Page 203 of Immortal Rose

This time, it was my turn to scream.

The King had turned his face toward me, his eyes open and bulging with agony and accusation. His upper lip disintegrated like ash, crumbling to reveal the bone below. And on his neck—

The skin there burned away. Burned down to the artery. Through it.

Blood spurted into the air, spraying the bed, the canopy, the headboard, painting the King’s face crimson.

“Uncle?” Eleanor choked with terror as she tried to apply pressure to the wound. Her dress and gloves were drenched with gore in an instant. “Uncle—Brighten, help me! Help me!”

But the shocked guard was only staring at me. One hand reached for the sword at his hip, his fist closing around the hilt as he advanced toward me.

The perfume, the perfume—I backed away, horror ripping me open from the inside. It couldn’t be. It was only oils. I had blended them myself. I had . . .

There was a terrible gargle as the King stretched a grasping hand in my direction. His signet ring, with its enormous yellow diamond, slid from his finger and clattered onto the floor. I saw the moment the last gasp of life left him. His sightless eyes bore into mine, his ruined face slackening.

Inside my mind, a sharp, piercing wail began, drowning out even my confusion and terror.

Dead. The King was . . .

“Uncle!” Eleanor sobbed. “Oh, God—”

A movement at my right slammed me back into the moment like a fist to the cheek. I pivoted, my feet stumbling over the hem of my dress.

“Lady Foxcourt,” Brighten snarled, his face livid. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I didn’t—” I gasped, holding out my hands between us. “I didn’t—this—”

The guard lunged for me. I couldn’t say what made me do it. Reflex, mindless fear, desperation—it was all the same. All of it made me pick up the nearest side table and fling it at the guard, forcing him to bat it away.

And that instinct I’d had since coming here, since stepping into the cursed room, was finally answered. Suffocated by the stench of death and roses, I turned and fled.

Chapter Forty-Two

The first golden light of dawn had broken through the windows of the quiet hall, leaving no darkness in which to hide. It was just as well. Hiding wasn’t an option, not anymore.

I burst through the door, gathering my skirts above my ankles to free up the movement of my legs. Oliver’s form was nothing more than a vague blur as I broke out into a full run, my heart racing ahead of my feet—of that last, gruesome sight of the King’s face.

It didn’t matter where I was going, it only needed to be away from here. The palace had as many corridors and rooms as the Brickbats had alleys and lanes, and as I began a winding path through it, my mind distantly tracked the scents around me, avoiding rooms and halls where I could smell servants or, worse, guards.

“Viola!” Oliver shouted behind me, damn it. I glanced back, unsurprised to find his face pale and streaked with sweat.

“Go!” I told him. “Don’t follow me!”

He’d strain himself. He’d collapse and I’d be responsible for another life. But, my God, his scent was woody with determination. As long as I ran, so would he.

Bloody hell. Brighten’s voice boomed out behind us, his essence gathering with others I didn’t recognize. “To me! To me!”

I could do this. I could disappear into the city—if I could find another way out, where they wouldn’t think to look for me, where the servants would still be away, attending to the guests. The kitchens? The statuary or gallery? Not to the private apartments, not to Cartwell. There were guards there. If I could just get out, if I could get back to—

My chest seized with the realization. No. I couldn’t go back to Foxcourt House. I couldn’t give the palace the impression that they were involved in any way. And—

Oh, God. Hugh.

I blazed past the grand staircase, the pale stone sleepy with morning. I had stayed after I’d applied the perfume—I would have seen if it had had that effect on him, wouldn’t I?

My toe caught on the edge of a carpet, momentum carrying me down hard onto my knee. I gasped in pain as my ankle twisted, and struggled to pull myself back up again. Each time I swung my right leg forward, pain sliced up the muscle from my foot to my hip.

I gritted my teeth, fighting past the painted landscapes lining the hall. The crimson carpet spread out around me like a spill of blood, and for a disorienting moment, I was sure I was sinking into it, that I would drown in it.