forming.
Struggling again, I tried to get close enough to kick him, but his grip tightened on my collar, holding me firmly away.
‘You saw all of that.’ His words were chillingly cold. It was a statement, not a question, but I answered it anyway.
‘What do you think?’ I retorted, pouring as much sarcasm into my voice as I could muster.
‘I think you’re going to have to come with us,’ he growled, taking my elbow and beginning to drag me away. I opened my mouth, but he was quicker. He clamped a hand down on my lips. ‘Scream and I swear I will kill you.’
And, thrashing and biting, I was dragged away; dragged away from the gruesome bloodbath these pale monsters had created.
TWO
Violet
We flew through the streets, speeding to a sprint as we left the square. Kaspar had a firm grip on my wrist, tugging me along in his wake. His fingernails cut deep into my arm and I felt them tearing open my skin, gouging out considerable amounts of flesh. I winced – it was like falling over and scraping my arm in slow motion – but did not say anything: I would not give him the satisfaction. We weaved from alley to alley, Kaspar at the front, leading us down roads I never knew existed. Already, I could hear the whining sirens of police cars and the side streets were awash with flashing blue lights.
‘Bloody police,’ Kaspar snarled. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered. He thrust me forward, straight into the chest of one of the other men. ‘Fabian, look after Girly here.’
For the second time that night I hit something rigid. He too was cold and I sprung back like I had been stung, toppling over into the gutter beside the pavement. But I never reached the ground. I looked down at my arm, caught in midair by a hand almost as pale as my own.
‘Don’t fall,’ a soft voice said. I followed the arm up, dazed, to find the smiling face of the boy who had jumped over me in Trafalgar Square, sky-blue eyes twinkling down at me with some sort of amusement. For a brief, ludicrous moment I admired his fair, untidy hair and muscled chest, just visible beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, before my mind caught up and I pulled my hand away, horrified at my thoughts. Unperturbed, however, he carried on.
‘I’m Fabian,’ he said, holding the same hand back out.
I shrunk away, rubbing my hands and wrists on my coat where his blood-tainted hands had touched me. He frowned, eyeing me as I backed away, his hand left hanging in the air.
‘We won’t hurt you, you know.’
Four other pairs of eyes watched, tensed and waiting for me to run. But I had given up hope of that. Instead, I was relying on the fact that this Kaspar would be gone long enough for a passing police car to spot us.
‘That back there’ – he gestured along the street – ‘was necessary. I know it doesn’t look that way but you have to believe me when I say it needed to be done.’
I stopped. ‘Necessary? It’s not necessary, it’s wrong. Don’t patronize me, I’m not a child.’
The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think about anything beyond wanting to buy myself time. My hands tightened around my wrists and I stopped rubbing. They seemed shocked that I had found my voice and Fabian’s eyes darted behind me every now and then.
‘Then how old are you, one who knows so much about morality?’ He cocked his head to one side and I closed my mouth, hesitant about whether to tell them but glad they had ignored the rest of my outburst. ‘Well?’
I bit on my lip. ‘Seventeen,’ I murmured.
‘I didn’t know seventeen-year old girls wore such short dresses these days.’
Jumping at the sound of a conceited voice behind me, I spun around, my dark hair whipping behind me, heavy fringe settling over my eyes. Kaspar was leaning against a lamppost with his fingers in his pockets and his thumbs sticking out, a grotesque smirk tugging at his lips again. His eyes raked my form and I wrapped the coat tightly around myself to try to cover the flimsy dress.
His smirk widened. ‘Blushing really clashes with those purple eyes of yours, Girly.’
I flinched at his reference to my eyes – an odd shade of blue and the reason behind my name. I should have been used to the mockery. Between having freak eyes, a matching name and being a devout vegetarian, I had my work cut out dodging jokes. I opened and closed my mouth several times. But as my eyes naturally averted, his smirk vanished.
‘Go!’
The others had already disappeared, swallowed by the darkness of an alley, whilst I was thrown violently sideways, landing behind a line of bins. I looked around, dazed. The only light came from a seedy bar further down the alleyway, tucked between a fire escape and an overflowing skip. Heaving for breath, winded, I began to clamber to my feet, but a hand clamped down on my mouth, the other yanking me fully up as I was half-dragged, half-carried along the alleyway, feet coated in grime from the paving.
Just as we rounded the corner at the end of the alley, blue lights illuminated the brick walls. A drunkard, slumped against the skip, shirked away, moaning loudly and muttering curses even I reddened at. But his groans could not drown out the growing sound of sirens, rising to a crescendo just a few streets away.
‘You have to run faster,’ Kaspar told me. The panic was absent from his voice but it was written in every other feature of his face. Every face was the same. I recoiled.
‘Are you fucking crazy? Why should I run faster for you? You murderer!’ The words were pouring from my mouth, unchecked – the adrenalin was back and it was banishing the fear.
His eyes flashed dangerously and for a moment I thought they lost their emerald gleam. ‘We’re not murderers.’ Though he did not raise his voice nor change his tone it still sent shivers running up my spine, making my hairs stand on end.
‘Then what are you and why did you kill those men?’
The question hung in the air; nobody offered a reply. Instead, I was pushed onwards, tugged from alley to alley, changing direction as the police cordoned off more and more of the city, working just a road behind us as we fled the centre.
London was coming alive. Every window reflected cyan blue as the protective ring sprawled outwards.
‘Come on!’ Kaspar hissed, tugging on my sleeve.
‘I can’t!’ I screeched. And I really couldn’t. A side stitch clutched at my ribs and my breaths were coming in short, sharp rasps.
‘Tough,’ he said coolly.
‘I can’t b-breathe,’ I gasped, trying to do exactly that. A few tears leaked from my eyes, which I hastily wiped away. ‘I’m going to pass out and die or something!’
‘Oh, and what a loss that would be,’ he muttered dryly, rolling his eyes.
‘I didn’t volunteer for this!’ I winced, dropping to my knees, wondering why he had gone to the effort of keeping me alive if my death didn’t bother him.
‘No, you didn’t. But you’re a part of it now and how I see it, Girly …’ He yanked me up by my collar. ‘You don’t have any choice. Now go.’
I did not move, still rubbing my chest. ‘My name is not “Girly”! It’s Violet!’
Like a shot he was just inches away from me, forcing me against the wall as his hand wrapped around my neck. A single finger was pressed against my vein, stroking it.
‘And I’m the fucking Prince!’ he snarled, grip tightening. My eyes widened and I struggled under him but his grip just tightened further. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see his face, so close to mine and reeking of blood. A single image flooded my mind behind my closed eyes: the lifeless body of Claude Pierre, crumpled and bleeding on the stone flag.