Helen groped for her touch watch, hands shaking as she flicked it open and snapped the lenses into place. She knew she should not be using it — too much metal — but she could not trust herself to build a mind-image. She had barely managed it in training; how could she do it here?
She lifted the lens to her eye. The laneway blossomed into blue glows, the shifting life forces dazzling her for a moment. Her eyes fixed upon the vibrant blue around Lawrence and the pulsing ultramarine whip curving from his back and poised for another strike. Only one whip. She reached down to her boot and found the handle of her glass knife, yanking it free from its tight fit. She must not let Lawrence get the journal. Better that Lowry have it than the instrument of the Grand Deceiver.
The whip plunged down again, this time clipping Lowry on the shoulder, slicing through linen and flesh. He screamed, blood blooming on the pale cloth of his shirt.
Carlston hauled himself to his feet, shaking his head as if trying to focus. She saw the whip hover, then line him up for another strike. She had to stop it.
‘Lawrence!’ she yelled.
The Deceiver whirled to face her, his whip snaking around as if it too heard her call.
‘Voi sapete il mio nome?’ he said. You know my name?
With knife in hand, she edged forward, keeping her eyes fixed upon the weaving weapon through the lens. She should drop the lens, but she could not bear to lose sight of that whip. The bright blue end of it flicked out at her; another warning. Helen jumped back. Lawrence did not seem willing to attack her, just like Philip in her bedchamber. Why? She had no answer, but his reticence did not mean she could not attack.
His whip glowed in her lens. But she could not hold the glass to her eye and make any kind of approach. She would have to rely upon her senses. She pushed the watch back into her pocket, praying that all her training would resolve into some sort of skill.
The air was charged with energy — she could taste it, smell it, feel the itching buzz on her skin. She strained, trying to find the image of the whip, but nothing formed in her mind.
Beyond the Italian Deceiver, Lowry was scrabbling back, his hand clasping his injured shoulder. Dear God, he was going to run, and he still had the journal. He hauled himself up and plunged into the crowd of onlookers at an unearthly speed, punching a pathway through them, their yells and curses following him.
‘Get Lowry!’ Helen yelled to Carlston.
It was no good; he was still lost in his mania. She could see it in the bloodshot heat of his eyes. He lunged at Lawrence, dragging the Deceiver down, the two of them hitting the cobbles. For a second they rolled and punched and then Carlston screamed. His shoulder peeled open, flesh and muscle coming apart as if by ghastly magic to the normal eye, his blood smearing across the stones as the two of them slid into the scraggly circle of horrified onlookers.
Helen ran, pure instinct driving her between the two men on the ground.
‘No!’ The Duke’s voice whirled the Deceiver around.
She sliced blindly above Lawrence’s back with her knife, connecting with air.
The Deceiver twisted to face her, lashing out with an arm. She jumped back, feeling the prickling sense of energy across her skin. His whip. She grabbed, finding air again, but for a glorious second she saw its outline in her mind. It was enough. Her hand connected with the pulsing weapon.
She gasped, feeling the whip’s bright energy collapse into her body, flowing into her blood, her marrow, her muscles, the meat of her mind. It felt like the moment she had wrested Carlston back to her mouth: a soaring, fierce, violent, animal delight. Around her, the whole laneway was alive with the glow of blue energy. She could see every life force without the lens, the same as when she had held the Colligat.
She laughed, dropped her knife and slammed her palm against the Deceiver’s chest, seeking more energy, more sublime sensation.
Lawrence screamed, struggling against the touch of her hand. ‘Cosa state facendo a me?’ What are you doing to me?
She could feel all his energy flowing into her hand, bringing so much strength, the ultramarine of his body fading into a pale, sickly blue.
‘Lady Helen! Let him go. You will die!’ Quinn’s voice broke into her thrall.
She felt Lawrence wrenched from her hold. Gone.
She gasped, the loss of the connection like a thousand lamps in her mind suddenly extinguished. Quinn’s strong arms circled her body, then slammed her against the ground, the stone hard and cold against her cheek. Through the blur of her vision she saw Lawrence staggering through the crowd. Escaping.
‘Lady Helen, let the energy go. Please!’
She would never let it go. It was part of her now, gloriously embedded within her body. Couldn’t he understand that? She punched him, knuckles connecting painfully against his jaw. He grunted but did not loosen his grip.
‘Hold her down!’ he yelled. ‘Lady Helen, let the energy go into the ground.’
‘You’re not her Terrene. It won’t work,’ Hammond said.
‘I have to try, don’t I?’ Quinn snarled. ‘He’ll kill me if I don’t try.’
She felt Quinn’s weight and other hands pinning her flat against the flags. It didn’t matter. The energy was hers and she could hold it.
‘It’s not going. It’s not going,’ she heard Quinn sob.
‘Mine,’ she whispered. ‘It’s mine!’
‘We are well past twenty seconds, Quinn,’ Hammond said urgently.
‘What does that mean?’ The Duke’s voice. Frantic.
‘It means she’s not going to die,’ Quinn said, husky with wonderment. ‘If a Reclaimer holds on to the energy too long, it usually kills them.’
‘Kills them?’ The Duke again. Horrified.
Helen shifted. ‘Quinn, let me up.’
She felt the man’s heavy weight lift off her body. She took a deep breath. The bright blue life-force glows had gone and the laneway was once more dim and dingy, its narrow width blocked by stunned people watching them in silence. The glorious sensation had gone too. Even so, she could feel the Deceiver energy inside her like a bright heat.
She could not bring herself to look at the Duke. She focused on Quinn, who was crawling across the stones to the prone body of his master. Helen rolled onto her hands and knees and followed, her body feeling strange with so much energy: heavy, but as if it was lifting into the air with lightness. How was she able to hold on to so much Deceiver power?
Quinn pulled Carlston onto his back. ‘My lord?’
Carlston groaned, bringing a huff of relief from Quinn.
‘Journal?’ the Earl rasped.
Quinn shook his head. ‘Gone, my lord, with Lowry.’
Carlston released a pained breath, a curse hissed within it. ‘Lady Helen safe?’
‘I am here.’ Helen leaned over him. He was a mess of cuts and gashes, but his eyes were sane again.
‘Ah.’ His smile shifted into concern. ‘You are hurt.’
He lifted his hand to her face. As his fingers touched her cheek, a bright crackling charge of energy arced between them, the effect slamming them both backward.
Helen felt herself hit the ground, her heart heaving in pain. The bone-jarring impact punched all the air out of her lungs and cracked her head against the cobblestones in a sickening ache.