He cocked his head, his confusion suddenly quaint, harmless somehow, like a pigeon strutting around the Tuileries. That moment of confusion was all she needed as she slipped one hand, dislocated thumb and all, free of its cuff. Then she was flying forward, good hand grasping for his waistband. Her fingers reached for the handle of his gun—

He knocked her away effortlessly, smashing her into the plaster wall. The wall rattled as she struck it—just as she’d hoped. So flimsy. They’d built their jail in a hurry, rushing about for efficiency’s sake. Simone would be appalled.

Stefan pulled his sidearm free and leveled it right at her. Cocked the firing mechanism. “I’ll give you one last chance to reconsider.”

A trickle of sweat ran down Evangeline’s back as she stared into that cavernous barrel, looming so large in her view. “My mind’s already made up.”

“A pity,” Stefan said, and pulled the trigger.

The makeshift cell echoed with a dull click.

Stefan reared back, shocked. Evangeline’s breath rushed out of her. It had been quite the risky bet that he wouldn’t think to check his gun’s ammunition between their car ride to the château, when she’d swiped the magazine, and now. But that wasn’t all the Magpie had taken. Now she withdrew the letter opener from its hiding place beneath the underwire of her bra and threw herself on Stefan. The closest she’d ever been to him. Certainly the only time she’d wanted to be.

He grappled with her, trying ineffectively to dig his nails into her face through his leather gloves. “You fucking harlot, I will destroy you!” He slammed his forehead against hers, sparking stars behind her eyes. “I will—”

But he never finished—the letter opener ground into his trachea. Enraged thrashing, crunching cartilage, and then—he was still.

A horrified sob rattled out of Evangeline’s throat as Stefan collapsed beneath her, and she scrambled off him, limbs shaking furiously. Too close, far too close. Was this the game she was always destined to play to do the right thing? Victory by fractions? If they were even lucky enough to defeat evil at all.

She snapped her left thumb back into place, redoubling the agonizing pain, but it was useless. She must have torn something. She dug around in Stefan’s pockets, recoiling from the sharp metal stink of his blood, until she found his torturer’s tool kit. Unfurled it. Ripped free knives and kept digging, until finally she found what she sought.

The cyanide vials he’d used to torment Georges-Yves. Individually, only enough to threaten death, not bring it about . . . but here she had access to all of them. And the intimate knowledge of Beaux Arts architecture that only a carpenter’s girlfriend possessed.