“I don’t often see you in this part of the house.” His voice was casual. “Was that your first time in the dining room?”
Her mouth went dry. “I was—looking at the flowers.”
He glanced towards the dining room again, eyes narrowing. “Were you, now?”
She used his distraction to adjust her grip on the knife. “Yes. I like—flowers.”
Heat rushed along her neck, a cold pit forming in her stomach.
“Let’s see it, then.” His eyes were on her hand where it was hidden amid her skirts.
Helena’s heart dropped like a stone as she tried not to react, to appear innocent.
“What did you take?” He held out his hand.
She could try lying. He wouldn’t believe her. She could try running. He’d catch her.
She could try killing him.
Yes. She’d do that.
She let her eyes widen, jaw slackening with surprise. His mouth curved into a faint smirk.
She lunged.
She had minimal training in combat alchemy, but her body moved on instinct. The blade sliced through the air as she flung herself at him.
Ferron dodged, as she’d known he would. A perfect basic defence dodge.
She let go of the knife, sending it spinning through the air.
Resonance would have made it easier, but she could do without.
She caught the hilt in her left hand, ignoring the pain that shot up her arm. With resonance she would have transmuted the length, but it took a split second longer to slam the blade into his chest, straight for his heart.
Pain exploded through her wrist. She’d thrown all her weight into the blow, but she could have been stabbing granite; the blade barely pierced him.
Ferron gave a low gasp as if she’d knocked his breath out, catching her by the shoulders as he doubled over. She used both hands and pushed harder as something inside her left wrist tore, trying to force the blade through his heart.
Ferron laughed, his lips close enough to her neck that his breath ran down her spine.
“And here I thought you’d use poison,” he said, his voice mocking.
Rage ignited inside her. She flung herself backwards, taking the knife with her.
Atreus was crossing the room, hands outstretched, face contorted with fury.
She had no chance against two.
Her left wrist was on fire. She could barely manage to grip the handle, but she wouldn’t let go.
She angled the blade back and drove it towards her own throat, meeting Ferron’s eyes with savage triumph.
Ferron moved so fast he blurred.
The world morphed, going silver as resonance exploded outwards and the knife was ripped away from her throat, pain tearing up her arm all the way into her shoulder.
Her mind struggled to catch up.
Ferron had caught the blade in his fist, wrenching it up overhead. His other hand was wrapped around her throat, holding her back.
She couldn’t move. His resonance had her frozen, every bone, muscle, and tendon under his control. She couldn’t even breathe. Her heart was constricted. Atreus, a few feet away, was trapped in place as well.
This was how Ferron killed.
His hand around the knife blade was seeping blood, running over her fingers and down her arm. His eyes were a reflective silver so bright, they appeared to glow.
“Why don’t you ever stop?” He let go of her, shoving her back.
Her hand, numb with pain, lost its grip.
“Why don’t you die?” There was no point in being coy. She wanted to kill him; they both knew it.
Blood was still flowing down the hilt of the knife, dripping scarlet across the white marble floor, spattering across the ouroboros mosaic.
His lips curved into an insincere smile. “Prior commitments, I’m afraid.”
He glanced back at his father, coming towards them again. Ferron’s expression turned vicious. “Did I ask for your help?”
He turned back to Helena, examining the knife in his hand. It had sliced into his palm so deep, it was lodged in the bones. He didn’t even wince as he pulled it free, holding it up so the blade caught the light, scarlet blood gleaming along the edge.
“How good of Aurelia to have these freshly sharpened and left within your reach.”
With a careless flick of his wrist, he tossed it back towards the dining room. With the lazy way he threw it, it shouldn’t have made it across the room, but his resonance still sang in the air.
The knife gained velocity as it flew straight through the barely open doorway and into the large vase in the centre of the table. It shattered on impact, glass flying in all directions as the water flooded across the table.
He glanced down at his hand. The wound was already gone.
Helena knew the Undying could regenerate but it was still startling to witness. It would have taken her at least half an hour to heal a wound like that; hands were delicate, intricate, full of nerves.
Her left wrist hurt so much she could hardly think straight. A stream of blood ran down from beneath the manacle into her palm, joining Ferron’s on the floor.
She watched dully as Ferron curled his fingers. Then his eyes alighted on her hand. His jaw tensed. “You would injure the one place that is difficult to repair. I’ll have to call in Stroud.”
He turned towards one of the necrothralls.
“Take our prisoner to her room,” he said in a cool voice. “Be sure she stays there until tomorrow.”
Helena didn’t wait to be nudged along. She turned and left.
“I’ve seen that girl somewhere,” she heard Atreus say as she reached the hallway.
“She was the only southerner at the Institute, rather hard to miss, I’d say,” Ferron said, not seeming to care.
The rush of adrenaline was ebbing from Helena. When she reached the stairs, her legs trembled, almost giving out. She listed towards the nearest wall, fingertips seeking the surface and wincing as they made contact. Her blood smeared along the wallpaper.
She should have cut her throat open the instant she’d gotten her fingers on that knife.
IT WAS MIDWINTER WHEN GOVERNOR Fabian Greenfinch was nearly assassinated.
It happened during the unveiling ceremony for Morrough’s new statue. The governor was giving a speech about New Paladia’s liberation, and Mandl, Warden of the re-education centre on the Outpost, whose “members” had built the statue, had been standing beside him on the dais. As the ribbon cutting commenced, a crossbow bolt emerged from one of the nearby buildings. It narrowly missed the governor, instead striking Mandl.
Mandl died.
In front of a crowd of reporters and international visitors, citizens, and foreign dignitaries, one of the Undying, whose appearance marked her as undeniably and visibly among the immortal, died.
The death sent shock waves across Paladia and beyond. The newspaper headlines were almost audibly hysterical. The Resistance terrorists believed to have been wiped out had reappeared in a spectacular manner, before an audience that could not be as easily cowed into silence as the national press was.
Lancaster’s visits to Spirefell abruptly ceased. Aurelia floated around the house, wan and paranoid, starting at every sound as if expecting Resistance fighters to emerge from the walls and murder her next. Several times Helena heard her interrogating Ferron about what protections the estate had, and couldn’t they have more necrothralls?
Ferron, when Helena caught glimpses of him, was no longer in coats and cloaks and pristine white shirts or even armour, but what appeared to be a combination of light combat gear and hunting clothes. He regularly returned to the house covered in mud, soaked from rain, and pale with rage.
Helena was thrilled.
She read the coverage obsessively, her heart soaring. The Resistance was still out there.
The papers emphasised over and over that it was a failed assassination attempt, trying desperately to gloss over the fact that someone ostensibly immortal had been killed by accident instead.
Helena knew the continent had to be alight with speculation of how it had been done, and how it might be replicated.