Cristobal punctuates this statement with a worrisome thrust of his dagger in Kiki’s direction.

I don’t like that. I don’t like that one bit.

His attention needs diverting. Slowly, I get one foot under me and begin to raise myself to standing. I hold my sword out and away from my body to show that I do not mean to use it.

Not right now anyway.

“Drop it,” he commands.

I don’t like it, but I do. My sword clatters to hard stone.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand.” I’m pushing my luck with him. I can feel it. But words are the only weapon I have right now. Deploying them wisely might be the only thing keeping me and Kiki alive. “Why invite us to the ball?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He sighs, as if disappointed I’m not following his brilliant strategy. “I was going to take sweet Eustaquia there, but the two of you proved more slippery than I expected.”

I snicker. “Fucked up your plans, did we?”

Cristobal actually smiles like he’s enjoying himself, as he stands to face me. “To your credit, you do keep things interesting.”

I take another step forward. So does he. Our eyes are locked.

“One last question, if you’ll indulge me.”

Like I thought, he loves the sound of his own voice. Too much to deny my request. “I’ll allow it.”

“Why the brand?”

He shrugs one shoulder. The gesture is elegant, at odds with his depravity. “A great artist always signs his work.”

I want to vomit. Instead, I take one final step toward Cristobal. He does the same.

Now, we are an arm’s length apart. He raises the sword. I step forward, right into its path. The tip of the blade rests against the hollow of my throat. He could kill me now if he so chose.

But where would be the fun in that?

Men like him like it when you fight. They like it when you struggle. They like it best when you lose.

“This is my favorite part.” He leans close, digging the knife’s point into my flesh hard enough to cause a bead of blood to well up against it. “The start of the dance. I always like the ones with fire in their eyes the best. There’s nothing quite like bleeding that fire out of one’s toys.”

I lean in, as close as I dare, heedless of the pain. Something flashes through his eyes. Anticipation. Pleasure, even. Little does he know that this is the last time he will ever feel such a thing. The last time he will ever feel anything. “I am not your plaything. And neither is she.”

Cristobal turns but far too late.

By the time he spins, Kiki is standing behind him, the barrel of the musket aimed squarely at his chest.

“This,” she says, voice low and dangerous, “is for my brother.”