A Cold Legacy (The Madman's Daughter 3)

“The south garden is just beyond this door,” I urged. “We have to push through. Don’t give up yet, Montgomery.”

He nodded. I counted, and on three we both poured the last of our strength into that wooden door. It slid open an inch, then two, and at last wide enough to crawl through.

A cold wind bit at me as rain stung my face and mixed with tears of relief. Montgomery came through the passageway behind me. I clenched my hands in the mud, wanting to collapse into it.

Laughing with exhaustion, I crawled over to him. His hand tightened on mine as his eyes sank closed. I rested a hand on his chest, enjoying the steady beat of his heart and knowing that everything would at long last be all right.

“We’re safe now,” I said, brushing the rain from his face. “We made it.”

The sound of a boot scuffing came through the rain, and I had just enough strength to look up. The fair blue eyes of Radcliffe stared at me. He aimed his pistol at my head.

All the joy drained out of me.

“Miss Moreau. Where, may I ask, is Lucy?”

ANGER FLOODED INTO ME. I pictured Lucy’s body in the tower, slumped against the wall as though sleeping. Dead by her own father’s hand.

From the other end of the courtyard, a crash came as flames exploded through the upper windows of the tower. Smoke billowed into the dark night sky.

“She’s already gone,” I coughed. “Burned in that fire along with all of Frankenstein’s equipment and journals.”

Radcliffe’s face went slack as he stared at the smoke that consumed his daughter’s body. There was loss there that I was sure my father had never felt, and for a moment I felt pity for this man I hated. But then he turned to me with a furious growl.

“Get up!” He dug the pistol against my forehead. When I stumbled, he wrenched me to my feet, digging the pistol in harder.

“Pick him up as well,” Radcliffe ordered to two of his men, nodding at Montgomery. Worry spiked in me again. Montgomery was flat in the mud, streaked with rain. Radcliffe’s men tried to lift him, but he was much larger than both of them, and they could barely lift his chest. His eyes were closed.

My heartbeat sped. Had he passed out from exhaustion? I looked around the courtyard frantically. There was no sign of the Balthazar or the little girls, so Radcliffe must not have discovered their hiding place. I hadn’t seen Jack Serra and his troupe since they lowered the electric wire, but they were nimble acrobats and would be able to escape the burning building. At last I saw McKenna, Carlyle, Lily, and Moira huddled under a tree that gave them little shelter in the rain, guarded by one of Radcliffe’s men. That left only Edward, and his body still lay in the same place, faceup in the gravel, blood surrounding him.

Faceup? I thought. He had landed and been shot facedown.

My heart beat faster. Was he alive?

This exhilarating thought was met with a crash from the house as part of the roof fell in. The servants shrieked, and even the mercenaries seemed nervous so close to a raging fire. The only one who didn’t flinch was Radcliffe.

“There’s no point anymore,” I said. “The research is gone. You’ve lost.”

A low moan came from the courtyard, and Edward’s arm twitched. Radcliffe took notice, just as I did. “Not dead yet?” he called. “I suppose all that’s left is to finish the job, since you’ve made it perfectly clear you aren’t willing to bargain, Miss Moreau.”

“Don’t!” I cried, but Radcliffe’s mercenary had a rifle aimed at me.

Radcliffe cocked his pistol, aiming for Edward’s head, but then paused. He holstered his firearm and took out a hunting knife instead. “No. A bullet is too easy. I’ll cut open his throat so deep not even you could stitch it back, Miss Moreau, and then do the same to everyone else in this household.”

He hauled Edward to his feet, the knife glinting at his throat, cutting into the outer layer of skin. My heart beat wildly as a line of blood rolled down his chest. It flowed too freely, not at all like Hensley’s had. It made me start. If Edward could bleed like that, could he also die? How much damage could his body take before shutting down completely?

My eyes met Edward’s over the glinting knife. Radcliffe didn’t know that he was stronger than most, possibly even immortal. Edward raised an eyebrow, asking me a silent question. He could overpower Radcliffe easily, but not before Radcliffe slit his throat.

I shook my head, telling Edward not to try anything.

“Let him go,” I said. “Return to London and we’ll pretend none of this ever happened.”

“I don’t give up so easily.”

My mind whirled with ideas for how to bring him down. I caught sight of a gleaming metal object—the lightning rod. When the roof had collapsed, it had landed in the center of the courtyard, revealing a jagged end.

I took a step closer to the rod. Edward followed my gaze with understanding.

“There’s a problem with your plan,” I said slowly, taking another step closer.

Radcliffe moved the knife closer against Edward’s neck. Flames burst out of the upper windows, raining glass to the front steps.

“I don’t give up so easily either.” I lunged for the lightning rod. It was heavier than I’d expected, but that only meant it would kill quicker. I aimed it at Edward’s chest, and by extension Radcliffe’s chest behind him. “Let him go.”

Radcliffe laughed low in his throat. “You really expect me to believe you’d murder your own friend just to kill me, too?”

My eyes met Edward’s. Memories flashed in an instant: a curled body in a rocking dinghy, the boy behind the waterfall, the boy who’d fought against the Beast.

“Believe it,” I said.

I rammed the rod into Edward’s chest with all my strength. He jolted with the shock but didn’t cry out. Radcliffe, however, howled with pain. The force pinned them both against the wall, but I hadn’t the strength to push it far enough through Edward’s body to entirely pierce Radcliffe’s chest.

“Edward,” I gasped. “I need your help.”

He winced as he gripped the lightning rod, and together we thrust it all the way through his chest. Dark blood seeped from the wound, and alarm again shot through me.

How much blood could he lose and still live?

Radcliffe cried out in anguished pain as the lightning rod went straight through him. His arms went limp, the blade falling from his fingers. At last he was silent.

I picked up his pistol and aimed for the mercenaries who remained, but they were already fleeing the manor, disappearing into the darkness. I knew we wouldn’t ever see them again.