CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“YER KNOW WHAT I does to people who ask questions about me?” Billy English said. “I kills ’em, and buries ’em in the damps.”

Nell had no time to be frightened by this threat. Black erupted into action. One moment he was blocking the doorway, the next he was in the middle of the room, striking Billy English, a massive backhand blow that sent the man flying, blood spraying from his nose.

There was a moment of ringing silence. Nell didn’t breathe. Billy English didn’t appear to breathe, either. He looked lifeless, sprawled on the floor.

Black spun towards the open door. The two men barreled into the room. One closed on Black but the other turned to Nell. Her heart stopped beating in sheer panic—and then Black was there, shoving her aside, clouting her assailant with his fist, a great blow that lifted the man almost off his feet.

Black swung to face their second attacker. The man he’d struck took a lurching step towards Nell and collapsed to hands and knees. She scrambled away from him, but he paid her no attention. His eyes were wide and dazed. A string of bloody spittle hung from his open mouth.

Nell jerked her attention to Black.

He was locked in a fierce brawl with the other man, exchanging savage blows, striking hard and fast.

The table overturned with a crash.

Nell knew that Black had faced greater odds before and won. But his attacker was no Eton schoolboy. He was as large as Black, and as ferocious. A man from the backstreets. A man who’d grown up fighting.

Nell snatched up the nearest chair and swung it with all her might at Black’s assailant.

The chair struck the man’s back and fell apart.

Nell grabbed one of the legs and beat it over the man’s shoulders, great blows that made her grunt with effort. Whack. Whack. Whack.

She caught a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye—the first man lurching to his feet. She swung to face him, striking out with the chair leg, but he caught it with one hand and jerked it from her grip. He came at her, the chair leg raised like a club—and Black was suddenly there, lashing out with a booted foot, kicking the man’s knees out from under him, catching him across the temple with a short, brutal backswing of his elbow.

The man’s head snapped sideways. The chair leg dropped from his fingers. He collapsed bonelessly.

“Run,” Black snarled at her. “Get out of here.”

The second man punched Black in the head.

Black staggered and dropped to one knee, then surged upright again, swinging to face his attacker, grappling with the man.

Nell snatched up the chair leg again and raised it high. Black and his assailant were wrestling for dominance, blundering past the upturned table, stumbling over the ruins of the chair, arms locked around each other, and it seemed to her terrified eyes that Black was dizzy from the blow he’d received—then Black struck the man’s forehead hard with his own, a dull crack—and shoved the man violently from him.

The man staggered back several paces, thudded against the wall, and slid down it.

Black stood where he was, panting. He looked unsteady on his feet.

Nell lowered the chair leg. “Mordecai—”

An arm hooked around her throat from behind, hauling her against someone’s chest, choking off her voice.

Nell dropped the chair leg. She clawed at the arm, struggling to breathe, struggling to keep her balance. She tried to kick backwards.

Something thin and razor-sharp pressed against her throat. “Don’ move.”

Nell froze. She knew what was pressed to her throat: the blade of a knife.

Mordecai Black swung around, almost losing his balance, and froze, too. His face stiffened in horror.

The man who held her wasn’t tall, but he was strong. Billy English. She smelled him: sweat and blood. His breath rasped in her ear. “Don’ move,” he told Black. “Else yer lady dies.”

Nell saw Black sway slightly on his feet, saw him blink as if trying to bring his eyes into focus, saw him gauge the distance between them and take in the obstacles—the upturned table, the broken chair. An emotion flickered across his face: despair.

I’m too far from him.

“Sykes, Fitch,” English snarled. “Get up. Grab ’im.”

The man Black had butted staggered to his feet. The other man didn’t move.

“Run,” Nell told Black, her voice hoarse and urgent. But Black didn’t move. He stayed where he was, swaying slightly, his gaze not quite in focus.

“Truss his hands, Fitch,” English ordered. “Use his bib.”

Fitch wrenched Black’s neckcloth loose and bound his hands behind his back. Black made no attempt to fight. He stood looking at Nell, despair on his face.

When Fitch had finished, he clouted Black on the side of the head, making him stagger and almost fall.

“No,” Nell choked out. “Don’t hurt him!”

Billy English barked a laugh. “We ain’t gonna hurt ’im—we’re gonna kill ’im.” His arm tightened around her throat. “Kill ’im, sell yer.” He pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “But before I sell yer, yer an’ me are gonna have some fun.”

Nell’s heartbeat became louder and more panicked, reverberating in her head. And then she remembered her Faerie gift.

Burn, Nell told the knife handle fiercely.

There was no flash of flame; instead, she heard a sizzling sound, smelled something scorch. English yelped and jerked back, dropping the knife, releasing her.

Nell snatched up her chair leg and charged at the man holding Black, swinging hard, aiming for his face, and Black was suddenly fighting, too, despite his bound hands, kicking out savagely—and then something struck her on the back of the head and her legs gave way.

There was a gray, amorphous moment when the world retreated and nothing made sense . . . and then slowly the room came into focus.

Nell was lying on the floor. She blinked, and blinked again, and saw Billy English standing over her, a chair leg dangling from his hand. He tossed it aside and dropped to a crouch alongside her. His nose was bloody, his chin stained red. He yanked the bonnet from her head, tore off the ribbons, and hauled her hands behind her back.

Nell struggled, but English was too strong. He bound her wrists tightly together, then sat back on his heels and looked at her. “Bitch,” he said, and he reached out and plucked the spectacles from her face and flung them away. “Yer won’t be needin’ them where yer goin’.”

The room rotated gently around her. Nell craned her neck, searching for Mordecai Black. He was on his knees, Fitch restraining him. He looked quite wild—blood streaking his face, teeth bared. Wild and helpless. Arms bound. On his knees. Blood dripping off his chin.

“Did yer hear me?” English took hold of her jaw, thumb digging under her chin, fingers crushing her lips, and hauled her head around, making her look at him. “I said—”

Nell bit his fingers as hard as she could.

Billy English screamed and reared back, trying to jerk his hand free. He tasted of salt and something sour—and then suddenly of blood.

English grabbed hold of her wig, trying to wrench her from him—and the wig came off Nell’s head with a sudden, painful scattering of hairpins. English fell over backwards, a movement that jerked his hand free. The room tipped upside down for a moment—then it righted itself. She saw Billy English scrambling away from her like a crab.

Nell blinked, trying to bring everything into focus.

“Yer’ll pay for that, bitch,” Billy English said. He pushed to his feet, shaking his hand, spraying drops of blood, and crossed to where the first man lay sprawled. “Sykes, get up!” He toed the man sharply in the ribs, then bent and took his shoulder and hauled him over onto his back.

Sykes’s eyes were wide open, staring, blank. He was quite clearly dead.

English straightened and turned to look at Black. “Yer killed one of me men.” His voice was low and rasping, and the menace on his face made Nell shiver. She tugged uselessly at her bound hands—and remembered her Faerie gift. Ribbon, burn.

She felt brief warmth at her wrists, smelled scorched silk. This time, when she tugged, her wrists parted.

Billy English crossed to where Black had been forced to kneel and crouched so that they were eye to eye. “Yer goin’ down in the damps.” His lips spread in a bloodstained grin. He leaned closer. “I hope yer scared of the dark.”

Nell pushed to her elbows, gathered her willpower, and prepared to set English’s clothes on fire.

Black snapped his head forward—sudden, shockingly fast—catching English across the bridge of the nose with his forehead. Nell heard the dull crack of impact, felt the floorboards shiver.

Billy English collapsed, his body folding limply backwards.

Fitch cuffed Black across the head. Black swayed on his knees and almost fell.

“Stop!” Nell cried. “Don’t you dare hurt him!” She pushed furiously to her feet—and the room swung around her: the broken chair, the upturned table. Her legs seemed to dissolve. All of a sudden she was on the floor again.

Her vision grayed out for a moment. Don’t faint, Nell told herself fiercely. Don’t faint. She clung to the floor. The world felt as if it had tilted and she’d slide off it she moved.

Slowly the room stopped tilting. Vision returned. She saw Fitch crouch at English’s side. “Billy? Yer all right?”

Mordecai Black didn’t try to climb to his feet. He sagged. Blood was dripping steadily off his chin.

Fitch shook English’s shoulder, then leaned down to check his breathing.

Nell struggled to her hands and knees again. Mordecai!

“Yer killed Billy,” Fitch said. There was disbelief in his voice, and a note of awe.

Nell climbed carefully to her feet.

Fitch’s head snapped around. His face twisted into an ugly snarl. He lunged upright and took a step towards her.

Nell set his left boot on fire.

Fitch took one more step—and noticed his burning boot. He recoiled back two paces and screamed, a high note of panic in his voice. He stamped frantically. The boot kept burning, golden flames curling across the cracked leather. Fitch screamed again, stamped again.

Nell crossed to Black with hasty, unsteady steps. “Mordecai?”

His head lifted. Blood streaked his face. She saw him blink, saw him try to focus.

Fitch screamed again. The sound drew Black’s attention.

“Mordecai? Can you stand?”

Black didn’t appear to hear her. He was staring at Fitch’s burning boot.

Nell crouched and fumbled behind him for the neckcloth that bound his wrists together. The knot was too tight for her clumsy fingers. Knot: burn, she told it—and the knot did, flaring alight. Bright flames ate into the muslin. When Nell quenched them the knot disintegrated.

She hastily unwound the neckcloth from his wrists. “Can you stand?”

Fitch stopped screaming and stamping. Nell turned her head in time to see him tear the boot off and throw it from him. “Mordecai,” she said more urgently. “Can you stand?”

Fitch turned towards them, panting heavily. His face was flushed. He looked wild, half-maddened. His lips drew back from his teeth. His hands curled into fists the size of mallets.

Fear kicked within Nell’s chest. She gripped Black’s shoulder and stared at Fitch. I may not be stronger than you, but I am more powerful.

But Fitch didn’t attack. They eyed each other across the ruins of the table, and Nell realized that he was afraid. Afraid of a female and an injured man.

Fitch bent and groped for something on the floor—Billy English’s knife, the handle scorched black. He took a step towards them, the blade held out threateningly. “Yer goin’ down the damps. Both of yer.”

“No,” Nell said. “We’re not.” Burn, she told the knife handle.

Fitch yelped, as Billy English had done, flung the knife away, and scrambled back several steps. She saw his chest rise and fall as he gulped for breath.

Nell set his right boot on fire.

Fitch gave a high, choked scream and recoiled instinctively, almost falling over. This time he didn’t try to stamp the flames out; he ripped the boot off and flung it across the room. Then he turned to look at her. He was panting, shaking. The smell of burned leather was strong in the room. “Yer a witch,” he hissed.

“Yes,” Nell said cordially. “I am. And I shall burn you to death if you don’t leave now.”

Fitch took a step away from her.

“Get going,” Nell said. “Before I burn you alive.”

Fitch backed his way to the door, then turned and hurried out. He slammed it shut. Nell heard a bolt shoot home, and then another.

She rose from her crouch and crossed to the door. She listened until she no longer heard Fitch’s rapid footsteps and then tugged at the handle. The bolts stood strong.

Burn, Nell told the door.

The door flared alight.

Hotter, Nell told the flames. Faster. And then she cautioned: But only the door. Burn nothing more than the door.

She waited a moment to see that the flames were obeying, and then hurried back to Black. He was on his feet, swaying, his face streaked with blood. “Hurry,” Nell said, reaching for his arm.

Black recoiled from her.

“Come on,” she said urgently, grabbing his wrist.

Black jerked free and lurched back a step, staggering, almost falling. Nell saw disbelief on his face, but also fear, as if she’d transformed into a monster in front of his eyes.

“Come on,” she said, even more urgently. “I’ll explain later.”

Black tried to evade her, but Nell was faster than he was. She caught his wrist again and dragged him across the room. “Hurry.”

The door had burned through. Nothing remained but the hinges. Stop, she told the last feeble flames.

They quenched instantly.

Nell stepped through the smoky hole, tugging Black with her.

They climbed the wooden stairs, Black stumbling, trying to pull his wrist free, but right now Nell was stronger than he was.

At the top of the stairs, Black stopped trying to free himself. He’d caught her urgency. To the left stretched a long, dim corridor. The corridor young Joe had led them along. To the right was a door. It was bolted on the inside. Nell drew the bolts and tried the handle cautiously.

The door swung open. Daylight flooded into the corridor.

Nell pushed Black hastily outside and shut the door behind them.

They were in a dark, grimy courtyard with buildings all around. “Come on,” Nell said, taking hold of Black’s wrist again.

They hurried across the courtyard. Fear tightened the back of Nell’s neck. Where was Fitch? Was he fleeing Exeter—or gathering a mob to lynch her?

The yard opened into a backstreet. Nell turned left.

“No,” Black said.

They went right. Nell’s stride grew steadier with each step; Black’s didn’t. He lurched and stumbled, his legs buckling. Nell slung his arm around her shoulders. He tried to pull free, almost fell, and didn’t try again.

They turned right again, down an alley—and suddenly they were on the High Street.

Nell halted. Black leaned heavily on her, his head hanging. Drying runnels of blood painted one side of his face from brow to chin. His eyes were closed. Beneath the blood his skin was gray.

Nell looked around desperately. A dozen yards from them, a hackney drew up. A man and woman alighted. The woman could almost be Lizzie Wellsford—brown curls, pretty face—but Nell ignored her. She hailed the jarvey loudly, urgently: “Hie!”

The jarvey lowered his reins.

Nell staggered across to him, her legs almost giving way under Black’s weight. When the jarvey saw Black’s face he looked as if he wished he’d driven on.

“He had a fall,” Nell said. “He needs a doctor. Help me get him in.”

The jarvey looked at Black mistrustfully. Nell saw him decide to refuse, saw him gather up his reins.

“Five pounds!” she said urgently. “Five pounds if you carry us.”

The jarvey hesitated.

“Five pounds,” Nell said again. “Help me get him in.”

The jarvey climbed down from his box, opened the carriage door, and helped her to heave Mordecai Black inside.

Nell gave the name of their inn. “Hurry!”

She scrambled in after Black and closed the door with a slam. The carriage lurched into motion. Nell peered out the window. She saw no pursuers. What she did see was the silversmith’s shop. She fixed the name in her memory—Latham’s—then turned to Black, gripping his arm, steadying him as the hackney picked up speed.

His eyes had been closed. Now, they opened. He stared at her for a long moment, and then said, “Did you burn Exeter yesterday?”

Nell released his arm. “No,” she said. “Of course I didn’t.”

Black looked as if he didn’t believe her.

“I stopped the fire,” Nell said. “I saved Exeter.”

His expression didn’t alter. She saw suspicion and wariness. As if he no longer trusted her. As if he thought she was evil.

It was like being kicked in the chest. Her lungs drained of air. “Mordecai . . .”

Black turned his head away.

Nell sat there, feeling sick. He doesn’t believe me.

Tears sprang into her eyes. She blinked them fiercely back. One of her hairpins dangled near her right eyebrow. Nell untangled it from her hair. Her fingers were trembling.

She checked the rest of her hairline, blinking, sniffing, trying not to cry, removing the few hairpins that remained while the hackney rattled towards the inn.

She glanced at Black again. He was sagging forward, eyes squeezed shut. It wasn’t mistrust she saw on his face, but nausea.

The hackney lurched to a halt outside their inn.

Nell flung the door open. “Help me get him out!” she said urgently.

Black’s legs gave way as he descended from the hackney. He fell to hands and knees on the flagway and vomited.

Nell left him with the jarvey and ran into the inn’s yard. “Phelps! Walter!”

When she returned with the coachman and footman, Black was still retching weakly. The jarvey stood several feet away, disgust on his face.

“Sir!” Phelps cried, and went to his knees beside Black.

Nell crouched, too. “He was struck on the head. He needs a doctor.”

“He needs a bed, is what he needs.” Phelps took Black’s arm and helped him to his feet as tenderly as if Black were a child.