The Gender Fall (The Gender Game #5)

After checking the last room in the servants’ quarters, I felt my heart sink even lower. Given the fact that Owen hadn’t called up to me, he hadn’t found Tim either.

A swollen knot formed in my throat. He wasn’t here. It had been a long shot, but that didn’t change the crushing disappointment I felt as my last lead vanished. The only thing that kept me standing was the fact that I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, Tim was alive. I didn’t have any evidence to support my theory, but I could feel it, deep in my bones. My instincts had served me well before, and I had to put faith in them—and in Tim.

He was a smart boy with enhanced reflexes. If I could survive the fight at the palace, so could he.

Bolstered by the thought, I took a breath and moved down the carpeted halls toward the stairs heading down, guessing Owen was waiting for me.

The silence of the house seemed even more noticeable now that I wasn’t tearing open doors and calling for Tim. Was that what gave the whole manor an ominous feel? The sun was beginning to set behind the mountains, creating long shadows that cut through the house, bathing parts of it in darkness. I regretted leaving my bag in the car. My flashlight would have come in handy for some of the darker places.

I made for the massive staircase and began descending it. Nearing the foyer, I could see the front door hung open, some forty feet away, light pouring through it.

“Hey, Owen,” I said, when my eyes didn’t immediately spot him. “I don’t think Tim’s here. Did you find anything?”

Taking the last step off the staircase, I paused, my ears straining. Maybe Owen hadn’t heard me—he might be in the basement. That was a thought… While we were here, maybe we should go down there and secure any equipment we’d left behind in our initial exodus.

I turned toward the shadowy interior that was the ground floor, but then hesitated. It was really dark in that part of the house. A chill ran through me in warning, and I rolled my lips between my teeth. “Owen?” I called again.

A floorboard creaked behind me, and I whirled. A figure stood in the doorway, features obscured by the light of the sun pouring in behind them. I took a step forward, raising my left hand to block out the light. “Owen?”

“No, Ms. Bates. It’s not.”

I froze as the distinctly familiar, clipped, refined voice filled the room. The figure took several long, slow steps forward, and, purely out of instinct, I took a step back, my eyes growing wide as Desmond’s features became visible. My breath hitched, my blood pounding in my ears.

“How are you here?” I asked, my voice hoarse with barely repressed shock. I was already looking around, searching for the guards she was sure to have brought with her.

Desmond’s smile was a facsimile of kindness. “You should come out now,” she called over her shoulder—her eyes never leaving mine.

As someone stepped out of the room leading to the study, I almost choked on my tongue.

Owen’s eyes flicked to mine and then away, his shoulders and face slumped in defeat.

“Owen?” I gasped.

“I’m sorry, Violet,” he said, meeting my gaze again, his blue eyes swimming with guilt. “But I couldn’t let any more of the boys get hurt.”

“Yes, it seems Mr. Barns here has at last come to his senses,” said Desmond. “Which means you, my precious Violet, are in an interesting predicament.”

And then she smiled, her lips curling in feline satisfaction.

My mind worked too slowly, unable to process the presence of Desmond and Owen’s role in it. But my body reacted, propelled by desperate fear, and anger that tasted bitter and hot on my tongue. I turned and began to run up the stairs, panic lending adrenaline to help me ignore my injuries as I put one foot in front of another.

On reaching the third step, an escape route flashed across my mind, and I angled myself toward it. By the time I hit the fifth step, Desmond seemed to get over her initial shock. Maybe she hadn’t expected me to simply try to escape from her.

“Grab her,” she shouted, annoyance and anger rife in her voice.

“I’ve got her,” replied Owen.

I couldn’t help but throw him a look over my shoulder as he spoke, disbelief still coursing through me. A small, hopeful voice in my mind reminded me Owen was my friend. Yet the churning anger and terror in the pit of my stomach reached up and engulfed my heart with a grip of violence, reminding me of his betrayal.

Torn in two, I kept running, hooking a left into the dark recesses of Ashabee’s home. I tore through the house, dodging furniture and walls left and right. My breath was coming in sharp bursts, my ribs already starting to ache. Only the sounds of Owen’s footsteps behind me kept me moving forward.

I headed for the stairs with the secret entrance to Ashabee’s vault. The door was partially closed as I approached, and I felt myself shudder with fright as I leapt over an overturned chair. I needed more time. Turning, I kicked the chair at Owen. It didn’t slide far, but it was far enough for him to catch a knee on. He went down hard with a loud oof, but I’d already whirled and moved to the door, throwing it open.

“Violet!” he shouted insistently behind me.

I ignored him as I pulled back the heavy bit of door disguised as a wall, making my way down the small stairs, not bothering to close it behind me.

The room was dark, but I didn’t have time to hit the lights—I dove forward, using my memory of the place to guide me. I was so frantic, so desperate to get away, that I was moving too fast. My foot caught on something, and the next thing I knew, I was falling forward.

My head! I thought as I began to fall, my arms raising up over my face. I had seconds before I impacted, but even then, I knew my head was going to collide with my cast, shattering my skull. My second thought was, I can’t go through this again.