She screamed his name. Screamed her warning, as she had time and time again, not to pick up the Knife.
But it was too late. Always too late.
Daud froze, his hand on the hilt, his jaw clenched. Billie saw his eyes narrow, the sweat break out in beads on his forehead.
And then, as soon as the men were in range, Daud screamed in rage and flung himself forward, the Twin-bladed Knife flashing before him, three men cut to ribbons before they could even reach him.
Billie slumped to the floor as she was released, her captors rushing to help the others as Daud churned through his opponents. Billie could only watch as Daud moved with impossible speed, his form blurring, stretching as he transversed from target to target, the knife cutting, slashing, thrusting. Soon the wood panels of the passageway were covered in blood as Daud got closer to Billie, men and body parts falling before him.
There was something else about him. Billie, kneeling at the end of the passage, saw a blue light whenever she closed her human eye, the bright flashes almost rendering the scene in front of her in a series of still images, the raging monster that was her former mentor demolishing the men from Morley.
It happened as it always happened. There was nothing she could do about it. Maybe you couldn’t change the past. And maybe it was time she realized that.
As Billie dragged herself to her feet, the last mandropped, lifeless, to the floor. Daud moved again, crossing the remaining space between him and Billie in a second. He stood in front of her, his chest heaving, head bowed, his greased hair dropping across his forehead. In his right hand he held the Twin-bladed Knife, and Billie could see the Mark of the Outsider glowing on the skin of his left—glowing through the leather of his glove.
She reached out for him.
And then he fell, the Twin-bladed Knife clattering to the floorboards as his body hit the ground.
28
THE (FORMER) RESIDENCE OF KIRIN JINDOSH, UPPER AVENTA DISTRICT, KARNACA
24th Day, Month of Harvest, 1852
“It was late in the evening, and, may I say, a great many cigars and rum drinks had been shared among my fellow guests when our host, Mr. Jindosh, took us into his private study. Fortunate and few were we, to see the very spot where, as Mr. Humphries was apt to put, ‘the magic happens!’ Mr. Gallant, his senses perhaps dulled more than a little while his naturally temperamental nature had been stoked by Mr. Jindosh’s fine collection of liquors collected from every country in the Isles, provided at least some amusement. He cast a disparaging comment at our host, and was then himself cast on his not insubstantial behind when Mr. Jindosh activated a lever and Mr. Gallant found the portion of the room in which he was leering suddenly transformed into an altogether small accommodation, the very walls and floor of the place swinging into an entirely new form in a matter of mere moments.
Mr. Jindosh may be an odd bird, but there is nodoubting that peculiar house of his is a true labor of love.”
—AN ACCOUNT OF AN EVENING WITH KIRIN JINDOSH
Extract from an aristocrat’s private journal
Daud woke up on a wide couch, the red leather heavily padded and studded with buttons. The room he was in was large but dark, the only light coming from the lantern on the long, low table beside him. He glanced around, trying to remember where he was, what had happened, but nothing came to him.
Then, with a start, he remembered. The Twin-bladed Knife. Billie had it—somehow she had found it. And he had wielded it himself, and fought with it, and—
Then he remembered something else. The nausea, great rolling waves of it, clouding his mind, making the world swim around him. He remembered the feel of the Knife in his hand, the deep cold that radiated from the metal, penetrating his flesh, making every bone in his arm ache with it.
The artifact. The object of his search—of his obsession. It was Billie’s. Somehow, the Twin-bladed Knife was hers.
Daud closed his eyes as the nausea returned. He took a breath, feeling his heart rate kick up as he both heard and felt a wheeze in his chest. He took another breath, slowly, and found it was shallower than he expected, despite the extra effort. He rubbed his chest with his hands, unsure of what was happening. His arms felt heavy.
Something was different. Something had happened to him. He felt… tired.
He felt sick.
As he focused on his breathing, he finally took note ofhis surroundings. Where in all the Isles was he? The room was… strange. Wrecked, certainly, furniture overturned, tables and chairs and more couches on their sides, even the floor had been pulled up and—
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then paused, surprised at the effort it took. He stared around the room. No, it wasn’t wrecked, it was… well, he didn’t know what it was. Part of the floor over by the wall was pulled up, but it sat at an angle, like it was a long, wide trapdoor, propped up by the… were those hydraulic pistons, underneath?
Daud looked down at the floor next to the couch. It was carpeted, the fabric covered in an ornate swirling pattern. The couch on which he lay was comfortable, extravagant. But over by the section of floor that was open, in the weak light he could see metal, and rivets, and toothed wheels running along the edge of the raised panel.
“You need to rest.”
Daud started. Billie moved around from the head of the couch, into his eye line. She stood with her hands on her hips, her red eye unblinking as she looked down at him. She shook her head.
“You’ll feel better soon enough, but I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop it happening again.”
“What happened?” asked Daud. “Where are we?” He looked her up and down, but she appeared to
