Iris~~

I sit up sharply, the echo of gunfire reaching me. I was curled up on the floor trying to rest without any success. Shouting comes from the distance, from somewhere within the twists and turns of the catacombs. I suppose it's too much to hope Odette's followers have revolted against her, so does that mean the Society's come?

I wrap my hand around a bar that separates what was Bently's cell and mine and pull myself to my feet.

I'm alone in the dungeon. No blood even stains the floor. It's as if there were never any other prisoners, and if I could just erase the images and sounds their deaths brought, I might be able to convince myself that I had always been alone down here.

I turn my scratched and cracked hands over, and missing the feel of a weapon underneath them, my fingers close over empty air. I bite my lip, eyes scanning my cell. I won't be alone for long, and the chances that it is a foe that walks through that dungeon door are high. The bucket is pushed to the corner, my empty tray as far from it as possible. The discarded earring lies next to the laurel wreath crown.

I'm not going to be empty handed when death's assassin comes.

I pick up the crown, grasping it in both of my hands, bending it slightly, testing it. Yes, I . . . I think this could work. I can make it work.

I hook it around a bar in the cell wall, bracing it against it as I bend it, the grooves of the leaves in the metal pressing into my palms. In the blink of an eye, the crown snaps in half, and I squeeze my eyes shut against any shards that may fly toward me. The grooves cut into my skin at the force of the break. Blood swarms to the surface of my skin, but it's worth it because in my hands are two daggers.

Odette thought she gave me a crown to mock me. Instead she gave me a weapon to use against her.

I examine the jagged pieces, turning them over in my hands. I've handled daggers before, though these are curved. They'll still cut, but they'll be harder to handle. They aren't ideal against guns, but they should work against whichever Amoris comes for me.

Unless they bring guards.

If they were normal knives, I could throw them and be sure they'd hit their target, but the curve in them won't allow that.

The door to the dungeon opens, and I hide the daggers in the folds of my torn, dirty dress, before stepping in front of the door to my cell.

Odette appears, her face drawn and tight. She wears tight pants and a shirt, a far cry from her dresses. She doesn't bother to shut the door as she moves toward my cell. "Raggioet."

She's alone.

"Where's Bently?"

She pulls out a ring of keys from her back pocket. "He's not my concern."

"Are you here to kill me before the Society can get me back?"

"I'm taking you someplace else." She steps close enough to insert the key into the lock, and as she does, I drive the dagger upward, digging it in to the right of her stomach. The feel of it breaking through skin and muscle is sickening, and yet I can't deny it's satisfying. She curses at me, her mouth twisted into a snarl. Her eyes blaze, but she doesn't cry out—her teeth clenched tightly.

I know I didn't hit anything vital, though I tried. Even Expired as I am, fate directs my hands to do its will.

Leaning forward, I twist the dagger. "That's for all of them." I twist it again. "And that's for me." Her blood warms my fingers, and she tries to pull off of my dagger but the curve of it forces her to remain where she stands or risk further injury.

I'm about to drive the other shard into her when her back arches as a second dagger is driven into her from behind, Jonas's face appearing over her shoulder.

Life's avenging angel against death's relentless assassin.

His face burns with a cold anger, and he leans against her until his mouth hovers over her ear. "Preeminence Clarignon," he seethes.

Odette's eyes are wide, so much white around the purple. Her mouth gapes, a fish caught on the end of a spear.

Jonas's blue eyes move to mine, and though the anger doesn't quell from his face, his eyes soften just a tad. "Hi."

"Hi." I sound breathless. He came. There are hundreds of reasons why he shouldn't be here, but all I can think is he's here. He's here.

"I had to return the favor." For what you did in Cinderville are the words that go unsaid. I saved him, and now he's saved me.

I pull out the dagger slowly, working with the curve of the crown's shard, Odette cursing and gasping. I can't leave it in her, giving her a weapon. Her blood covers my hand, warm and sticky. I can only wish she'd bleed out because that Date on her arm means she won't. Jonas yanks his dagger out and forces Odette off to the side, her hands pressed over her now-open wounds.

Reaching between the bars, I turn the key in the lock and open the door to my own cell.

"Bently was out there—he bought me time." That's all he has to say before I'm moving toward the door, carefully looking around it.

My stomach drops.

Bently lies on his back, a hand pressed to his head. His chest rises and falls sharply. There's no one else around.

And then I'm crouched at his side with no memory of even taking a step toward him. He clutches at his head, his brown strands of hair, his eyes screwed shut.

"What happened?"

"Isabeau and Anastasie."

"Where are they?"

He groans, trying to sit up but fails. I hook my arms around him and help him into a seated position.

"I don't know."

Jonas appears in the doorway of the dungeon, a shadow against the light from within. He presses a gun into Odette's back, his dagger strapped to his side.

He's not a figment of my imagination then.

"Do you know how to get out?" I ask Bently who only nods in response.

Through her pain, Odette still manages to look smug at his state.

"Can you stand?"

"I—I'll need help."

He removes his hand from his head. Blood sticks to his palm and fingers. He braces himself against me as I hold onto him. It takes most of my strength to get him to his feet.

It's slow going, but he guides us through the twists and turns of the catacombs, Odette still walking albeit with a stumble. If only she'd just bleed out like her countless victims. It would be fitting.

"You'll pay, Digamma," Odette's voice is hoarse, strained around the Amorian words. "I swear it."

Bently's hand tightens against my arm, pressing his blood against my skin. "You don't have to worry about that."

Her legs give out, and Jonas scoops her up in his arms. If it were easier, I'm sure he''d drag her instead.

The hallway ends, and we step into the throne room where Bently and I that night . . . The banquet table is empty of food, the chairs are all set right, on all four legs—as if the fighting hasn't yet reached this part of the catacombs.

At the other end of the room, on top of the dais are Isabeau and Anastasie, seated in their thrones, their smiles beautiful and cruel. Wicked. Powerful. As if they truly are the princesses of France they believe themselves to be.

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