Page 38 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

HONORARYTHINGS

KATHERINE

T here is time still before the creatures arrive, but we must make predictions judging the fork in the road and how they’ll appear. Any number of directions may come to fruition and the group will need to move without notice.

I watch them, from a distance from the steps of the townhouse. They sit in my library.

Sixty-six of them sit or stand, weapons ready but nerves taut as bowstrings.

Gabriel clears his throat. “Gentlemen, tonight is unlike any night we’ve faced.”

A silence falls until the only sounds are shuffles of leather and steel .

“Ten giants—monsters that walk like men but kill like demons—are approaching from the west.” He pauses, letting the weight settle.“They stand eighteen feet tall. They do not run. They do not fear. Yet, they can be killed. Decapitated. Their heads severed.”

An image of Lord Sainsbury emerges. It is exactly how Dorian killed him.

Gabriel surveys each man. “But there is a truth that must be understood. When these giants die, their bodies turn to ash.”

A murmur meanders through the room.

“They vanish like smoke on the wind.”

He tightens his grip on the table.

“That means, more than ever, secrecy is our shield. We cannot let the townsfolk know what haunts their lands. The Duke’s name, the Crown’s reputation — all depends on silence.

”He lets his gaze rest on the bowed heads of the men.

“This is why you are here. Not just as soldiers, but as guardians of Ashwood and England.”

He raises his right hand, palm open and steady. “Do you swear to hold this secret, to protect our people — even if it costs your lives?”

One by one, voices rise until they fill the hall.

“We swear.”

“I swear.”

“We swear.”

“Aye, I swear.”

Gabriel raises his hand and the oath is sealed.

“We are the Bow Street Runners. The first, the last line of defence. Tonight, we fight not for glory, but for the lives of all who call Ashwood home. Prepare yourselves. The giants come.”

Dorian gestures to a crude diagram: a towering figure, its legs snared by rope.

“These creatures — call them giants, monsters, demons, what you will — they do not run. They are large, slow, and deliberate. But they are not clumsy. They will see you. They will hunt you. And if one gets its hands on you, you will die screaming.”

“How are we supposed to fight these things?” A man asks.

Dorian nods. “You do not wait. You do not hesitate. You strike and you strike until it does not move, until it turns to ash.”

An older runner speaks up. “But they’re tall. What if we can’t reach the neck?”

“We will rope and trip them,” Dorian confirms. “Like cattle. Like beasts in slaughter pens.”

One of the younger runners swallows hard. “If we miss… if the rope doesn’t hold?”

“The rope will hold, but if you lose hold, then one of you will die. Possibly all of you, maybe more. That’s why you must not miss.”

He taps the map, marking a clearing between the forest and the quarry wall.

“You lie in wait here, tight cover — just inside the treeline or behind stone. When the thing passes, you move fast. Runners on either side loop the rope around both ankles. The third rides hard, yanks the rope taut behind.”

His voice drops as he folds up the paper.

“If done correctly, the creature will lose balance. Its weight will carry it forward. It will fall.”

Lord Gabriel steps forward. “When it stumbles, that’s when you kill it. Position them near ledges. Aim for the base of the skull — not the neck — and use what you’ve got. Cleavers. Butcher axes. Tar. Spears if you must. If they are not ash, they are not dead.”

Gabriel sweeps his gaze across the men.

“You have until nightfall to memorise your routes. You’ll be briefed by team leaders. No one dies tonight unless they must.”

He turns away, with the weight of the world in his eyes. “Do not forget. Hamstring, trip, blind. And then — cleave. Cleave until nothing remains but ash and your own breath in the cold.”

From the steps, I rise.

“Your Grace.”

Our eyes meet and he marks the trajectory. “I have not forgotten, Duchess.” He turns to the men. “They will be pulled towards food.”

“Food?” A man repeats.

“The butchery in Wyndmere. Blood is fresh there.” I wrinkle my nose at the thought. “It reeks of death and meat. And…there is a cow farm, with over 1,000 livestock.”

“It’s a feast… ”

“Then we must get there, and warn them.”

“We are likely too late,” Dorian says.

A man stands. “We are the Bow-Street runners. But we must try or I might as well fall upon my own sword.”

Dorian looks at the map.

“We must at least try.”

MISS ELIZA TREMAINE

The moon is high and the hour late, just as Sir Percival Langford prefers. Such times lend themselves to discretion and mischief. That is what Sir Percival said. As I cross the cemetery, he appears ahead and tucks a silver snuffbox back into his waistcoat. I near and he smiles upon seeing me.

Like a handsome prince straight out of a fairytale, he offers a gloved hand to me. I hesitate only a moment before taking it.

“You’re certain it’s safe?” I whisper. My bonnet trembles as the wind takes it briefly.

“My dear Eliza,” Percival says, lowering his voice to a silky drawl, “If I feared for your safety, I would sooner throw myself into the Thames than allow harm to touch you.”

He leads me past the gates of the churchyard, his polished boots avoiding the moss-slick path with a practised grace.

“Besides,” he adds lightly, “I am a knight of the realm. I have faced cannon fire in Spain, tempests off the coast of Dover, and three separate duels on account of honour—two of which I won.”

I gasp, impressed despite myself.

“You are so brave.”

“Modesty forbids me to say so,” he beams and smiles with a row of perfect white teeth. “But yes.”

My hand clutches tighter around his arm. I do not want to let him go, for I do not like cemeteries. They are diseased grounds, haunted by spirits and demons and the like.

“Now then,” Sir Percival says as we walk between the gravestones, “do you know, I had a vision of you last night. You were a walking angel, floating in pale silk. When I awoke, I knew the heavens had sent you. And here you are, beside me, in the company of angels once more.”

I peer around nervously. “The cemetery, you mean?”

A rakish chuckle escapes him. “Yes. But even they pale beside you.”

I blush.

He guides me toward a marble tomb, half-shadowed by an ancient cypress. The moment my back meets stone, his mouth is at my ear, whispering things no knight ought to say. His lips strum my throat, hot as he nibbles me there.

“Has anyone ever kissed you like this, Eliza?” he breathes, pressing my back gently, his palm at my corseted waist.

“N–no,” I stammer.

And it is true.

I am pure.

“And you have thought upon it,” Percival continues as his lips travel to my breasts, “you will take my hand?”

I pant as my skin tingles.

“My father, he says you are to marry another.”

And suddenly, his hands are beneath my skirts, fingers splayed across the plump mound of one cheek.

He draws back a fraction, only to look into my eyes. His fingers roam until they reach that heat between my thighs. I quiver as his fingers land there, stroking me over my pantaloons. I can hardly hear a word he speaks.

“My darling,” he says solemnly, “your father lies. I have knighted kings with less honour than you deserve. You shall want for nothing. You shall have silk from India, sapphires from Ceylon, your own carriage—if you would only trust me tonight. I want you Eliza, you and nothing more.”

I nod, trembling with a strange delight.

Heat builds inside my womanhood. She buds, as if with the flames of Hades itself.

He is right.

He will be my husband, soon.

Even if I do this, I will remain chaste.

“Okay, Sir Percival,” I finally reply, “you will have me, but for one night only. Then we shall wed.”

“Eliza,” he murmurs. “God himself could not part us.”

With both hands over my shoulders, he slips his fingers away and pushes me down to my knees. With a single pull, his breeches fall and something hard protrudes from within.

I have never seen the male rod. And I watch it, as it swells before me, hard and encased by angry veins.

“Sir Percival, I have never done such a thing. How does one begin?”

He wraps a hand around the length, and moonlight shines down and over the tip, glistening wet.

“You taste it as if you are tasting ambrosia. For that is what I give you, my sweet flower, ambrosia. Savour it, lick it, suckle upon it until you taste ambrosia.”

And just as I allow my lips to slip over him and move against the swell of his arousal, there comes a sound.

A scuff of sorts.

The hairs along my neck rise and I still.

From beyond the tomb, something moves with dreadful deliberation. There is a long breath that drags.

Confused, I still against him.

“Eliza,” Percival whispers, “do not stop, my prick, he yearns for your mouth..”

A shape—taller than any man—slips between gravestones like smoke.

“What?!”

I jerk backwards, releasing him and fall onto my rump.

Elongated limbs.

Pallid skin that glistens like wax..

I gasp but cannot speak. For the giant thing, it moves and Sir Percival sees, but does not move to shield me.

He merely tries to save himself.

He turns and runs.

The thing lunges, and the ground shakes as it moves slowly after him. A bony, clawed hand snatches him by the throat, lifts him. His boots kick wildly, polished leather scraping stone.

“Help!” he cries. “By God—help me!”

But the heavens did not listen. And the creature split his belly open like fruit.

He chokes as blood erupts from his lips. “I am Sir Percival Langford. Knight of the realm…scoundrel of the highest…”

My scream shatters the night as his entrails hit the dirt with a wet slap.

The giant thing feasts.

Sir Percival Langford—Knight of the Realm, war hero, breaker of maidens—dies in disgrace, with his cock ripped from his breeches and his heart resting three feet from his body.

I do not think, I simply turn and run.