She was going to show him the trail of vipers’ marks, the red train of old and new punctures where he was bound to see them had they continued; she wouldn’t have been able to conceal them. They’re a constant reminder, a presence that doesn’t ever have time to fully dissolve, clear as the pools of faraway places in her imagination, on the back of her thigh like a brand. A thrall’s unceasing, bruised tattoo.
It would be a lie if she were to say that she wasn’t both relieved and terrified by the scream.
But, unlike those who line the halls with a tamed lions in their cages, never thinking that they’d ever have to defend themselves, she’s as swift to action as he. The shriek is followed by the dull, watery thud of a body, and the sick sound of a piling splatter.
And she is up, thrusting her hand between her mattresses, excavating the buried, silver body of a derringer so confidently… that it’s obvious that she knows how to use it.