Cringing apologetically, Wren removed it and tossed it onto the ground. Metal rang against stone as it skittered across the floor. Then, she set to work unfastening the buckles that bound him and slipping the IV from the crook of his elbow.

“Let me.” His words slurred together. His eyelids drooped. “I can do it.”

“Oh,” Wren said almost fondly. “I don’t think so.”

Even as he fought to sit up, the anesthetic reclaimed him. As she laid a hand on his cheek, he sank back into unconsciousness. It seemed disposing of Lowry fell to her. For once in her life, she would have to be ruthless.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Her whole body ached. Her movements and thoughts were muddy with lingering anesthetic. But she was angrier than she’d ever been. She clung to it, nursed it like the last spark of a dying fire. It gave her purpose, clear and simple and driving.

Alistair Lowry would pay for what he’d done.

It would feel so good to kill him. Justice, some dark part of her slavered. Justice for all his servants. Justice for Byers. Justice for Hal and Una. Justice for her.

In the gloom, over the rumble of distant thunder, the North Tower was as terrifying as Colwick Hall. Grabbing a lantern from a hook outside the door, she chased the echoing sound of footfalls on the main staircase. Over the rush of blood in her ears, the yawning space of darkness past the railing whispered, Fall. With every step, she propelled herself deeper into the bowels of the Tower—so deep, she worried she’d never find her way to the light again.

She stumbled on the last stair and threw her hand forward to catch her balance. The rough scrape of the wall against her palm steadied her. In the snatches of light from her swaying lantern, Wren saw the walls were inlaid with bone, femurs and humeri layered like brick, shattered fragments like tiles.

She stood at the entrance to the catacombs. The Tower was built into a cliffside, and the tunnels housed not only bodies of queens and saints but functioned as an escape route to the sea. A precautionary measure for a monarch fleeing an invasion—or a runaway lord evading Wren’s fury. She did not hesitate. She slipped into the shadows, and the hiss of the tide swelled around her.

After what felt like miles, the passage emptied onto a bluff. Slick stone stairs were carved into its side and led down to the docks. Tonight, in the stormy darkness, the ocean was made of ink. Waves crashed against the rocks, bursting into frothy white peaks. Rain fell steadily, draping everything in a sparkling liquid veil.

Wren stepped into the downpour and gasped at the shock of the cold. The air smelled of salt. And something else—something terrifyingly familiar. Burning things, like gunpowder and coffee. And beneath it, the vinegary sterility of formaldehyde.