Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
The blind guide led us to the nearest slab and stepped aside, revealing an unmistakably human shape under a shroud of pale cloth. A corpse.
I let go of Everard, marched to the slab, and pulled back the fabric. The Butcher’s body rested on the stone, his clothes splattered with blood. He looked exactly as I remembered. Everard was right. He didn’t have a face anymore.
The blind guide withdrew, back into the darkness of the passageway.
I stared at the Butcher. Here he was, dead. Dead as a doornail. Permanently unalived.
Everard pulled out a dagger and pressed it into my hand. I almost jumped.
He nodded at the corpse. “Stab him.”
I gripped the dagger.
“Do you need help, Maggie?”
Hell no. I raised the dagger and drove it into the Butcher’s stomach. The corpse didn’t move. It didn’t even bleed. The knife just went in like I had stabbed a piece of meat.
Everard’s voice was almost wistful. “He is dead. I wish he wasn’t dead, so I could kill him, but he is a corpse. In this world, Maggie, dead is dead. I know of only one exception. I watched you come back to life. The wound on your neck knitted itself closed and then the blood on your throat evaporated. It was as if it never happened.”
The Butcher hadn’t regenerated. His wounds were still there, his blood was still there.
Everard reached into his clothes, pulled out a dark cloth, and held it out to me.
I yanked the dagger out of the body, took the cloth, and wiped the blade.
“Better?” Everard asked.
I nodded.
“I will bring you here every day if need be. You can hit him, you can spit on him, you can stab him. Whatever you want to do to reassure yourself that he is gone. We will do this however long you want, until you get tired of it. Until the sight of his corpse is just a boring fact.”
I cleared my throat. “No need. I’ve gotten what I came for.”
“Good. Let’s go home.”
PLANTER 27
My lady!”
I bolted straight up in bed just in time to see someone rush to me through the dark bedroom. Sushi saw them, too, and snapped her teeth.
The figure jerked back and hissed in Clover’s voice. “There is vermin on your bed!”
I hugged my guard vermin to keep her from attacking. Sushi growled but didn’t bite me, which was a win.
Behind Clover, Kaiden ran into the room, shut the door, barred it, and whipped around, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window. He was gripping a dagger.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
“We’re under attack!” Clover whispered back. “His Grace told us to get in here, lock the door, and guard you.”
That explained the knife and little else.
I slipped off the bed and quietly opened the window. Prata’s moonlight was bright and silver, and every detail of the courtyard was clearly visible. On the right, a rope hung off the outer wall. I pressed against the side of the window. Clover and Kaiden crouched by the windowsill.
A group of dark figures emerged from our entrance tunnel. They had sent someone over the wall and that scout had opened the door for them.
One, two, three . . . Nine.
Who the hell were they?
Had the Conquerors discovered that Everard was here somehow? No, that couldn’t be right. Climbing over the wall and sneaking in wasn’t their style. They would’ve brought Wynand Bors, and he would’ve pounded on the door and bellowed loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
Was this Silveren’s Redeemers? It seemed like the kind of clandestine crap they would pull.
Was this Hreban retaliating for the Butcher?
Whoever they were, they’d found us.
The door below opened, and Everard walked into the open. He hadn’t bothered with a coif or a hood, and he was carrying a huge sword.
This wasn’t Reynald’s sword or Everard’s usual weapon. The books had described Everard’s sword in excruciating detail. The Emerald Blaze had a blade like a longsword, with a basket hilt like a rapier, and it was about forty-three inches long. When Everard fought, speed and precision were most important, and protection was his weakness. That hilt guarded his hand, because if he dropped his sword, the battle would be over for everyone.
The monstrosity in his hands right now was at least fifty-five inches long, with a guard that looked like something that should be growing on a longhorn bull’s head. He would have to swing it with two hands. That wasn’t how Everard fought.
The intruders spotted him and fanned out. Two of them, carrying short, brutal-looking spears, moved to the front.
Everard gripped his sword with both hands, leaned back on his left foot, and raised the weapon to his eye level, holding the massive blade parallel to the floor, pointing at his enemy. His wrists were crossed.
What the hell was going on? Was he going to take them all on by himself?