Page 48 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

Alyth

Blinding white light fills the night sky over part of Edinburgh as an ear-cracking blast rumbles the earth.

The stag barely flinches, but it comes to a firm stop. I take the hint and dismount. In seconds, the massive deer melts into the shadows.

But my attention is focused on the smoke obscuring the stars.

I’m too late.

The horror of it sinks like a dagger in my heart.

I’m too late.

My hair’s swept in front of my face, almost blocking my view of the damp cobblestones lining the road, just wet enough to reflect the flickering lights of the fire now rising above the wall around Kirk o’ Field. I’m only on the other side of the street from the estate.

I was so close. And yet…

I watch the dancing orange flames in sheer and absolute horror.

After everything—

I was too late.

Bothwell, damn him to every hell, laid the trap, and Darnley sprang it, and Samson.…

All around me, the world continues. The fire rages, pocked with additional smaller explosions almost drowned out by the sounds of people running, shouting for help, calling for buckets of water.

Don’t they realize? Let the fire burn; let it eviscerate all of Edinburgh. It’s too late.

But I take a step toward the blaze anyway.

Because I have spent my entire life not giving up, and I’ll be damned if I do it now, not when there’s a glimmer of a chance Samson might have survived this.

I ignore the smoke choking my throat. I walk toward the flames. Magic roars in my ears, demanding to be released. I push through the crowd, using pockets of wind to make my way forward.

A wall surrounds the entire estate, leading to a crush of people who’ve poured from their nearby homes, some trying to help with buckets of water in their hands but most just trying to see what happened. They part unwittingly as I stride forward.

“Don’t let the fire spread!” someone in the back shouts.

All cities run the risk of being decimated by flames, wiping out entire neighborhoods if they’re not contained. But Kirk o’ Field is a private estate with a wall around it, and the houses inside aren’t attached to each other like many of the homes in the city. Edinburgh, at least, is probably safe.

What a stupid, reckless plan, I rage internally. I would throttle Mary if she stood before me. In her misguided attempt to rid herself of Darnley, she put at risk hundreds—thousands—of other people’s homes and lives.

When I reach the gate, I press both hands to the brick and stone, shooting my magic into the very foundation of the wall before opening it and stepping into the courtyard.

Privacy, I think, recalling all the times I wrapped Mary and myself in a bubble where people’s eyes slid past. It won’t work the same here as it does in the palace, but it will delay the onlookers, keep them scrambling at the gate for a bit at least.

If I have to see Samson dead, I want to face it alone. I need that much. And this will give me a chance to more freely use my magic to aid any injured I find.

The main house is debris and smoke. Ashes fall like snow, and I catch some on my hand, dark gray smearing over my skin.

The washerwoman’s shirt. Stained with soot.

My heart plummets. That shirt was heralding a death. But it might not mean Samson’s…

A dozen or so people are already in the courtyard—helpers who rushed in before I got here—and they’re pulling servants from the rubble.

A young man—blond, not redheaded. A girl just a few years older than me.

They’re still alive, thank all that’s good, but what on earth was Mary thinking, setting Bothwell on such a plan as this?

She wasn’t thinking at all. And I should have realized that sooner. Mary has been too self-centered from the start to consider just how recklessly dangerous gunpowder in the middle of the largest city in Scotland could be.

Darnley was willing to let his wife die if she were caught between me and his murderous intent. Mary was clearly unconcerned about whatever servants and other people exploded alongside her husband, much less the danger spreading.

Darnley and Mary deserve each other, I think bitterly.

My eyes dart around—red flames, the red breasts of a few lingering robins, a red scarf.

Where is Samson?

At least the robins came on time. He had to have seen them. Maybe Samson escaped Darnley. Maybe Bothwell botched the explosion’s focus. Maybe—

And then I see it.

Bright hair, as brilliant as the raging fire, spread out like spilled blood near the stables. The body is face down, but I know it’s him.

I’m running before my mind can process what’s happening, my feet slipping, my heart thundering in my ears, panic rising, rising. I drop to my knees, skidding in the mud, sobbing.

“Samson!”

My hands shake as I reach for him, but I can’t force myself to touch him. Because the fire is so hot, this entire courtyard is sweltering now, and I cannot…I cannot feel his skin to know if it is cold.

His body is eerily still.

My eyes stream with water, irritated by both the smoke and my own boiling emotions. But through the haze, I see…

His aura wafting around him, red and gold and glittering orange.

He’s alive.

“Samson!” I shout again, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, trying to turn him around.

He coughs, his body bending in half, soot smeared over his face, but when he catches his ragged breath and opens his eyes, my heart finally, finally eases—he’s alive.

He blinks.

His eyes are hollow.

The stress of the day, the terror of it all, the violence of the explosion…

The Red Cap delirium is taking him. Even as I watch, the vivid colors of his aura grow paler, fading to nothing.

For a split second, adrenaline surges through my body, begging me to flee. The shallow cut on my chest aches, reminding me of just how close he came to killing me before. RUN! my hammering heart screams.

No.

Not from him.

“Fight it,” I whisper, grabbing his doublet and forcing him to focus on me.

His head listlessly turns to me, as if he’s lost in a fever.

“I know you’re not a monster, Samson Calthorpe, and you are not a mindless murderer, and you— you —are still inside that body of yours, and right now we don’t have time for you to do anything but be yourself, and you are going to fight it. ”

His aura faintly swirls around him, the red washing up, the gold pushing back, a swirl of black drifting through it all.

Already, I can feel the tug of my oath, reminding me of my vow.

I swear it. If you become a danger, I will ensure you are taken care of.

If he can fight his nature, I can fight mine.

My hands bunch into fists, the promise tugging at me, my whole body telling me that I know what I need to do, that I have to do it.

I wait for him to come back.

Because if he doesn’t, that rage is going to turn right back around onto me.

Unless I kill him first.