Knight of Novus Page 10

  "I'll take you back to Base!" the pilot yelled.

  "No!" April shouted back. "I need some bandage and a sling, and then we're going back to John!"

  "Just so you know," Thomas gritted loudly. "We're all gonna die."

  "We know," Mill answered.

  "Okay, just so that's clear." Thomas ground his teeth as he wheeled around an alley corner, nearly going up on two wheels. The Knights on motorcycles were right behind them.

  "Watch out!" James yelped, ducking. One Knight leveled his gun and shot out one of the tail lights.

  "All right," James rumbled in his throat, sitting back up and glaring blackly at their pursuers. "This is starting to make me mad." He slapped Thomas' shoulder. "Thomas! Swing around here and then go in this warehouse!"

  "What? We'll be trapped!"

  "Shut up and do it!"

  Thomas hauled on the steering wheel, the tires squealed as they took a narrow corner and darted straight into the gaping mouth of a warehouse. The motorcycles missed it and jetted past—they couldn’t make such a sharp turn with the Knights aboard.

  "Stop! Get out!" James commanded. The car screeched to a halt and Thomas leaped out.

  James slammed his car door shut and jumped across to the other side of the open door.

  "Get out your gun, and put your shoulder to the doorframe, right across from me" James said hurriedly, glancing outside. Thomas obeyed, his hands shaking. The sound of motorcycle engines grew suddenly nearer.

  "When I say now," James instructed, eyes steady. "Step out, shoot the right-hand driver in the head. I'll take the left. Then back up out of the way like your life depended on it." James' eyes narrowed. "Don't miss."

  Thomas felt sick, but he nodded. James watched outside. The engines approached. Their sound roared through the empty warehouse.

  "Ready..." James breathed. "Now!"

  Thomas leaped out into the open.

  Time slowed.

  Directly before him, no more than fifty feet, a black motorcycle bore down on him like a freight train. The Knight on board stood straight as a pine, his wicked arm pointing his gun right at Thomas' head. Thomas lifted his own weapon and aimed at the driver's helmet.

  He fired.

  Absently, he heard James fire, too.

  Then he leaped sideways, back into the shadow of the wall.

  Pain seared through his skull. Blood coursed down the side of his face.

  A bullet had grazed him.

  But things had gone worse outside.

  The motorcycles collided. They exploded. The ground shook. A blazing ball of hulking wreckage rocketed past them into the warehouse, lighting it like high noon.

  "Get in the car!" James roared. Thomas didn’t stop to think. Swiping blood out of his eyes, he jumped in the same time James did, and shot out of the warehouse as flames consumed it.

  "That was great, boys," Mill said listlessly.

  "Hang on, Mill," James urged. "We'll get you back to Base—it's just about five minutes away."

  "And then I'm going back to John," Thomas declared. And, going cold, he silently added: If he's still alive.

  Chapter Nine

  Blurry orange light swam across John's vision. Hot tears filled his eyes, spilling over his soft lower eyelids, bathing his eyelashes and trickling like burning rivers down his nose, his cheeks, and the corners of his lips. The tears had gone cold by the time they reached his chin, and dripped to land on the back of his left hand. This hand, open, delicately rested palm-down on the cool, rough-hewn stone of the battlement of the mansion roof. He shut his eyes, sending a new surge of tears coursing over his cheekbones. The heat and the light of the sunrise pressed against his face, increasing the ache in the center of his brow and the back of his throat.

  The tears had come when he had reached the roof, and he had been unable to stop them. He made no noise, and his face never moved. He barely breathed. His thoughts had stopped.

  He took a breath, and finally addressed that distant presence he had always sensed waiting for him amidst the darkness after he woke up from his nightmares.

  Only now, he could not wake up.

  "What am I supposed to do?" he whispered, his voice barely recognizable, rough and weak. "You can't...Please...Why would you...take them...from me?" He opened his eyes and tilted his head back, a shining tear running from his eye down his jawbone and neck. "I cannot...cannot go on without some help, here." He let out a long, rattling breath and squeezed his eyes shut. "I know this is what I deserve...but if you could…If you could somehow find it in you to…to forgive me, I'd—"

  Something brushed his hand. He blinked.

  He shook his head, spilling his tears, and glanced down to his right.

  A small hand clasped his.

  He stared, his eyes following the hand that was connected to a black-clad, slender arm…

  Which was connected to a little brown-haired, brown-eyed girl.

  A girl who looked up at him, smiling.

  And right behind her stood a slightly taller, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy.

  "Are you okay, Daddy?" the little girl asked. "Your shirtsleeve is torn."

  With a sudden cry, John fell to his knees and swept her desperately into his arms, then lashed out and grabbed Benson, too, pulling them both to him and kissing their faces.

  They gripped him in return, and Lily wiped the tears from his cheeks with her fingers.

  "How…How did you—" John gasped.

  "How did we what?" Lily wondered.

  John backed up to see them, his mind in a whirl, hardly able to form a coherent thought.

  "Herald said he put you in a...a gas chamber," John managed. Benson's eyebrows went up.

  "A gas chamber? No, he had us in a cage on the other side of the roof over there," Benson could only nod that direction, because John held both his arms captive. John glanced far past him and found the corner of an iron cage behind some crates.

  "How did you get out?" John cried, still baffled.

  "I didn't go to five years learning to be a squire so that I wouldn't know how to pick a lock," Benson answered scornfully.

  John still stared at both of them.

  "So...Herald lied."

  Lily giggled.

  "I guess so."

  For a moment, John's eyes raced over her features, and then the features of his boy…

  And a smile broke across his face.

  Suddenly, he laughed, fervently kissed her forehead, and both children fell against him again, encircling his neck with their arms.

  "Cannon!" April cried as she hurried through the second mansion gate, trying not to jostle her left arm, which hung in a makeshift sling. The green lawn was bathed in golden sunlight, and sparkled with dew. The statues appeared serene and ancient in the day—they had lost their sepulchral pallor in the softness of the morning. A warm, welcoming wind tossed her hair and coat.

  Thomas came right beside April, having taken a helicopter back, and Angel followed directly behind. April let out a laugh.

  "You found them!"

  John Cannon beamed brightly, striding toward them with straight shoulders as he led both his children by the hand, one on either side. The two groups stopped and faced each other, the smile never leaving John's face. His bright eyes found his Socius.

  "Hello, Thomas."

  Thomas gazed at John a moment, not knowing what to say. John then stepped forward and pulled him into a rough embrace. With a gasp, Thomas wound his arms tightly around him.

  Thomas backed up and John slapped his shoulder, nodding firmly at him. John then extended his hand to April. She grasped it.

  "Well done, Scarlet," John commended. "And you, too, Angel." He warmly took his hand as well. "It looks like it worked."

  "It did, indeed," April nodded, grinning.

  "Hi, Matthew," Lily said shyly. Angel smiled at her and gently tweaked her nose.

  "How are you, Buttercup?" he asked.

  "Good," she blushed, hiding behind her dad's arm.


  "You remember Matthew Angel, don't you Benson?" John looked down at him.

  "Yes."

  John's eyes suddenly flickered, and his smile faded.

  "Where are James and Mill?"

  "Mill was hit, but it's not serious," Thomas told him. "James is with him."

  John took a breath and nodded.

  "Well, good."

  April glanced up at the forbidding mansion and narrowed her eyes.

  "I'll call Base right away and have them strike this place as soon as we're gone."

  "No."

  She faced Cannon, her brow furrowing.

  "No? Why?"

  His eyes strayed over the windows and battlements, and up and down the impressive stairway.

  "It's a beautiful place, April. Probably one of a kind," he said softly. "We can take it for our own, and see what's inside—but we can't destroy it. No matter what's happened here."

  April watched him carefully. A smile twitched her mouth and she marveled at him.

  "Very well, Sir John," she allowed. "Whatever you say."

  Instead of looking back at her, though, his gaze became even more distant and serious. He swallowed.

  "Scarlet," he said quietly. "Would you and Thomas do me the favor of watching my children for an hour or two?" He looked at her then. "I have to go talk to someone."

  April straightened.

  "Of course, Sir John," she assured him. "We will be waiting for you."

  "Miriam! Miriam, he's come back!" Gena shouted down the hallway.

  Miriam jerked up straight in the window seat of the downstairs parlor. All night and all morning, she had sat there, dressed in a long, deep-green, long-sleeved velvet dress, Cannon's right-hand glove, his book and the blue yarn that had hidden between the pages now clutched in her lap.

  All night and all morning, she had waited in silence, watching the sun come up, trying to keep her heartbeat slow. But now, at Gena's words, her heart leaped into her throat.

  She turned toward the doorway, gripping the glove, a shiver running all through her. She felt the light of the sun warm her back and the curtain she leaned against.

  She heard strong, hurried footsteps against the wooden floor of the corridor.

  And then he came in.

  He stopped at the edge of the floral rug, breathing hard, touched by fingers of sunlight. His black Knight's uniform was torn and dirty. His dark hair was slightly mussed, one curl brushing the top of one of his heavy eyebrows. Cuts marked his handsome rugged features, the bottom lip of his soft mouth bore a bruise, and his dark eyes shone.

  "Miriam," he said huskily.

  She pushed the contents of her lap onto the window seat—though she still grasped the yarn—rose and quickly swept toward him, her bare feet padding on the carpet.

  "Are you all right?" she whispered, her throat closing, and she reached out to him.

  "No, no, Miriam," he cast his gaze down, his brow knotting. But she couldn’t help it—she had to touch him. Her pale, trembling fingers captured his shirt sleeves, keeping him from fleeing, and her eyes earnestly searched his face. Silence fell, but she waited.

  He swallowed.

  "Who was it?" His deep voice was quiet and hesitant. It shook.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, just as softly.

  "The man you sang about," he murmured. He lifted his shimmering eyes to hers. "The man across the water. The man you love but can’t reach."

  Miriam gazed at him for a long moment. Then she stepped in a little closer and reached up to delicately touch his face with her left hand. She stroked the soft skin beneath his eye with her forefinger, then traced his lips with her thumb. His breathing trembled, but his searching hands cautiously wrapped against her waist. Her eyes traveled slowly over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones and his chin, then found his gaze again. Her right hand slipped the yarn into his coat, next to his heart, then came up to rest against the nape of his neck.

  "If you want to know the truth, Sir John," she smiled gently. "It was you."

  He blinked, and his eyebrows flickered. A tear fell.

  She leaned up and met his warm lips with hers. They both tasted salt.

  A dam broke within him. He wrapped his arms fiercely around her and drank her in as her arms encircled his shoulders.

  When their lips broke apart, he did not withdraw. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against hers.

  "Miriam," he gasped. "Miriam, I love you."

  She leaned her head back so she could see him, and beamed at him. After a moment, his eyes lit up and he laughed uncertainly, then he could not resist a radiant smile.

  Quickly, Miriam drew him back down and covered the smile with another kiss.

  Fin

  MORE BOOKS BY ALYDIA RACKHAM

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  The Rooks of Misselthwaite Book I

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  Alydia Rackham’s Fairytales

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