A sharp pain ripped through my side.

  I grunted and tried to pull back, but Fang still held my hand in his crushing fist.

  “On second thought,” he snarled, flecks of spittle landing on my cheek. “Maybe I’ll just take the sheriff’s coin and be done with you after all.”

  I cried out as he flung me backwards, crashing to the ground.

  The blinding pain in my side was overshadowed as his foot flicked out at my face. The impact slammed my jaw shut so hard that my teeth rattled and my lip split, splattering red down my front.

  I choked on the hot, salty blood that filled my mouth.

  “Sheriff’s on his way here, in fact. Should be here by morning. I’ll happily turn you over.” He cocked his head to the side. “You or your corpse when you bleed out. Makes no difference to the price.”

  “No…”

  My breath came in shaky gasps as I saw the handle of his steak knife protruding from my flesh. As I took it in both hands, the knife slid from my gut. I stared at the red streaks, not quite comprehending that I was looking at my own blood on the blade.

  This can’t be.

  But my shirt was soaked with crimson and the initial pain was blossoming into agony. I doubled over, curling in around the deep wound.

  This can’t be how I die.

  Fang’s voice was a distant echo as he no doubt mocked me to the rest of the men, but the words didn’t reach me. Only laughter. Jeering.

  Something in me hardened. These would not be the last sounds I heard in this world. I had something to live for. I refused to die like this. Not without taking him with me.

  Somehow, I rose.

  My body wasn’t my own as I took a step towards him and then another. His steak knife was clenched in my fist. Just as I’d dreamed of—night after night, day after day for years—I slammed the blade deep between his ribs.

  “Argh! What the—”

  I stabbed again.

  His generals—his favored—stared in horror. Motionless.

  Again. Hot blood splashed over my chest, across my face. Again. It splattered the pale canvas walls and ceiling of the tent. Again. I stabbed until the muscles in my arms burned. Again. Until I couldn’t anymore. I brought the blade down one last time with a dull squelch.

  My cheeks were wet not just with his blood but my own tears as well. Tears of laughter. There was blood everywhere. I’d just signed my death warrant and all I could do was laugh until tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “Anyone else want to die by my blade?” I bellowed even as I staggered on unsteady legs.

  The rest of the generals paid me no heed. While Fang had been dying, the rest of them had been grabbing what loot they could and fleeing the tent.

  Fang’s rule was cruel, but it was also the only thing stopping us villains from tearing each other to pieces. The next few hours, days, weeks would be soaked in more blood than just his.

  And mine.

  I groaned as the high of revenge began to pale in comparison to the pain radiating from my side. When the sounds of fighting from beyond the canvas walls reached me and my knees gave out, I risked a look at the damage.

  My blood-stained shirt stuck to my skin. I winced as I peeled it back to reveal the wound underneath. Small but deep. If I were lucky, the blade hadn’t hit anything of importance. If I were not, I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

  Either way, if I wanted even a sliver of a fighting chance, I needed to get as far away from here as possible. When those fools outside finished beating lumps out of each other, they’d remember I was here and come to finish the job.

  I staggered to my feet, cursing through the pain. If I were smart about this, I’d live. Perhaps. Maybe not.

  No, I scolded myself, I would survive.

  I’m a survivor.

  As much as I whispered encouragement to myself, I still had to cling to Fang’s chair to stop myself collapsing again. As I stood there, bleeding and trying to breathe without sobbing, a flash of gold caught my eye from the gap where the arm met the cushioned seat of the chair. The tiniest flash. Instinct had me snatching for it.

  The little golden heart on a fine gold chain lay in my trembling, bloodied palm. It took me a moment to recognize it.

  Victoria’s locket.

  The same locket I’d snatched right off her delicate neck on the day we met. She’d begged for it to be returned. Her mother’s.

  I blinked at it. It must’ve fallen from Fang’s pocket or been dropped some time since then, but it was definitely hers.

  My heart fluttered. I wasn’t a spiritual person. Life had beaten that out of me long ago, but this had to be a sign. A sign, telling me to survive long enough to return it to her.

  Fortified with Victoria’s locket safely around my neck, I stole the belt from Fang’s corpse and a rag fished from a wooden chest to bind my wound. Screaming through clenched teeth, I jerked the belt as tight as I dared.

  My right arm had gone numb, so I slashed my way through the back of the tent with the bloody knife in my left and staggered out into the forest, doubled over and panting.

  Distance. I need distance from here.

  The next half hour—or was it minutes?…an hour?…day?—was a blur of lightheaded agony.

  Somehow, I found Chip or he found me and wandered with me slumped on his back until his hooves clacked over hard stone cobbles instead of a dirt road.

  “Good boy,” I mumbled, trying and failing to lift a hand to pat his neck. No part of my body was responding to me anymore.

  “Bea?”

  Lifting my head caused the entire world to shift. I saw horse, sky and ground in nauseatingly quick succession.

  Everything hurt.

  Darkness crept into the corners of my blurry vision as I tried to squint. I was sprawled on the cold hard ground.

  A face swam above me, but the features were unclear.

  “Victoria?” I slurred.

  Then darkness claimed me.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  The Highwaywoman

  “Bea?”

  Someone was calling my name. My tongue was too thick in my mouth to form an answer, and it came out as a grunt. Something cold and wet was draped across my forehead.

  “Beatrice, can you hear me?”

  I forced open my eyes to see a cloud of red hair fanning out from a pale face hovering inches from my own.

  “Annabelle?” I squinted at the figure looming above me.

  “Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were dead for a moment there.” She disappeared from above me. The wet rag was snatched from my forehead.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you left.” My words were clumsy and slurred. The ceiling above me spun.

  “I did but then I heard what happened. They said Fang was dead. I knew that you must’ve had a hand in that. I also knew you weren’t just going to walk away from that unscathed, so...”

  I looked at her. Really looked at her. For the first time in forever even though I couldn’t focus my eyes. She glanced up at me through her lashes and something clicked into place.

  “You…?” I couldn’t find the words to ask the question.

  “You thought I kept coming back to that camp just for the coin?”

  “I didn’t know…”

  “I’m not some lovesick fool, mind you,” she said quickly. “But I won’t get over it if you die. So lie back, you imbecile, and let me stop this bleeding.”

  “How do you—”

  “Do you want to waste what little strength you have asking me stupid questions? All whores know the basics of patching up a body. We live lives more dangerous than you do. Doesn’t matter if we’re on the road or in some cushy brothel. If we’re not patching up ourselves, half of you robbers end up in our bed in pieces at one time or another. Looking for one last hurrah or a bosom to cradle them in their final wretched moments. This won’t be the first stab wound I’ve sewn and it won’t be the last.”

  She took a small clasp purse from inside her bodice and withdrew a needle from inside.

  “I wish I had better tools for this, but it’ll do in a pinch. Beatrice, you listen to me and you listen well. This is going to hurt, but it’s going to help. So God help me, you stay still and don’t try to fight me right now, hear me?”

  I groaned my acceptance and clenched my fists.

  She wasted no time in getting to work.

  However much I tried not to, I screamed as the needle dove in and out of my skin. To her credit, Annabelle never wavered. Her face was a statue as her deft fingers stitched me back together. Even with my writhing, she was done far sooner than I expected.

  She daubed as much blood as she could from my abdomen and pressed a fresh rag to the wound.

  “You keep this clean, you understand? I didn’t patch you up just for you to die in some ditch of a fever.”

  She helped me raise up a little so that she could wind a strip of fabric around my stomach to hold the rag in place against the stitches in my side.

  “Annie,” I rasped. “Thank you.”

  “You were always kind to me.” She stroked my matted hair back from my forehead. “A little something sweet in amongst all the bitter. And too dumb to notice when I overcharged time after time.”

  “You little rat,” I chuckled and then winced.

  “I’ll miss our little romps.” She gave a long sigh and slipped her hand in mine. “I’ll be happy to call you a friend, though.”

  “As will I.” My eyelids fluttered as exhaustion seeped into my bones.

  “Rest now. I’ll see that no one bothers you for a while, but I have to watch my own back too. I’ll be gone by the time you wake.”

  I wanted to thank her again, for what she had just done and for her companionship over the years, but sleep had already begun to take me. My lips faltered around the words “I hope we meet again” but somehow she knew what I meant as soft lips pressed against my brow.

  “As do I,” she whispered. “Until then, Bea.”

  My eyes felt like they’d barely closed fully before someone roughly shook me awake, shouting at me in a language I didn’t understand.

  “What?” I mumbled.

  “Get out!” the large woman bearing over me screamed in a thickly accented screech. “You bring trouble to my door! Out! Out! Out!”

  The last of her exclamations was accompanied by swatting me with a hand towel as if I were a fly she meant to shoo.

  I scowled at her as she once again drew back the towel to smack me with it. With a groan, I reached over to pluck my pistol from the pile of my belongings and pointed it straight at her head.

  “Hit me again,” I said, the words coming out labored. “I dare you.”

  The woman looked at me with equal measures disgust and anger but she did back away.

  Before she left of the room entirely, she threw the towel at me and yelled “Out!” one last time.

  I flopped back on the bed as soon as she closed the door and let out a long groan. She’d return before long, and she wouldn’t be alone. I had to get myself together and be gone before she did.

  It took several long, deep breaths to steel myself before trying to sit up. Even then, waves of nausea threatened to send me toppling straight back on to the bare mattress beneath me.

  The first thing I did when I managed to stand was to slam the bolt across the door. Turning to press my back against the cool wood, I looked at the room properly for the first time.

  Where the hell am I?

  A huge bed took up most of the room—littered with bloody scraps of fabric. Strategically placed mirrors meant I could see it wherever I looked. The walls were a dusty pink and the carpet under my bare feet was a pattern that would hide stains.

  A brothel, then.

  I staggered to the chipped jug of water on the dresser and scrubbed the crusted blood from my face and hands and ripped off the rest of my bloodied clothes.

  When I examined my wound, a little blood had seeped through the bandage that Annabelle had put on me, but not enough to be concerned. It sufficed for now. I swallowed hard. Anabelle had most likely saved my life. If I survived all of this, then I’d need to find her again, somehow, even if it was years from now and pay that debt.

  Hastily, I dressed in a fresh shirt that I pilfered from a chest at the foot of the bed, gagging at the pungent perfume that clung to it. I didn’t know who it belonged to. I didn’t know how long I’d been here. I still didn’t really know where I was aside from it being a whorehouse.

  The last dregs of a bottle of brandy stood next to the water jug. I contemplated swigging the last of it to fortify myself but decided I needed as much of my wits about me as possible. I had vague memories of Anabelle tipping it down my throat to encourage me to make it up the stairs of this place.

  I was pulling on my boots when yells from outside were followed by the unmistakable sounds of breaking crockery from within. The door shuddered as who I now presumed to be the landlady screamed a torrent of accented abuse from behind the wood. From the odd word here and there that I did understand, it appeared that my time here was up.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m going!” I yelled back.

  A battering ram would’ve made less noise than that woman’s fists. A fierce headache welled behind my eyes. I was about to curse back at her when my ears caught one of the shouts from outside. I hobbled the few steps to the shuttered window and peeked out.

  A score of men and horses stood in the street below. Daylight shone brightly but still they carried torches. They were on the hunt.

  For me.

  My blood ran cold as I recognized one of the figures standing on the street below.

  The stabbing had distracted me, and I’d forgotten Fang’s last words. I remembered them now though as I looked down at the person I hated most in this world. The sheriff. He was here.

  I’ll save you the trouble of hunting me down, you bastards.

  I grabbed my pistol.

  It was time to kill the man who’d haunted me for years.

  I shouldered the bedroom door open, sending the landlady flying, and took the stairs two at a time as I raced downstairs and staggered out into the pale sunlight.

  “JOHN!” I yelled as I burst out onto the street.

  His head whipped around, eyes wide in shock. He’d expected to find me cowering in some corner licking my wounds and begging for my life. Not a chance. I’d face him in the cold light of day and put him down like the dog he was.

  “Face me, you murderous coward!”

  Fresh blood leaked from my split lip as I snarled. The salty tang of it laced my words.

  “Show them what you really are!”

  Pistols, rifles, and swords were drawn all around us, but I only had eyes for him. He seemed to share the sentiment because, with a single lifted finger, he halted his men’s advance.

  “A duel!” I roared as I lurched forwards. “To the death.”

  He looked me up and down, his lip curling back in an amused snarl. “Why would I demean myself to duel the likes of you?”

  “Because you killed Martha, you piece of shit! You killed her…” I grinned through bloody teeth. “You killed her, and I killed your brother. We are equals, you and I.”

  Murmurs rose up from the onlookers. Even though no one had dared say it at the time, whenever I voiced my accusations, I’d been met only with fear and hushed rebukes. Never disbelief. Everyone knew he’d done it. Everyone knew he was guilty as sin.

  His own men shifted their weight. One cleared his throat.

  “Take up your pistol, sheriff. Prove me a liar, then. Let God or fate or whatever you want to call it decide. Decline and declare your guilty conscience for everyone to see.”

  I spat blood.

  “Duel me or admit what you did!”

  He guffawed as the eyes of not only his own men, but that of the townsfolk lingered on him. If he refused to duel, he’d be as good as admitting his guilt. His men didn’t have the numbers to protect him if the tide turned and they’d leave him in the blink of an eye. His power would melt away leaving blood in the water. The mob would tear him to pieces and call it justice if they felt like it.

  The uncertainty that flitted across his face was beautiful. We both knew that this ended here.

  Good.

  Whatever happened today, I wanted—I needed—these streets stained in his blood. Either by my bullet or by righteous peasants.

  “If only to end this spectacle once and for all,” he sneered down his nose at me as I had to press my hand over my wound and grimace. “You are a thief, an outlaw, and a murderer, Beatrice Cartwright, and you shall die today.”

  “One of us will.”

  We stood up our stances. Back to back. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead. My knees were shaking uncontrollably and dark spots danced in my vision.

  Ten paces. One shot. Those were the rules.

  Ten paces and vengeance will be mine.

  One step forward. My aching body protested the movement.

  Even if I win this duel, I might not make it.

  Two. The pistol was slippery in my perspiring palms.

  It doesn’t matter if I survive, only that he doesn’t.

  Three. Every breath sent spasms of pain wracking through me.

  Perhaps I should’ve taken that shot of brandy.

  Four. Beads of sweat rolled down my spine.

  With him finally dead, Johnny will be safe.

  Five. The tree line in the distance grew hazy as darkness flirted at the edges of my vision.

  I’ll die knowing that I gave everything I had.

  Six. My boots slipped on the gravel underfoot.

  Victoria won’t understand why I had to do this, why I left her…why I never came back.

  Seven. An uneven heartbeat pulsed through my veins, sick and sluggish.

  I promised Martha I would keep him safe. Johnny will live a better life than either of us had.

  Eight. I closed my eyes.

  For Martha.

  Nine….

  BANG

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  The Countess

  Thirty-one notches stared back at me as I set down the little paring knife that I had swiped to be able to make them in the side of my bed. Agnes would no doubt give me a sound scolding if she saw the marks, but I needed to know. I needed to know how long it had been since I last saw my highwaywoman. With each subsequent notch, my hopes that she was coming back dwindled.