Around a sharp corner, a large cavern opened up before her. In the center of the cavern, bathed within the flickering light of the torches, lay Archer, sprawled on his side in a na**d tumble of limbs, his head thrown back and twisted away from her. His beautiful body now completely silver and glowing, he lay unmoving like an icy Icarus fallen from the sky.
Miranda tore free of Leland’s sudden grip and ran to him, heedless of the danger. His frozen shoulder bumped hard against her knee as she fell upon him. Moonstone flesh. A sob escaped, bouncing off the rough walls.
So cold. Her fingers burned against the contact of his skin as she lifted his heavy head into her lap. His classical profile lay stark and silver against the black of her cloak, utterly beautiful and horrific all at once.
“Ben.” Her trembling hands moved over his jaw, through the brittle strands of his silver hair. Completely transformed. Lost to her. Pain clawed at her throat. The smooth expanse of his chest like moonstone against her fingertips. I cannot do this. “Ben, what have you done?”
“He has chosen me,” said a girlish voice.
Framed by the dark hollow of a cave passage, Victoria stood like a silver angel. Free of makeup and her wig, her skin gleamed, swirling with pulsing light. Silver hair streamed like moonbeams down her back and over her gown. Such a lovely image for something so foul.
“Ben, is it? How sweet.” Her white teeth flashed, nearly blinding. “Does it upset you that you have lost? How sad. I knew all along that he was mine.”
As if to answer, Miranda’s fingers curled around Archer’s neck, drawing him protectively into her lap. “You know nothing, you frozen bitch.”
Victoria laughed. Ice tinkling into a crystal glass. “My, but your tongue is most foul. Had we met otherwise, how tempted I would have been to turn you.” Her smiled faded, a mere dropping of her cheeks. “As it is, however, I shall take great enjoyment in watching him feed off of you.”
Leland’s boots scuffed against stone as he moved behind Miranda. Victoria’s eerie silver eyes flicked to him and the reflective gleam in them dulled. “You, on the other hand, I shall keep for myself.” Her wide, thin mouth lifted into a feral sneer. “You need to be taught a lesson.”
“Leland,” Miranda said, not taking her eyes from Victoria. “Leave us, please. Victoria and I have much to discuss.”
“Yes,” agreed Victoria. “Let us ladies have our tête-à-tête.” She licked her lips. “I shall come and find you later. My last meal was not nearly enough.” She stepped to the side and bile rose in Miranda’s throat as she saw the gray husk of a lifeless body lying in the dirt.
“Good Christ,” gasped Leland. “It is Rossberry.”
“Yes,” said Victoria. “He was becoming a nuisance to my Benji. I saved him for last to heighten his fear. And I must say, although his heart was tough and bitter tasting, his soul was most interesting to consume.”
Miranda’s fingers dug into Archer’s cold neck. How much longer did they have before Archer became like this? Was the sun nearly up? An eternity seemed to have passed since they had started their weary journey. “Leland”—she dared not look at him—“go now. I shall see to this.”
He moved back a few paces, remembering perhaps his vow to her, and Victoria laughed again, clapping her hands together in delight. “Such authority, Miranda. I do like you.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
Silver eyebrows lifted but Victoria merely smoothed the folds of her silver satin gown. Her choice of dress was in the empire style popular when Archer had been young. Perhaps she had selected it for him. The idea left a bitter taste in Miranda’s mouth.
“Ah, but it is simple, feminine jealousy that brings us to strife,” the witch said with a light sigh. “How petty it is, hmm?” Her pleasant smile twisted. “He was always mine. He pledged himself to me. He may have forgotten for a time.” She shrugged. “In the end, he remembered. He came of his own free will.”
“Free will had nothing to do with it,” Miranda snapped. “You’ve been toying with him all this time.”
Victoria gave her a bored look, like a child who dreams of sweets while receiving a dressing down. “What fun do I have otherwise? Besides, all of them had to pay. I loved them all. And they worshiped me. For a time.” Anger tightened her mouth to a bud. “Then they turned from me, and banished my Benji, and he was lost to me.”
Her cold anger flared in the air for a sharp moment and then deflated just as quickly. “For that, they must pay. But the moment had to be right. It was better for me to kill them when Benji returned.”
“You did it to push Archer into a corner,” Miranda said. “To turn them all against him once again and leave him little chance of remaining in society.”
“Exactement!” Victoria clapped her hands together with a smile. “Ah, but it is satisfying to face a woman of intelligence.”
“You might have simply killed me,” Miranda found herself saying. She wanted the fight now. Wanted Victoria to come at her so that the bitch might die. “I am your true threat, after all.”
Victoria’s silver brows rose delicately. “I might have,” she admitted softly. She glanced at Archer. “But men are like children, no? Take away their favorite toy too soon, and they throw the greatest temper.” Her eyes snapped back to Miranda. “That is what you are. A toy. One that has lost its luster.”
Victoria took a small, sauntering step into the open cavern, and the firelight flashed over her skin like diamonds in the sun. “Now that we speak of toys. Did you like the present I left you?”
John Coachman. Something much like a snarl flew past Miranda’s lips.
Triumph flashed in Victoria’s eyes. “He was most amusing. Such a strapping youth. Ah, but the look of surprise on his face when I came to him in the stable yard wearing a mask and your cloak, begging him to bed me. He resisted. Until I knelt down and pleasured him.”
Miranda’s fingers twitched over Archer’s skin. When she said nothing, Victoria’s brows drew together in annoyance.
“The boy was in love with you. Did you know? He whispered it in my ear just before he took me.” Victoria’s wide mouth curled. “I must say he was an excellent lover, so very common and forceful. I was almost sorry about having to hurt him.” The corners of her catlike eyes creased, the silver irises reflecting like a mirror, utterly soulless. How could Miranda have ever compared them to Archer’s?
“But then, he thought it was you who killed him. I saw it, the pain and shock in those big, dumb eyes—”
“Enough!” Miranda’s shout echoed off the cold walls. “I will kill you. For John Coachman, Cheltenham. And Archer. I will send you to hell for Archer.”
“Such confidence!” A peal of delight rang out. “This shall be a most amusing night.” Her head snapped up, the look in her eyes vicious. “You need not be whole for my Benji to feed. Tell me, what shall I tear out first? An arm? Your eyes?”
Slowly, Miranda eased Archer’s head to the ground. The lack of contact with him broke a tether deep in her soul. Ben. She could not lose him. Victoria’s silver eyes bore into her, triumphant, gleaming. She did this to him. Heat whirled up in Miranda’s belly like a vortex.
She rose to her feet, the heat coursing through her limbs like power. The fire is your gift. She flipped the ends of her cloak over her shoulders, revealing the sword belted at her hips. Slowly she rounded Archer’s prone form. Victoria watched her come, a patronizing smile pulling at her frozen lips. Miranda’s innards knotted in terror. It had been so long since she had used a sword. And never, never with the intent to kill. Sweat rolled down her back and made her palms damp. She kept walking until they stood not twenty paces from each other in the large cavern.
Miranda ignored the frantic beat of her heart that pleaded for her to flee. You know how to use this gift. She planted her feet wide. “You should be running,” she said, pulling the sword free with a ring of metal and purpose. Around them, the torches flared as if sensing its power.
Victoria threw her head back and laughed, but her eyes cut into Miranda like shards of glass. “Silly child. I can kill you with one touch. You should be begging.”
Pulsing liquid heat flowed down Miranda’s arm into the brass hilt of the ancient sword. Burn. Blistering heat coursed over her palm, turning the weapon into a brand. The wicked length of the black blade hissed in the cold air.
Knives, swords, bullets are unable to pierce this flesh. It would be a very short fight. It would have to be. Miranda had known it from the moment Leland had told her what she faced. One strike from Victoria would kill Miranda. Her breath hitched wildly, her belly pitching and rolling. Failure was a heartbeat away. The cloak lay heavy on her shoulders, a sure hindrance to any sword fight. Her hand trembled, the pain of holding the fire and heat within her nearly intolerable.
Miranda let Victoria see it all, the vulnerability and her pathetic weakness in comparison to Victoria’s strength and speed.
Miranda gripped the hilt tighter, securing it against the slickness of her palm. “Come and get me then, bitch.”
Victoria snarled and lunged, faster than wind. Miranda stepped hard left, slashing downward as she came. The force of the swing threw Miranda backward. A piercing cry of rage mixed with pain reverberated through the hall. The room spun, and Miranda’s heart locked in her throat, fear buzzing in her ears. An arm, broken like fractured glass, lay in the dirt. Miranda blinked at it, her boots crushing silver fingers underfoot, the sword burning hot in her trembling hand.
Victoria’s eyes bulged at the sight of her severed limb. “Petite pute! I shall rip you apart!”
A silver blur of light crossed Miranda’s vision as Victoria lashed out. Miranda jumped back. Too slow. The blow caught her shoulder with enough strength to send her tumbling. Her head and shoulders smashed into the unforgiving earth, a whirl of dust and torchlight blinding her eyes. Miranda clutched the sword like a lifeline as she rolled along the ground. Do not fail. Dizzy and breathless, she hopped to her feet, falling against the rock wall for support.
A scream bubbled up as she heard Victoria advance. Miranda’s hand flew to her collar. Victoria was upon her, ready for the kill. Miranda tore the cloak from her neck and spun to the side as Victoria bore down. With a guttural cry, Miranda flung her cloak over Victoria’s hurtling body. Burn!
White flames burst over Victoria. She shrieked, consumed by the burning cloak wrapped tight about her. Burn. Her translucent arm tore at the cloak even as her silver skin split and peeled.
Miranda roared, the red-hot sword in her hand arching high before plunging into Victoria’s chest. The meaty thud of the impact sounded, and Miranda grunted, pain radiating into her arm. Victoria reared, trying to break free, but the ancient sword did its magic and held fast.
The heavy wool of the cloak tore away from Victoria’s face. Screeching in agony, she careened toward Miranda. Miranda’s boot heels dug into the shallow earth, her thigh muscles straining as she held Victoria back with the strength of the sword and the flame. Burn. The sword sunk deeper, Victoria’s bones crunching.
Miranda’s knees buckled. Victoria’s strength was too much. Miranda’s feet skidded over the ground. Victoria pushed against the sword, bearing down despite her agony. Cold stone bit into Miranda’s back as Victoria pinned her to the wall, coming closer. The heat of the flames tightened the skin on her face and drew tears to her eyes.
A scream burned her throat as Victoria’s curled claw, blackened by fire, raked toward her face. Knifelike nails sliced across Miranda’s brow. Pain and blood flooded over her eye, half-blinding her. Weakened, her arms wobbled, and victory flared in Victoria’s hellish face.
Then Miranda saw him, just beyond the burning flames surrounding Victoria’s body. A length of silver, his sculptural beauty sprawled on the dirt. Archer. The fire within Miranda roared in defiance. Its power surged through her limbs, straight down the sword into Victoria’s heart.
Her blackened mouth rounded into a wide O. Silver from Victoria’s skin began to drip, like paint from a brush or blood from a wound. Around the blackened skin, pale blue eyes looked back at Miranda in helpless horror, before the hard body beneath the cloak convulsed and, like a log burned from the inside out, it turned gray and crumbled, falling about Miranda’s feet in thick clumps of black and orange embers.
Miranda hissed and jumped back from the remains. The hilt in her hand fell free to shatter upon the ground in so many sharp fragments—the sword itself was gone, destroyed along with Victoria. Only then did she allow herself to breathe, panting in exhilaration and horror. She had killed again, and she almost screamed from the knowledge.
“Lady Archer?”
The soft query nearly brought Miranda out of her skin. She whirled and faced Leland, who stood a few feet off. His long face was pale, reflecting the horror that had just occurred, but his eyes were filled with something that looked much like pride.
“Are you well?” he asked, keeping his distance, but concerned nonetheless.
Blood dripped from her brow and ran along her cheek. She pressed a hand to her head and winced. The skin on her palm was angry red and blistering—the strange symbols from the sword’s hilt branded into her flesh. She let her arm fall. “It is done.”
Weariness pulled like heavy bonds upon her limbs. Leland hovered. She walked past him to Archer. So still. His expression was relaxed, the lush curve of his mouth soft. Her beautiful man. If only she could let him go.
Leland’s knees cricked as he knelt beside her. “The sword is gone.”