Byron’s expression changed not at all. “I did warn you.” He fired the pistol.
A loud bang filled the room, and a rosette of blood blossomed on Mr. Olson’s thigh, darkening his already filthy breeches. He let out a howl as he clamped a hand to the wound. “Damn you!” he cried. “You’ve shot me.”
“I am only getting started,” said Byron, striking him in the head with his still-smoking pistol.
Byron rushed to Lucy and began to cut her restraints with the rough knife from the table. In a moment, the rope snapped, and Lucy was free.
“I know not how long I was unconscious,” she said, the words coming out in a mad jumble. “How long have I been here? Hours? Is it too late? Tell me it is not too late.”
“It is not too late,” Byron said, gently pulling her to her feet. “I followed you in Mary’s coach, and I saw you jump. Now I have come for you, and I shall return you in time.” He placed his hands upon her shoulders, and turned her around. Gently, he tied the ribbons of her frock. She felt his fingers, warm and dexterous, brushing against her, and she closed her eyes in pleasure and relief.
It was she who kissed him. Her lips found his, and she raised a hand to touch his warm face, rough with stubble, and she lost herself for a moment in his sweet taste and the feel of his arms around her. He had come for her. He had saved her. Whatever he was, whatever cruel and selfish things he did, whatever he wanted from her, it was he who had rescued her from destruction. How could she not kiss him? How could she not want to give him whatever he asked?
Then she pushed herself away.
They stood in a filthy shack with Olson upon the ground, bleeding and wheezing but a few feet away from them. Byron made her right and whole and safe, and if circumstances were different—if they were someplace safe and clean and quiet, she did not know if she could have refused him anything, but they were not in such a place.
“I can never thank you enough,” she said in a strained voice.
She then walked over to Mr. Olson and squatted down better to examine his leg. It bled steadily, but not alarmingly, and though the sight sickened her, Lucy knew what had to be done. She could not leave him to die, no matter what he had done. While Byron busied himself with reloading his pistol, she found a cloth, stiff from drying, near the fire, then crouched next to him. Gritting her teeth as though the act would cause her pain, she ripped open his breeches and used the cloth to bind the wound tightly. Let someone else clean the wound. It was more than anyone would ask of her. It would have to be enough.
Without warning, Olson opened his eyes and looked at her. Lucy leapt backwards, nearly falling over as though startled by a great rat.
“You are to be my wife, Lucy. I command you not to leave me.”
She had no answer for him. She rose and nodded at Byron. It was time to go.
They turned to the door, but found it blocked. Standing before them, smiling in an absent way, like an amused child playing with toys, was the strange gray-haired man from Lady Harriett’s estate, the one called Mr. Whitestone.
“I can’t remember what I am doing here,” he said to Lucy. He sounded amused, not at all upset. “Do you think that odd?”
“You are supposed to be protecting me, blockhead,” said Mr. Olson, still unable to get up from the floor, but now dragging himself toward Lucy, like a desperate soldier upon the battlefield.
“From which one?” asked Mr. Whitestone.
“From the man, you dolt.”
“Oh, yes. That is what Lady Harriett said.”
Quickly, impossibly quickly, he closed the distance between the door and Byron, and lifted Byron in the air, holding him under his arms the way a parent might lift a beloved child. Then Mr. Whitestone tossed Byron hard against the wall. His body struck upon the shoulder, and Byron cried out as he bounced off. Something fell from his pocket, landing upon the dirt floor with a thud. An instant later, Byron landed himself, hard upon his shoulder. He cried out again. His teeth were now covered with blood, and his eyes looked wild, desperate, and enraged.
“Like that?” asked Mr. Whitestone.
“It is a start,” snarled Mr. Olson, panting heavily, taking a break from crawling toward Lucy. “Now, rip his head from his neck.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Whitestone. “Are you certain? I don’t love to kill.”
“It is what Lady Harriett said,” answered Mr. Olson. He winced and snapped his teeth together, fighting off a wave of pain. “In her name, in the name of her late husband, Sir Reginald, I command you to pull Byron’s head from his shoulders.”
“No,” said Lucy, stepping forward, placing herself between Mr. Whitestone and Byron. “You will not hurt him.”
“He did mention Sir Reginald,” said Mr. Whitestone. “We take that very seriously.”
“But you do not love to kill,” said Lucy.
“Do I kill the lady as well?” Mr. Whitestone asked Mr. Olson.
“No, not kill. You may strike her, though not in the face. Nor the breasts. I do not want her breasts bruised.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Whitestone.
Lucy had no time to think. No time to consider. She saw that the object that had fallen from Byron’s coat was his pistol. Darting forward she grabbed it, and not taking a moment to think—for she dared not hesitate, dared not consider—she pointed it at Mr. Whitestone’s chest, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger.
The pan flashed and the gun blasted forth its ball, bucking in Lucy’s hand and jerking her wrist back so hard that at first she feared she had broken it. The pain lasted but a second, however, and she reached back and pulled Byron to his feet. He staggered, but he seemed more disordered than wounded.
“Dear Christ!” he cried out.
Lucy followed his gaze and looked at Mr. Whitestone, and she came close to swooning. She had missed his chest by quite a bit, and the ball had struck his face. Almost everything above his mouth—nose, eyes, most of the forehead—had been blasted away or crushed. Nothing remained but a mass of bone and blood, oozing freely, and yet Mr. Whitestone remained standing.
“Oh,” said the bloodied but unharmed mouth. And then Lucy saw something else. The skin around the wound began to repair itself, to grow. She saw the skin moving, stretching, increasing, so that it appeared as though his face crawled with a thousand ants.
She yanked on Byron’s arm. “Can you run?”
He nodded.
They ran.
They had but a single horse, and she sat behind Byron, clutching him tight. Riding on horseback was both faster and less comfortable, and given all her bruises and injuries, Lucy felt each step of the journey, but she willed the horse to run faster. She tried to think of nothing but the journey. There would be time later to think of the horrible spell cast over Mr. Olson and monstrous Mr. Whitestone, clearly an immortal revenant, whom she had shot in the face. She shook the image from her mind. Instead, she managed to pry her watch from her bag, and what she saw there filled her with hope. It was only just before noon. They could make it in four hours. She looked wretched, inexplicably filthy, but she would worry about that later. She only needed to get to Mr. Gilley’s house in time.
The sky remained steel gray and dark, so she could not chart the passage of time, but she felt they must be covering a great deal of ground, and though she hurt and the cold cut through her, she told herself all would be well. Her wounds would heal, a fire would warm her. Little else mattered. Not now. The things she had seen, the things she had done, they would all wait. That is what she told herself as they rode and time collapsed into itself and minutes became hours or perhaps the other way around. They could only ride. Thinking and worrying and wondering accomplished nothing.
As they turned at a crossroads, Byron slowed sufficiently that she was able to remove her watch and observe the time again. A quarter after two. “How much longer?” she called.
