Mrs. Van’s mouth flattened.

  Kilworth continued to slam his rifle closer and closer to Mrs. Van’s feet.

  An overwhelming thought flashed through Leena’s mind. He desires to hunt her like prey.

  “Did you know, m’dear, that the Saint deals with demons?” Lord Kilworth turned to Leena with a short, humorless laugh. “Do you have any idea what you’ve set foot into?” He shook his head. “Ask the Saint why he collects secrets.”

  Leena felt the pistol St. Silas had given her nestled in her pocket, but she could not reach it while Kilworth kept a grip on his rifle.

  He leaned closer, lifting one sweaty palm toward her. “But perhaps you do not know who the Saint truly is and require some assistance to escape his clutches. Consider my hand a helping one.”

  Leena slapped that helping hand away.

  “Touch me and—” she warned viciously, but the harsh slam of the rifle against the floor silenced her. Both she and Mrs. Van jumped backward, startled by the dull echo of metal on wood.

  Then, almost tenderly, Kilworth turned to Mrs. Van and lifted her chin with the butt of his gun. Leena imagined the shiver of cool steel on her own skin and seethed in fury.

  “You’ve fed on humans before,” Kilworth said softly to Mrs. Van, disgust curdling his face. “I know that look. You see our despair and make a feast out of it. What is it that your kind says—joy tastes bitter? You ought to be executed for your crimes.” He glanced briefly at Leena. “You may go, chit. The demon stays with me. I have the notion that she may hold the answers to a few of my most pressing questions.”

  Leena could not say at what point she had stopped viewing Mrs. Van as something other. Nor could she forget how tirelessly Mrs. Van had aided her in nursing Rami back to health, or all those mornings when Mrs. Van had taken particular care with her curls. All the meals she’d cooked for them back in Golborne. The broths. The pots of tea.

  “Make it fair,” Leena said quietly. Her pulse bounded. “Give us a head start. You’ve always wanted to hunt one of her kind before, haven’t you? Now is your chance.”

  Kilworth’s bloodshot eyes didn’t fall from Mrs. Van’s face. “I’ve always wondered if they bleed like us.” The allure of the hunt had given him a wild look, as if he was already in the forest, smelling his prey.

  He lowered the rifle and slammed it again on the floorboards. Thud. Thud. Thud. “I will grant her five minutes.”

  Neither Mrs. Van nor Leena moved.

  “Now.” Kilworth’s eyes were on the clock above their heads. The rifle continued to slam its rhythmic beats.

  “Go,” Leena shouted.

  When Mrs. Van didn’t move, she grabbed the other woman’s arm and forced them both through the door. Lord Kilworth’s attention was still fixed on the clock, his lips moving imperceptibly as he counted down the seconds.

  Leena stood at the threshold of the room. Her mind focused. Her blood slowed. She grabbed hold of the pistol in her pocket, drew it out, and unlocked it.

  Then, holding the weapon in a death grip, she aimed the muzzle at Kilworth and fired.

  It jarred her shoulders and she fell back against the bedroom door. But St. Silas had warned her about this, so she was prepared for the pain.

  The shot echoed across the winding halls of Weavingshaw like a scream.

  Then Leena’s heart dropped.

  The kick of the pistol had been too much. She had only managed to clip Kilworth in the ear, blood dripping from the cut in a trickle, the bullet implanting itself instead in the wooden post of the bed.

  Kilworth’s face twisted with sudden fury.

  In one practiced motion, his rifle swung toward her, his finger hovering over the trigger.

  Leena lurched out of the way as the bullet whizzed by, missing her by mere millimeters.

  She and Mrs. Van bolted.

  Leena’s bare feet pounded against the floorboards, with Mrs. Van only seconds in front of her. As they slipped down the stairs, Leena turned back to find that Kilworth hadn’t yet followed them. A sinking sensation descended in her chest when she realized that he was waiting for them to leave tracks. That he was still hunting them.

  “Outside?” Leena whispered, but Mrs. Van shook her head.

  “He’s planning on that. He’ll shoot at us from the window.”

  The ceiling above them creaked—the hollow thud of the rifle striking wood.

  Terror built behind Leena’s eyes. She looked for a phantom to lead them out, a servant to offer help, but for the first time in a long time the house was completely bereft of any living or dead creatures. She didn’t have time to question this stark emptiness, her mind intent entirely on survival.

  Scrambling, she tore through the drawers of one of the long mahogany tables lining the hallway until she found a lamp and a box of matches. She motioned for Mrs. Van to follow her, retracing the same steps St. Silas had taken when he’d led them toward the crypts. They moved fast and silently, ears pricked for any approaching footsteps.

  They climbed down another flight of stairs to the wine cellar.

  Leena fell to her knees and scrambled across the room, frantically patting for the latch hidden within the floor.

  There—the trapdoor.

  Leena paused before lifting it open, her heart hammering in her chest as she recalled the demon lurking in the dark. But she had triumphed over it. She reminded herself of that.

  “What are you waiting for, girl?” Mrs. Van urged from behind her.

  Still, Leena could not move. Was she creeping toward a new danger? A worse danger?

  Somewhere above them the sound of footsteps—slow and sure, the march of an executioner.

  She swung open the latch.

  A voice in her head screamed at her to turn back.

  Mrs. Van held the lamp, the light reflecting halos on the ceiling as they made their descent.

  Finally the ground leveled out. A long hall loomed ahead of them, black and beckoning.

  Mrs. Van gripped Leena’s arm painfully, her eyes almost wild with animal fright. “Where have you taken us?”

  Leena hesitated. “Do you feel the presence of the demon as well?”

  “In all the years I worked here previously, I never set foot in the crypts.” Mrs. Van let go, leaving welts on Leena’s skin. “It’s not right, what they’ve done to this place. It’s not right.”

  Above them, the trapdoor slammed open.

  Lord Kilworth had found them.

  Not caring to keep quiet anymore, they bolted down the length of the crypts’ maze. The uneven floor was rough on Leena’s feet, and she felt the sting of cuts forming.

  Neither Leena nor Mrs. Van needed a map to traverse the sudden twists and turns. They were both attuned to the dark presence that saturated these walls and urged them forward, toward the heart of the crypts.

  Finally, the stone walls gave way to a great marble chamber, desolate and empty, the light from their lamp reflecting off the black waters. All around them pale statues watched, almost hungrily.

  The Hall of the Lake.

  They stopped, gasping for breath.

  They had nowhere else to run, and the sound of Lord Kilworth’s relentless footsteps followed them.

  Leena stood in front of the lake, eyes blazing at the black waters, the demon’s energy coiling against her skin.

  “Help us,” she demanded. “Help us and I vow to protect the last living Avon.”

  There was no response from the demon, but she sensed its anger toward her, furious that she had refused to submit to it.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Kilworth was close.

  Leena turned quickly to Mrs. Van, who stood with her gaze trained on the dark expanse of the lake. “Do you trust me?” Leena asked.

  Mrs. Van jerked as if breaking from a trance, then gave Leena a firm nod.

  “Pretend you are prey,” Leena whispered furiously to her. Before waiting for the other woman’s response, Leena ran to hide behind one of the statues near the entrance, both the cloying darkness and the sculpture’s stone body concealing her from view.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  The strike of a rifle on marbled floors, the echo magnifying the sound until it was an assault.

  Lord Kilworth stood by the entrance.

  His walk was slow, predatory, stopping steps before the water. Kilworth didn’t look at the lake, nor at the magnificence of this room carved from marble. The blood continued to trickle from his ear, marking his collar red.

  He lifted the rifle, the barrel pointed toward Mrs. Van.

  “Where is the Saint’s whore?”

  Leena’s fingers tightened around her pistol. She had one bullet left. She could not miss this time.

  Mrs. Van didn’t lift her hands to plead. She merely stood there, posture unwavering, cheeks sunken and hollow. “I told her to leave me.”

  Kilworth laughed. “It will be my pleasure to find her next, then. After I rid this world of one more demon.”

  At his words, Leena stepped out from behind the statue, still unseen. Sweat slid down her back as she lifted her arm.

  “You were once Percy Avon’s servant, weren’t you?” Kilworth spat, covering the click of the pistol unlocking. “Any inkling of where he has hidden it?”

  Leena paused, gun held aloft.

  “Hidden what?” came Mrs. Van’s stoic reply.

  Kilworth’s laugh was sharp and acidic. “You may have lied to your master, but you will not lie to me, demon. The Limitless Vessel. Where did Percy hide it?”

  Mrs. Van stared at him, chin lifted—unanswering, unmoving.

  The Limitless Vessel? Leena didn’t have a chance to dwell on Kilworth’s odd ramblings. The gun was heavy in her hands—

  St. Silas’s words came back to her with force—aim two inches above your target…toward the heart.

  This time, Leena pointed the barrel toward Kilworth’s scapula.

  His Lordship’s entire attention was fastened on his prey as Leena again fired the gun.

  When the bullet implanted itself in Kilworth’s chest, forever severing the connection between heart and arteries, His Lordship’s gaze was still fastened on Mrs. Van.

  He didn’t scream.

  By the time his body fell into the black waters, Lord Kilworth was already dead.

  Leena’s eyes remained fixed on the lake, but Lord Kilworth did not rise.

  A sudden nausea gripped her, so strong that she bent down and vomited forcefully. After a moment, she rose up shakily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “It is done,” Leena stated hollowly. She didn’t know if she wanted comfort from the other woman or confirmation.

  Mrs. Van responded evenly. “Aye, but it had to be done.”

  Leena turned away from Mrs. Van, beginning to walk back the way they’d come.

  Several weeks ago, Leena had been in a starkly similar position: both times pointing a pistol at a man. She was so heartily glad that she’d lowered the gun during that first episode, that she’d spared St. Silas’s life, just as she was glad she’d had the nerve to fire this time.

  As St. Silas had once told her: Survival is a sordid business.

  Kilworth had his burial—just not underneath the ground.

  May your soul no longer crave the soil.

  The grazes on her feet began to ache, but she ignored them. Mrs. Van followed her, and for a long while the only sounds that echoed were their own footfalls.

  Leena finally broke the silence, turning to Mrs. Van. “What is the Limitless Vessel?”

  She remembered Lord Hargreaves had also mentioned the Limitless Vessel on the day he’d killed Lord Avon in Lady Hargreaves’s recollection—that it was the reason he’d murdered his oldest friend.

  “I do not know,” Mrs. Van replied slowly, as if she was deep in thought. “But we must tell the master of Kilworth’s last words. We must tell him soon.”

  It took some time before they emerged from the wine cellar into the morning light. Leena had been too blind with worry to take note of the passages as they ran from Kilworth, but Mrs. Van’s mind was sharp, and she’d had enough foresight to memorize their exact route and lead them back.

  Leena was surprised that it was still early daylight. Surely years must’ve passed since Mrs. Van had come into her room that morning?

  She searched for Rami and St. Silas in the emptiness of the halls, but even the servants seemed to be gone. They made their way toward the grand entrance, stopping in front of the door that opened to the outside world.

  They were not there.

  Leena’s heart sank, St. Silas’s clear instructions ringing in her ears. If he was not back shortly after dawn, Mrs. Van and Leena were to make their way back to Golborne directly—without him. Rami, she knew, was still locked away.

  St. Silas did not realize that Leena had never had any intentions of leaving without him.

  She glanced at the grandfather clock. Distantly, her mind absorbed the fact that it was another three hours before Lord Avon was due to appear.

  Not that this mattered anymore. She felt a crushing despair at just how close they had come to finding Lord Avon’s ghost.

  But there was no time for that now.

  Leena turned to Mrs. Van urgently, knowing that there would be consequences from her sudden change of plans. “We must ready the carriage and go find Mr. St. Silas and Rami before making our way back to Golborne.”

  Mrs. Van shook her head, gripping Leena’s arm. “That is not what the master instructed.”

  Leena pulled her arm back. “I am well aware of Mr. St. Silas’s plans. However, he is not here to enforce them, and we are not leaving without them.”

  The tiniest flickering of a smile appeared on Mrs. Van’s lips before the older woman’s face turned blank once more. “First, shoes.”

  It took them less than five minutes to collect their necessary belongings. Mrs. Van had found for her a small leather satchel, and Leena packed A Guide to Botany and the old housekeeper’s timepiece. Then they made their way down the steps of Weavingshaw’s grand staircase.

  Once more, Leena felt a stirring of foreboding at the emptiness of the house. “Where are all the servants?” she asked Mrs. Van as they left the house, the crisp air like a knife to Leena’s lungs. The snow had reached her ankles as she bounded down the curved driveway, heading toward the stables where they would hopefully find a carriage ready.

  “At the miners’—” Before Mrs. Van could finish her sentence, they heard the rattle of wheels on the drive.

  They froze. Leena’s pulse thrashed in her ears.

  A gilded carriage came from the forest at breakneck speed, the horses shooting dangerously across the path. Whoever held the reins was an unsteady driver, the entire vehicle jostling up and down.

  Leena and Mrs. Van lurched toward the banks of snow on the side of the road, missing the iron of the horses’ hooves by seconds. Just as the vehicle passed, Leena saw a familiar figure on the box seat, back hunched over in concentration. She heard the figure shouting her name.

  “Rami!” she yelled, racing after the carriage, nearly slipping on the ice in the process.

  Rami’s lip was split and fiery contusions spread across his cheek. “Leena!” he called back, and tugged on the reins with a hard wrench, forcing the horses to halt. “Where’s Kilworth?”

  “Dead.” It was Mrs. Van who replied before Leena could.

  “Where is St. Silas?” Leena countered.

  “He’s inside the carriage. Get in quickly; we are being pursued.” Rami’s eyes were hectic, peering wildly at the road behind them. “The Black Coats are not far behind. We must make a head start before they arrive.”

  What on earth were the Black Coats doing this far north?

  Mrs. Van was faster than Leena in following these instructions, jumping to sit beside Rami on the driver’s seat. She took the reins from Rami, who was struggling to control the two horses singlehandedly.

  Leena barreled inside the carriage, her shoes slipping on the icy step. Mrs. Van set the horses flying before Leena had even shut the door.

  It took a moment for Leena’s eyes to adjust from the blazing brightness outside to the dimness within. Eventually, she was able to focus her vision enough to see St. Silas sprawled across the seat, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him.

  As Leena’s eyes frantically assessed him, St. Silas returned her searing appraisal with one of his own.

  “Is that all yours?” she demanded, moving closer to inspect him in the flickering sunlight.

  “Are you well?” he interrupted. His eyes were steel. “Did he hurt you?”

  Leena’s eyes widened in shock. How had St. Silas known of what had so recently transpired between her and Kilworth? “I am unhurt.”

  Her gaze raked him again, focusing on the blood. She reached to unbutton his waistcoat, but he stopped her, covering her hand with his own, holding it just over his heart. She could feel the drumming of his heartbeat against her palm. “Where’s Kilworth?”

  Leena kept her tone brusque, although memories made her stomach knot and her throat constrict. “I shot him dead with your pistol.”

  “There’s a girl,” he whispered softly—the words an echo of the first time he’d said them to her, what felt like centuries ago. “Fearless Leena Al-Sayer.”

  Leena did not look at him, but her fingers shook as she continued to unbutton his waistcoat. The burden of Kilworth’s death lay like a stone on her heart, and yet St. Silas’s words were like an ax shattering that stone.

  “Is this blood all yours?” she asked again.

  “Afraid it is,” St. Silas said, almost apologetically, trying to catch her eye. “I’d be much obliged if you kissed it better.”

  Leena paused in her attempts to remove the layers of his clothes and glanced up at him drily. “If you are well enough to jest, then surely there is no cause for concern.”