Opposite them, she saw Pike turning slowly to look out of the doorway at the Comtesse, locked into human momentum.
‘Antoinette!’ the Comte screamed. He started to descend the stairs at Deceiver speed, blocked by Carlston. ‘Get out of my way!’
Lawrence accelerated across the vestibule and leaped onto the hall table. The vase of roses smashed to the floor as he vaulted over the banister and landed on the step above the Comte, using the momentum to plunge his knife into the old man’s shoulder. Helen heard the hilt thud against the Comte’s body.
The old man gasped and buckled to the steps as Lawrence wrenched out the knife and met Carlston’s attack. He held the high-ground advantage and as Carlston lunged — journal still clasped in one hand, glass knife in the other — Lawrence aimed a vicious side-kick at his lordship’s chest. As his foot connected, Carlston stabbed down with the glass knife, the blade finding purchase in the Deceiver’s leg. The momentum of the kick rammed Carlston backward, the glass blade ripping through flesh and muscle.
Lawrence screamed, falling back against the wall. Carlston staggered down two steps, the journal dropping from his hand and landing against the balustrade.
Quinn charged past him and launched himself at Lawrence. The Deceiver slashed upward with his knife, ripping across Quinn’s gut. Blood surged through white shirt and green waistcoat into a bright scarlet crescent. The Terrene gasped and doubled over, teetering for a moment before stumbling backward and landing on Carlston.
‘Quinn!’ Helen yelled. She started towards the stairs, her impetus abruptly stopped by a bloodied hand on her shoulder.
‘No, you’re not ready for this,’ Stokes panted, his other hand clamped over the gash along his jaw. ‘You’ll get in the way. Stay here.’
In the way? Before she could protest, he shoved her back and ran for the stairs.
Lawrence, seeing him coming, grabbed the journal and hobbled up the last few steps, his injured leg dragging. The Comte made a feeble grab at his ankle as he passed, but he shook off the old man’s grip and pulled himself by the banister around to the next set of steps, disappearing from view.
With a roar of frustration, Carlston pushed Quinn off him. Helen gasped as the big Islander rolled down a few steps, landing in a sprawled heap. Sweet heaven: even Quinn’s peril did not penetrate the savage madness in Carlston’s face. He levered himself up and climbed the stairs after Lawrence, Stokes close behind him.
‘Stay with the Comtesse, Lady Helen,’ Pike said, his voice slow and slurred. Helen blinked, her senses shifting back to normal speed. ‘Stokes will get the journal.’
Above them came the crash of furniture, the sound of yells and grunts. On the staircase, Quinn pulled himself upright and, bent over his wound, followed the sounds of the battle.
‘Lady Helen,’ the Comte rasped from the steps. Blood trickled from his sleeve, pooling on the carpet runner. ‘The cure for Carlston … the Grand Deceiver. Do you still want to know?’
Helen ran up the stairs and stopped on the step below the old Comte. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Help me kill Lawrence … before this body expires. I will tell you all when he is dead.’
‘Tell me now!’
The Comte hauled himself up a step towards the landing. ‘He has killed my Antoinette. Help me avenge her, then I will tell you.’
Helen grabbed the Comte’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
Pike looked up through the balustrades. ‘Do not help him!’ he ordered. ‘He is a Deceiver. You cannot trust him.’
‘I trust him more than I trust you.’ More to the point, she trusted the Comte’s desire for revenge. She ducked under the old Deceiver’s arm, taking his sagging weight. ‘Is Lawrence the Grand Deceiver?’
The Comte gave a ghastly wet laugh. ‘No. He is a Cruor. I hired him to protect us … should have known he is a creature of the Grand Deceiver.’
‘Do you hear that?’ she said, addressing Pike over her shoulder. ‘The Grand Deceiver is real!’
‘Hurry,’ the Comte panted. ‘This body does not have long.’
Helen gathered her Reclaimer strength and steered the Comte rapidly up the stairs, half dragging, half carrying him. She grabbed the balustrade and pulled them both around onto the first floor. From the sounds above, the fight was on the next level. Hauling the Comte with her, she took the steps, pausing for a moment at the top. The sound of bodies hitting walls and smashing wood came from the second room along the corridor.
‘They are in my dressing room,’ the Comte gasped in her ear. ‘Take me.’
‘No! You cannot fight Lawrence.’ She could not risk the Comte dying before she got the cure. ‘I will get him for you.’
She had a small hope that if she touched Lawrence, she would drain him, like last time.
She dragged the Comte to the next room, the connecting bedchamber, and wrenched open the door. Wood-panelled walls and bright patterned yellow paper barely registered; all her focus was upon the large bed set against the wall. She crossed to it and twisted her body to swing the old Deceiver down upon its yellow cover, the action prompting a hiss of pain from him.
He reached for the wound in his shoulder, the blue wool of his jacket sodden with blood. ‘Be quick, or we shall both lose our chance.’
The door to the dressing room was still closed. Helen ran to it and flung it open. The room was shifting between blurs of velocity and moments of distinct bodies in the space: Carlston, Stokes, Quinn and Lawrence. She blinked, her Reclaimer sight coalescing the whole into a heaving battle scene.
Carlston clearly did not know, or perhaps care, who he was fighting. He had jammed the journal in his waistcoat and was defending it with brutal kicks and punches that were, for the moment, driving back Stokes. Helen’s skin tightened with fear. There was no sign of sanity in Carlston’s eyes. Only pitiless savagery. Had the Ligatus already consumed him?
‘Lord Carlston!’ she yelled.
He did not even look up. Stokes, however, checked for a moment. A costly moment: Carlston slammed his head against the wall. Stokes managed to block the next hit, driving Carlston back with a kick to the stomach.
Quinn was caught in a low grapple with Lawrence — both injured and bleeding profusely — but the Terrene was barely able to land a blow against the vicious Cruor. Even so, he did not let go, grittily taking the Deceiver’s vicious punches. His shirt and waistcoat were sodden with bright blood, the black tattoos stark against the pallor of his skin.
Helen lunged for Lawrence and grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, hauling him off Quinn. She held her breath, but no, there was no draw of glorious energy like last time. It must only happen when they had whips.
The valet twisted, breaking her hold, landing on his knees. She half pivoted, gaining momentum, and rammed the edge of her boot into the soft connection between his neck and shoulder. She felt the crunch of bone and ligament. He collapsed onto his side gasping, then rolled and scrabbled onto his feet.