locked the door behind them, Roman could see they were standing in a decadent bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling curtains were drawn over the windows, but a slice of sunlight limned a four-poster bed and a massive mirror, ornately trimmed in gold. The carpet beneath Roman’s grimy boots was plush and soft.
It was the sort of bedroom his parents would have, which meant they must have emerged somewhere north of the river, in one of the wealthier neighborhoods.
“Where are we?” Roman asked, his voice hoarse.
Shane didn’t reply. He moved to the bedroom door and opened it, slipping out into the corridor.
Roman followed, but when they reached the foyer, Shane came to a startled halt.
Soldiers rushed back and forth from one room to the next, overturning parlor tables and chairs, taking shelter behind anything they could find, including a grand piano. Their guns were ready, their faces tense, like they were about to engage in a skirmish.
“We need to get out of here,” Shane murmured as he spun, taking hold of Roman’s upper arm. “Quickly. Back to the bedroom door. This place isn’t safe.”
Roman didn’t understand what was happening, but he could sense the pressure that was building, like he had swum down to the darkest, coldest depths of a pond.
It reminded him of the trenches. The moment before the barrage.
A line of Dacre’s soldiers jostled past him, hissing orders at each other. Confusion, bewilderment, and desperation hung in the air, and Roman was as eager as Shane to get away from it when he saw a soldier slumped against the wall, coughing into his sleeve.
Blood dripped from his chin. Pain glazed his eyes. His face was remarkably pale.
Roman stopped.
He knew the sound of that wet cough. He could taste it at the back of his mouth, and he knelt before the soldier.
This wasn’t someone who had willingly fought for Dacre, despite the uniform he wore and the forces he was among. This was someone who had been wounded and nearly killed by the gas, and then healed just enough to serve, his mind scrambled by Dacre’s magic. Someone just like Roman.
“Leave him,” Shane said, panic clipping the words. “We don’t have time!”
Roman was not about to abandon this person. He eased the man’s arm over his shoulders and helped him rise.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“You should … leave me,” the soldier said, coughing up more blood. “The Graveyard … is coming to kill us…”
“We need to get you to a doctor.” Roman glanced down the hallway, but Shane had vanished. Shane had left him behind, and while Roman was grateful he had saved him from the prison below, he couldn’t help but think how cowardly the lieutenant was now. To run and hide when the end was nearing. “Let’s try to leave out the back.”
The two of them limped down the corridor, arriving at a sunroom. Through the glass walls Roman could see figures crouched low, running through the gardens. Individuals who wore masks to hide their faces, rifles in hand, coming closer.
Before Roman could turn around, a rock sailed through the glass wall. No, not a rock, but something round and metal, ticking as it came to a stop on the floor.
His eyes widened.
“Run,” he whispered. He turned and dragged the soldier with him, back down the corridor. Run, and yet he felt like his legs were knee-deep in honey. Like he was in a nightmare, and everything was slow and resistant.
He counted five pulses, five beats in his ears, before the grenade exploded.
It blew out the walls.
Roman and the soldier went down, where they both remained dazed, sprawled over the floor. Pieces of the house were scattered around them. Dust coated their clothes, snuck down their throats, making them both cough.
Roman lay on his back, stunned. He stared up at the crystal chandelier that dangled crooked on the ceiling above him. Glittering through the smoke.
His ears were ringing, but he could hear the crack of gunshots.
We need to get out.
A shadow rippled over him, blocking the view of the chandelier. Roman wheezed as he felt someone take hold of his shirt, pulling him up from the rubble.
“Round up any survivors,” the stranger said, tightening his grip. There was a bright red anemone pinned to his waistcoat. “It’s time the people of Oath witness justice.”
* * *
Iris was almost to her flat when she heard footsteps echoing off the piles of rubble. It sounded like someone was running after her. She stiffened, glancing over her shoulder to scan the growing shadows.
The sun was setting, and Iris had decided to return home, hoping to find it still standing and her brother safe within its walls. After parting ways with Helena, she had witnessed firsthand the unpredictability of the streets. She had seen valiant recovery efforts as people drew survivors from collapsed buildings as well as chaos as the Graveyard ran rampant with their guns.
“Forest?” she called.
The footsteps grew louder. She could see someone sprinting down a side street, heading in her direction. When they finally emerged into the clearing, the light spilled over them.
Iris’s breath snagged.
The person was wearing a mask. A member of the Graveyard. They had a broad set of shoulders beneath their dark clothes, betraying a strong build. And they were running directly at her.
Iris spun and dashed toward the closest rubble pile. She could feel the distance closing between them, and her heart was frantic as she ripped a piece of pipe from the debris, pivoting to face her attacker.
“Miss Winnow!” the man cried in a rough voice as she threatened to strike him with the pipe. He held up his hands and came to a stop. “Miss Winnow, it’s me.”
She gaped at the stranger. She had no idea who he was, and she kept the pipe between them.
He relented to pull off his mask.
It was Mr. Kitt’s associate. The man who had once followed and threatened her. Handed her money to null her vows to Roman.
“Get away from me!” She swung the pipe again.
He easily dodged it. “Listen!” he shouted. “We don’t have time. I need your help.”
Iris didn’t trust him. She began to bolt again, slipping past him, until his words chased after her.
“It’s Roman! They’re about to kill him on the firing line.”
Iris halted. Her blood went cold as she turned on her heel. “Who is about to kill him?”
The associate stepped closer. “The Graveyard. He was captured among Dacre’s soldiers, and they are taking no prisoners. I couldn’t convince my comrades to let him go. They want proof of his innocence. Do you have anything? Anything at all that could keep him alive?”
Iris’s thoughts reeled at this revelation, but she bit her tongue, focusing. She had all his letters that he had written to her from Dacre’s side. She still had the Hawk Shire letter, even though Roman had once beseeched her to burn my words.