Page 151 of House of Crimson Hearts
We’re curled in her bed above the apothecary, my arms wrapped tight around her round belly, the softness of her skin keeping me dozing.
We forgot to draw the curtains last night, so I stare out of the window, as Eleanor sleeps in my arms. Morning hasn’t broken, but soft violets and sparks of orange streak the sky. I’m not sure why I’m awake, perhaps the aching that still plagues my jaw and my eye socket. But I’m comforted by having her with me.
I sigh as I lean into the tendrils of her waves draped across the pillow and inhale the scent of her hair. Vanilla and lavender and hints of woody forest.
She smells like home.
As the sun’s orb rises, cresting the horizon, something shifts in the air. An energy. It’s wrong. All sharp around the edges like broken turrets and carriage spokes.
That’s the last thought I have before an explosion rips through the cottage. The screams of men shred the air and heavy footfall echoes around us.
More screams.
Then an unnatural heat.
Four men burst through the door. I shriek. Eleanor wakes, her eyes meet mine and then she’s dragged from my arms.
The men I barely recognise, but the emblems on their shirt breasts tell me they’re St Clair men.
Mother.
Oh no, no, no.
I’ve been so careful. I ensured I had reasons to be out of the house. I know I wasn’t followed last night. I knew if she discovered I’d escaped, if she found out who hurt me, she would seek revenge. Someone must have ratted me out. But it doesn’t matter, I need to protect Eleanor.
“You filthy, disgusting whore,” the first man says. His nasty sneered features harsh against the smoothness of his bald head. He raises his fist and slams it into Eleanor’s jaw.
I scream. Blood splatters against the wooden floor. He raises his fist again and I am leaping out of bed, but someone wraps thick arms around my middle and yanks me back. I kick and scream and wriggle, but it’s useless.
The bald man’s fist comes down.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Blood sprays everywhere. Bones crack and snap. Eleanor’s beautiful face melts into a puddle of macerated flesh. Her eyes disappearing beneath swollen purple lids.
I wrench myself around and sink my teeth into the man holding me. Biting so hard blood wells in my mouth. I spit it out and throw my head back connecting with his face.
He roars as the almighty crack of his nose shatters against the force of my skull. The hit reverberates through me. But still, he holds tighter. What the fuck is this man made of?
Eleanor’s body hangs limp in the bald man’s hands. He drops her to the wooden floor and kicks her in the gut once. Twice. Three times.
It hurts, I cry out with each savage boot he drives into her. I’m sobbing now, fat tears rolling down my cheeks.
It’s now that I notice what the other men were doing. They stand holding empty buckets.
A strange bitter stench like alcohol but purer, more vicious, more deadly fills the room. My eyes widen. “What are you doing?” My voice is high and screechy. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Get her the fuck out of here,” the man holding the bucket says as he strikes a match. A surge of energy rips through my body. I flail and kick out, lurching forward and swinging my arms. Driving my elbow back into the man’s gut and slamming my foot down onto his boot. Then I drive my heel back and up into his balls. That, finally, makes him release me.
I leap out of his grasp and run straight to Eleanor, picking her up as tenderly as I can. “Eleanor?” I shriek, I hold my fingers to her neck, searching for the pulse like she taught me.
“For fuck’s sake, get her out of here,” the man holding the match barks again, then he turns to Eleanor’s bookshelf filled with grimoires and journals and he drops the match. The wooden case explodes in a flurry of flames that crawl up the case, engulfing the grimoires and licking at the ceiling.
The man who lit the case staggers back. “Fuck, yeah!” he bellows.
