Page 33 of Alchemised

I T WAS THE MISPLACED GLEAM OF SILVER that caught Helena’s attention as she was passing along the outer edge of the main foyer. On the far side of the room, she spotted a door left ajar—a door which she knew was always kept locked.

She pretended not to notice, making her way there slowly. All too aware of the eyes everywhere.

The dining room was well lit and in the process of being arranged for a dinner party. Dishes and chests of cutlery had all been laid out for selection.

Helena only gave herself a moment to draw a steadying breath before slipping through the door.

She knew better than to lock it, knowing that would draw in every necrothrall like a lure.

Instead, she walked calmly, exploring as she always did, heading towards the large display cabinet filled with intricate silver candlesticks and epergnes, not letting herself look too closely at the silverware chests on display.

When she was hidden behind a large floral arrangement, her right hand shot out, snatching up a beautifully sharp-edged table knife with one smooth motion. Her hand dropped again, hiding the knife amid her skirts as she kept walking.

Her heart began pounding violently in her chest.

All these months, and she’d finally managed to get her hands on a weapon.

One of the maids was close behind her. Helena knew better than to attack a necrothrall unless she was sure she could sever the head completely. Better to smuggle the knife back to her room.

Then what? Her temples pulsed.

Should she kill herself? A month before, the answer would have been obvious, but the possibility of rescue tugged at her. Luc’s insistent voice haunting her, begging her to live.

Perhaps she only needed to wait a little longer.

No. No more waiting.

She squeezed the knife, feeling the weight of it tucked in her palm until her wrist nearly spasmed.

If she went into her bathroom and lodged herself between the door and sink, she would have enough time to slash her wrists and throat before anyone reached her.

She’d just need a minute, enough time to lose as much blood as possible before there was any intervention, which wouldn’t be too hard because Paladia, for all its scientific medical advancement, was superstitiously terrified of blood transfusion or anything else involving the bodies or fluids of others.

They thought it would contaminate their resonance.

A vivimancer could force blood regeneration, but with enough blood loss, the energy and materials for new blood would take their own lethal toll. Stroud might be knowledgeable enough to avoid it, but someone like Ferron wouldn’t be.

If she severed her carotid arteries, even if he did manage to keep her alive, her brain wouldn’t be usable.

The room threatened to sway, but she steeled herself. She kept moving idly, pausing to pretend she was studying the silver dishes displayed. They were beautiful, intricate pieces made with elegant, organic lines, a stark contrast with the heavy ironwork.

The butler entered the room, gesturing towards the door.

Helena turned and headed out, careful to keep the knife from sight, moving only a little quicker than usual as the front door opened and Ferron walked in, followed by Atreus, whose mood had turned Crowther’s thin face sour.

Ferron paused, his eerie eyes instantly alighting on Helena, his gaze flicking to the open dining room doors.

“I didn’t realise you let your prisoner have free rein in the house,” Atreus said, looking at her with distaste.

Ferron raised a silencing hand, his focus on Helena, a predatory intensity illuminating his eyes.

Her instincts screamed for her to flee, but she didn’t want to find out how fast he could set the house on her; the cage of iron bars in that foyer could easily chase her down.

Best to avoid suspicion.

She forced herself to stop and face them, burying her hand in her skirts.

Ferron drifted towards her. His gaze seemed to be cataloguing her, as if there was a checklist he was reviewing. He idly pulled his gloves off, pocketing them.

She took an involuntary step back, the pattern of the knife hilt biting into her palm.

“I don’t often see you in this part of the house.” His voice was casual. “Was that your first time in the dining room?”

Her mouth went dry. “I was—looking at the flowers.”

He glanced towards the dining room again, eyes narrowing. “Were you, now?”

She used his distraction to adjust her grip on the knife. “Yes. I like—flowers.”

Heat rushed along her neck, a cold pit forming in her stomach.

“Let’s see it, then.” His eyes were on her hand where it was hidden amid her skirts.

Helena’s heart dropped like a stone as she tried not to react, to appear innocent.

“What did you take?” He held out his hand.

She could try lying. He wouldn’t believe her. She could try running. He’d catch her.

She could try killing him.

Yes. She’d do that.

She let her eyes widen, jaw slackening with surprise. His mouth curved into a faint smirk.

She lunged.

She had minimal training in combat alchemy, but her body moved on instinct. The blade sliced through the air as she flung herself at him.

Ferron dodged, as she’d known he would. A perfect basic defence dodge.

She let go of the knife, sending it spinning through the air.

Resonance would have made it easier, but she could do without.

She caught the hilt in her left hand, ignoring the pain that shot up her arm. With resonance she would have transmuted the length, but it took a split second longer to slam the blade into his chest, straight for his heart.

Pain exploded through her wrist. She’d thrown all her weight into the blow, but she could have been stabbing granite; the blade barely pierced him.

Ferron gave a low gasp as if she’d knocked his breath out, catching her by the shoulders as he doubled over. She used both hands and pushed harder as something inside her left wrist tore, trying to force the blade through his heart.

Ferron laughed, his lips close enough to her neck that his breath ran down her spine.

“And here I thought you’d use poison,” he said, his voice mocking.

Rage ignited inside her. She flung herself backwards, taking the knife with her.

Atreus was crossing the room, hands outstretched, face contorted with fury.

She had no chance against two.

Her left wrist was on fire. She could barely manage to grip the handle, but she wouldn’t let go.

She angled the blade back and drove it towards her own throat, meeting Ferron’s eyes with savage triumph.

Ferron moved so fast he blurred.

The world morphed, going silver as resonance exploded outwards and the knife was ripped away from her throat, pain tearing up her arm all the way into her shoulder.

Her mind struggled to catch up.

Ferron had caught the blade in his fist, wrenching it up overhead. His other hand was wrapped around her throat, holding her back.

She couldn’t move. His resonance had her frozen, every bone, muscle, and tendon under his control. She couldn’t even breathe. Her heart was constricted. Atreus, a few feet away, was trapped in place as well.

This was how Ferron killed.

His hand around the knife blade was seeping blood, running over her fingers and down her arm. His eyes were a reflective silver so bright, they appeared to glow.

“Why don’t you ever stop?” He let go of her, shoving her back.

Her hand, numb with pain, lost its grip.

“Why don’t you die?” There was no point in being coy. She wanted to kill him; they both knew it.

Blood was still flowing down the hilt of the knife, dripping scarlet across the white marble floor, spattering across the ouroboros mosaic.

His lips curved into an insincere smile. “Prior commitments, I’m afraid.”

He glanced back at his father, coming towards them again. Ferron’s expression turned vicious. “Did I ask for your help?”

He turned back to Helena, examining the knife in his hand. It had sliced into his palm so deep, it was lodged in the bones. He didn’t even wince as he pulled it free, holding it up so the blade caught the light, scarlet blood gleaming along the edge.

“How good of Aurelia to have these freshly sharpened and left within your reach.”

With a careless flick of his wrist, he tossed it back towards the dining room. With the lazy way he threw it, it shouldn’t have made it across the room, but his resonance still sang in the air.

The knife gained velocity as it flew straight through the barely open doorway and into the large vase in the centre of the table. It shattered on impact, glass flying in all directions as the water flooded across the table.

He glanced down at his hand. The wound was already gone.

Helena knew the Undying could regenerate but it was still startling to witness. It would have taken her at least half an hour to heal a wound like that; hands were delicate, intricate, full of nerves.

Her left wrist hurt so much she could hardly think straight. A stream of blood ran down from beneath the manacle into her palm, joining Ferron’s on the floor.

She watched dully as Ferron curled his fingers. Then his eyes alighted on her hand. His jaw tensed. “You would injure the one place that is difficult to repair. I’ll have to call in Stroud.”

He turned towards one of the necrothralls.

“Take our prisoner to her room,” he said in a cool voice. “Be sure she stays there until tomorrow.”

Helena didn’t wait to be nudged along. She turned and left.

“I’ve seen that girl somewhere,” she heard Atreus say as she reached the hallway.

“She was the only southerner at the Institute, rather hard to miss, I’d say,” Ferron said, not seeming to care.

The rush of adrenaline was ebbing from Helena. When she reached the stairs, her legs trembled, almost giving out. She listed towards the nearest wall, fingertips seeking the surface and wincing as they made contact. Her blood smeared along the wallpaper.

She should have cut her throat open the instant she’d gotten her fingers on that knife.

I T WAS MIDWINTER WHEN G OVERNOR Fabian Greenfinch was nearly assassinated.