“Ah, she is with us again.” Goodwin’s face came into her view, blurred and clouded with the red haze. His breath smelled of stale ale.
“Who charges me?”
“It is I who bring the charges,” Goodwin replied.
“You?” Victoria blinked rapidly, trying to alleviate the distortion. Her thoughts were scrambled. “Why?”
His face came in front of hers, his long sharp nose shining, eyes dark with loathing. “My brother. You killed my brother.”
“Your brother? Who is your brother?” Victoria demanded. “I’ve killed no one.”
A loud crack sounded, a hammer slamming onto a wooden surface. “Take the prisoner to Newgate. I’ll arrange for the trial to be held tomorrow.” The magistrate’s voice was filled with malice. “The assizes judge is in my debt and will be happy to hurry things along in this case.”
Tomorrow?
Victoria raised her head to protest, but something hard slapped against her cheek. Her head whipped up and back so hard the chair tottered.
“I have no sympathy for murderesses, especially those who mutilate their victims first.” Goodwin’s ale breath was hot on her face as he bent in front of her. His eyes glowed with triumph. “Cutting them up and tearing them to pieces. What did you do with your husband, Lady Rockley?”
Her cheek throbbed, and the room wavered, but she fixed her gaze on him. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Goodwin rose upright, crowing. “The proclamation of innocence—but of course. You’ve used your powers and strength to do whatever you choose . . . and you’ll pay recompense and hang by your lovely neck, dear lady.”
She would have responded again, but the black hood came down over her face, obstructing her vision. As she breathed, the cloth became more smothering, as if her need for air drew it closer and closer about her face, plastering it to her nose and eyes. Victoria struggled to dislodge the hood, but something tightened about her neck, holding it in place.
She heard the clink of chains. Her arms were loosened from the back of the chair, and she fell forward, dizzy and still bound by her ankles. Crashing onto the ground, she realized the ties at her wrists were no longer as tight. Someone moved next to her; she felt the bump of a leg or knee against the side of her hip, and heard more clinking.
Dragging in a hot, muffled breath, Victoria lurched onto her face and shoulders and, using her legs, raised the sturdy chair, snapped her heels toward the back of her head. The powerful swing whipped the seat onto the man kneeling next to her, and she heard—and felt—it smash into pieces. Chunks of wood splintered, raining down on them. Goodwin groaned as he slumped to the ground, heavy against her.
Still fighting for air, Victoria pulled at the ropes around her wrists and frantically began to jimmy her hands free. Someone shouted, and she heard quick, hard movements in the room. One wrist popped free and she tore at the hood and its tie.
Something smashed into her shoulder blades, and she fell face-first down against something warm and soft— Goodwin, she realized. The other movement must be coming from the magistrate. A heavy weight lunged onto her, and he was shouting for assistance in her ear. One of her arms was captured, yanked up behind her back—but the other one was safely under her, tearing at the tie at her throat until at last it came loose.
With a guttural cry, she yanked the hood off and gulped in fresh, clean air.
And then she was ready to fight.
Able to breathe, and see, she was galvanized by fury. She moved like furious lightning, rolling to the side, striking fast and hard. The magistrate tumbled back under her assault, and Victoria bent to tear the ropes from her ankles. Thus released, the last vestiges of the chair clattered to the floor as she heard the sounds of thundering footsteps.
Scrambling to her feet, she saw Goodwin dragging himself up under the wreckage of the chair, and the man who had to be the magistrate trying to pull to his feet. Next time she would hit them harder.
Victoria dashed toward the dark window, smashing the glass with the chains with which they’d meant to bind her. The ground wasn’t far below, and as she leaped through, a jagged edge of glass sliced the underside of her thigh and she heard the door slam open in her wake.
Landing on the ground in a neat crouch, she sprang to her feet. The fresh night air was like ambrosia, despite the stench of garbage and other waste. The building from which she’d escaped was on a narrow street, and if she’d jumped at the wrong angle she could have slammed into one the nearby walls.
Looking at the night sky, Victoria realized how late it was. She must have been unconscious for hours, and it had taken that long for Goodwin to arrange for the meeting with his crooked magistrate.
She hesitated, warring between the driving desire to go back and destroy Goodwin and his magistrate, and the need to get away. If she left, they would come after her again. She knew it.
A door opened, spilling light into the darkness, and she saw the tall figure of Goodwin outlined. He held a pistol. Two of his henchmen loomed behind him, and they burst out into the night.
Hesitation gone, she turned and dashed away. She couldn’t fight against a bullet. Shouts told her they were following, and she ran pell-mell down the dark street, turning onto another, and then another. She realized belatedly that this was not a pleasant area of town, or one that would boast a magistrate’s office. Her suspicion that the magistrate was just as corrupt as Goodwin, and that they had had to meet in secret, solidified.
Pushing past prostitutes and drunkards, dodging carts and dogs, Victoria slowed her pace when she turned onto a dark street that was curiously empty.
The thick crescent moon shone high and seemed to beam down the center of the narrow street. Her vision still blurred faint red, and rage bubbled through her.
And then Victoria realized that the back of her neck was abnormally cold.
Which could explain why the street was empty.
Pounding footsteps slapped to a halt behind her, and she turned to see Goodwin, and one of his men, half a block away. He raised his arm, and she saw the gleam of metal in the moonlight, pointing at her.
“Stop there, madame.”
The chill on the nape of her neck was colder, and she sensed the arrival of an undead. Or two.
“Who was your brother?” she called back to Goodwin, taking a step away from him. The farther she was from that bullet . . . The prickles at the back of her neck were growing worse. Where was it? Or they?
“Frederick Goodwin, Baron Truscott.”
Her gazed darted around as she looked for something to use as a stake, but she saw nothing of use. Then she felt, rather than saw, something shift—just out of her vision.