“Liar.” Marc’s hands, tied to the arms of his chair, balled into fists. “Jiri never killed anyone.”
“You’ll never know the truth of that, will you? Because I killed him.” Urek held up the blade. “I slit his throat like a pig because he was weak.”
Marc struggled against the ropes. Sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Stay away from him!” Henrik thrashed against his restraints. The chair legs scraped across the floor.
Urek stood in front of Petr.
“You killed my baby boy,” Petr said quietly. “Maybe God have mercy on your soul.”
“God has no place here.” Urek raised the blade above his head.
“No!” I screamed.
“Don’t touch him!” Marc yelled.
Petr slowly turned his head to Marc and Henrik. His face was calm. Peaceful. “Don’t stop, my boys. Never stop. This uprising matters. What you’re doing matters.” He smiled. “I love you both with all my heart.”
“Dad, no,” Henrik whispered. “Urek, put down the knife! Please!”
“No!” Marc screamed.
It all happened very slowly.
I noticed every detail—the dried blood already on the blade of the knife, tears streaming down Henrik’s face, and the vein pulsating in Marc’s forehead.
My stomach sank to my toes. My heartbeat hammered against my chest and echoed in my ears.
I screamed at the same time Marc and Henrik did—all the while not believing this was happening. Our cries filled the room.
This couldn’t be happening.
But it was.
Petr closed his eyes. His body relaxed and a calm, almost serene look came across his face.
Please, no.
Urek plunged the knife into Petr’s heart.
Chapter Twelve
The blade sank into Petr’s chest, all the way to the hilt. Petr exhaled one last, deep breath before Urek pulled the knife from his heart. Blood bubbled from the wound and ran down his shirt.
Mr. Sýkora closed his eyes; his head slumping to the side.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. It happened so quickly that I couldn’t muster a scream. I was in shock and my body didn’t know how to respond. My chin quivered, as if I was cold.
I sat in absolute horror, my mind not able to comprehend what I’d witnessed—the ruthlessness with which Urek had murdered Petr.
Marc and Henrik had screamed at the same time—gut-wrenching cries of pain—and my heart broke for both them. Urek had now killed both their younger brother and their father. How could one man wreak such havoc on one poor family?
A sob escaped before a wave of rage washed over me. How could this happen? Sweet, kind Petr had been murdered in front of his children for no reason. A thick concoction of hatred and revenge consumed me; I’d never wanted to do physical harm to anyone until now.
Urek wiped the bloody knife on Petr’s shirt. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years. Now you all understand this is not a game. I will kill every single one of you.” He sauntered toward Henrik.
“Please,” I begged. Tears slid down my face and blurred my vision. “Please leave him alone.”
Urek ignored me. “I don’t know you very well, Henrik. I don’t like your family, but you could be a saint for all I know. Unfortunately for you, I won’t kill you as quickly as I did your father. I did Petr a service by giving him a swift death—you could even say I did him a favor. Out of respect of course. I’ve known Petr a long time.” He tapped the knife against his forehead in a sign of forgetfulness. “Correct me; I knew Petr for a long time.”
“You bastard,” Henrik spat.
“I’m going to enjoy the time I have left with the two remaining Sýkoras. I’m killing off your family line, boys. Blue eyes, don’t turn away. You will watch every last second of this, even if I have to peel back your eyelids.”
Marc ignored Urek. He was slumped in his chair with his eyes closed. His shoulders were caved in and his breathing had slowed. He’d struggled like a caged animal until the moment the knife entered Petr’s chest.
I wanted to touch him, console him, but I couldn’t.
Henrik sat eerily still watching Urek. The look on Henrik’s face was so full of hatred that I had to look away. Lines etched his forehead and his lips were pulled in a tight line.
“Are you ready, Henrik?” Urek grabbed a pair of rusty pliers from the bag. He motioned to one of his men.
The man moved behind Henrik’s chair and held the knife to the base of his throat. The sharp tip scraped against the blond stubble on Henrik’s neck.
“There’s nothing you can do to me now that will hurt me.” Henrik spoke calmly despite the blade at his jugular.
“I can gut you like a pig.”
“Then stop talking and do it.”
“Leave him alone!” I tried to lunge at Urek, but the ropes dug deeper into my wrists and rubbed the skin raw.
Three men untied Henrik’s arms and retied the ropes so that each hand was secured to the chair arm. The fourth man held the knife to Henrik’s throat so he wouldn’t move.
It was a pointless gesture; Henrik wasn’t resisting. He wasn’t doing anything. He only stared at Urek.
“Let’s get started,” Urek said. “Shall we?”
Marc finally lifted his head. “I’m going to kill you.”
His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Marc spoke softly and slowly, each word enunciated with hatred. “You’re going to beg for your life and I’m going to ram my blade into your throat and watch you die.”
Urek’s laughter faded into a coughing fit. “That’s a strong statement, young man. It seems a little impossible at the moment, though, don’t you agree? You’re tied up. So are your brother and your girl and I’ve just killed your father. Perhaps you shouldn’t be the one giving threats.” He smirked at Marc before kneeling in front of Henrik.
“Stop!” I fought the restraints, but the rope wouldn’t give. “Please!”
Urek opened the rusty pliers and placed Henrik’s thumbnail between the metal clamps.
“Leave him alone!” I screamed. “He hasn’t done anything to you! It’s me, remember? I’m the one you hate!”
Urek ignored me.
“Urek.” Marc’s tone changed to pleading. The hate was gone, replaced by a hint of desperation. Of hopelessness. “Take me instead. Please. Spare my brother. You can do whatever you want to me, but let them go.”
“I’m going to do whatever I want to you anyway.” Urek secured the pliers over Henrik’s thumbnail. He flashed a grin, displaying crooked, rotted teeth. “I want to hear your brother beg me to stop.”
“I’ll never beg,” Henrik said.
“We’ll see about that.” Urek squeezed the pliers and heaved backward, ripping Henrik’s nail from his thumb.
Henrik squeezed his eyes shut but didn’t cry out. Not a single sound came from his mouth as blood poured from his fingertip. A mushy pile of bloodied skin remained where his nail used to be.
I couldn’t look away. It was too terrible.
Henrik exhaled and opened his eyes. Sweat ran in beads down his forehead. He licked his lips. His cheeks puffed as he exhaled.
“Stop!” I sobbed. “Please. Urek, do you hear me! Stop it! Please don’t hurt him anymore.”
Urek smiled another blackened grin. He scratched the scar on his face with a dirty hand. “Blue eyes is pretty angry over you.”
“Please stop,” I cried.
Urek smiled at Marc. “Are you sure she wants you, blacksmith? Or does she want your older brother now? Seems like a fickle girl.” He kneeled down in front of Henrik again. Urek pretended to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I tell you what, this sure is hard work. I’m working up an appetite. Maybe I can get one of the duke’s servants to bring me a bite to eat.”
“Leave him alone!” Marc screamed.
Urek clamped the pliers down on Henrik’s second finger. Metal crushed against the nail. He pulled again.
“STOOP
P!” I threw my body back. The chair legs thumped against the marble.
Urek grunted and the second bloody nail emerged from Henrik’s hand. Henrik’s face turned bright red, but still he didn’t cry out. His chest heaved as he breathed in and out.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I screamed. “Stop it! Stop it! Right now! I am Ludmila Nováková, the Duchess of Prucha, and I demand that you stop this immediately.”
Urek glanced at me. The bloody pliers hovered over Henrik’s hand.
I’d gotten his attention. I addressed the other men in the room, meeting the eyes of each of them. “Stop him, right now! Do you hear me? I command that you stop Urek at once.”
The men stole nervous glances at one another. Eyes darted around the room. I had their attention—I couldn’t stop now. This was my chance.
“You have no authority here.” Urek waved his hand in the air. “Don’t listen to her.”
“I am the Duchess of Prucha!”
“Are you claiming that now?”
“What do you think will happen when Radek arrives?” I screamed. “Do you believe he’s going to kill me? Of course he’s not; he’s my husband. As soon as I tell him how you’ve abused me, you’re all done for. I’ll order Radek to hang you. Do you hear me? I’ll make Radek hang every single one of you! I swear to God I will!”
Urek set the pliers on the table. “The duke will pardon me.”
“Not if I tell him not to,” I countered.
Doubt was visible in Urek’s eyes.
Words tumbled out of my mouth, but I meant every single one of them. “If you lay one more finger on any of us, so help me God I will have Radek skin you alive in front of me.”
Urek cleared his throat.
Marc glanced at me.
“Clean up this mess,” Urek said to his men.
I exhaled.
“We need to prepare for the duke’s arrival,” Urek said. “Wipe up this blood.” His jaw bulged as he clamped his teeth together. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room without another word.
The men scrambled to clean the room. My eyes drifted to poor Petr. His lifeless body remained tied to the chair.
“Thank you,” Marc said to me. “Henrik, are you all right?”
“I’ve been better,” he responded. Sweat drenched his shirt. He wiggled his injured fingers and blood dripped from the tips.
I didn’t bother stopping my tears. I let them fall. My heartbeat fluttered against my chest. I sucked in air, but it tasted coppery—like coins. There was too much blood in the room; it was polluting the air. My hands, still bound to the chair, were shaking uncontrollably. How had this happened? How had things taken such a turn for the worse?
I couldn’t hold the façade of control any longer. I let it go and sobbed until there were no more tears left inside me.
“Are you all right?” Marc asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Now do you see why I hanged Kristoff?” he asked quietly.
I wasn’t expecting that response.
Marc wasn’t looking at me, though. He stared at his dead father, slumped in the chair across the table. “These are bad people, Mila,” Marc whispered. “You don’t understand how it is out here. You can’t always play by the rules.”
I nodded. I understood. It was clear now.
We had to fight back.
* * *
I fell asleep tied to the chair. With Petr’s dead body only a few feet away. With blood dripping from Henrik’s mangled hand. With the excruciating pain emanating from my temple whenever I moved my head. And with Marc wallowing in guilt beside me.
I slept like a baby.
The thick velvet curtains were never closed, so the morning sunlight filtered into the room at the first sign of sunrise. I waited for Radek to burst through the double doors with his rigid saunter, but he never came.
No one did.
Marc, Henrik, and I sat in silence for most of the morning. We avoided looking at Petr’s body. We avoided talking about the inevitable.
My stomach growled at the thought of food and my wrists burned from the tight ropes. A strip of pink skin was rubbed raw from the restraints. I’d never been more uncomfortable in my life and the threat of what was about to come weighed me down like an anchor.
“How’s your hand?” Marc asked Henrik.
“Bloody. Partially nail-less. Is that a word?”
“Can you move your fingers?”
“He didn’t break my hand,” Henrik said. “He ripped out the nails. Do you think they’ll grow back? It’s going to look strange if they don’t.”
I smiled, despite the situation. “They’ll grow back.”
“That’s good to know.” Henrik rotated his neck until it cracked. “If we don’t die, it’s possible I’ll have fingernails again. This day is already looking better—”
“Shut up,” Marc snapped. Dark eyes flashed. “Can you stop talking for one minute and take this situation seriously?”
“My nails were ripped from my hand,” Henrik said. “I have a pretty good grasp of how serious the situation is.”
“Urek is going to kill us.” Marc’s eyes flickered to Petr before landing back on Henrik. “Or we should pray that Urek kills us, because if he doesn’t, whatever Radek will do to us will be much worse than what happened last night.”
“I know,” Henrik said. “We need a plan to get Mila out of here.”
“Me?” I balked. “We all have to get out of here.”
“Do you have that knife in your boot?” Marc asked Henrik.
“Yes, but I can’t reach my boot. Ironic, huh?” Henrik tugged at his rope. “I can’t move at all. You?”
“No.”
“Knock me over,” I said.
“What?” Marc made a face.
“Knock my chair over the way it was before. I’ll reach over and grab Henrik’s knife from his boot.”
Marc’s eyes moved to the door through which Urek had disappeared.
“That’s not a bad plan,” Henrik said.
“Do it,” I said. “We’re running out of time.”
Marc inched closer. His legs were tied to the chair legs, but he could move his feet enough to kick over my chair. He flexed his foot and pointed his toe, but my chair skidded farther away.
“Harder,” I said. “Don’t worry about hurting me.”
Marc exhaled and pushed again.
My chair toppled over and slammed against the marble floor. The collision jarred my bones. I bit my tongue; a coppery, metallic taste filled my mouth, but I swallowed the blood down.
“Are you hurt?” Marc asked.
“I’m fine. Henrik, move your chair over.”
Henrik slid his chair toward me until my fingertips grazed his leather boots. I slid my arm upward. The rope was tight, but the restraint rolled up my forearm. I slipped my fingers into the top of his boot.
“A little farther down,” Henrik said. “Right there. Good.”
My fingertips grazed metal and I clawed down until I gripped the tip of the knife’s handle.
“There,” Henrik said.
“I have it.” I edged the weapon up, using the side of his boot for leverage until the knife slid over the top of his boot. The rope dug into my skin. My fingers slipped and the knife clattered to the floor.
“Damn!” I sobbed.
“Move a little closer,” Marc said. “You can do it.”
I struggled to move forward in the chair, but only moved a small distance. Sweat dripped down my back. I inched forward again.
Each second felt like an eternity.
“Hurry, Mila,” Marc said. “I hear something.”
I inched again until the silver knife gleamed in front of my eyes. My hands were tied too low against the chair arms, so I opened my mouth and bit down on the knife. A metallic taste filled my mouth.
“Mila!” Henrik said.
I had the knife between my lips. I had to toss it into my hands and catch it so I could cut through the rope
. How in the world was I going to do that? I flung the knife with my mouth, but the weapon clattered uselessly to the floor beside my bound hand. I stretched and stretched.
The rope dug into my wrists. I stretched further. The tips of my finger grazed the metal. I inched closer until my hand clamped around the knife. “I have it!”
“Hurry, Mila!” Marc said.
I sawed the blade against the rope as fast as I could. The first restraint frayed apart. With one hand free, I sawed through the ropes around my remaining hand and legs.
“Hurry!” Marc whispered.
The doors opened.
Urek stomped into the dining room. I scrambled to my feet with the knife in my hand. I turned to free Marc and Henrik.
“Run!” Marc screamed. “Mila, run!”
“Get her!” Urek ran toward me.
“Go, Mila!” Henrik’s eyes widened. “Go now!”
Urek sprinted after me. I ran in the opposite direction. I would not leave Marc and Henrik behind. I’d have to figure something out....
I dashed across the dining room’s marble floors and through the double doors on the opposite side of the room. Urek’s footsteps pounded behind me. He was getting closer. I exploded into the kitchen, and a poor woman dropped the pot she was holding. She nervously backed away.
“How do I get out of here?” I screamed.
She pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen.
“Get back here, blue eyes!” Urek smashed through the kitchen doors.
I pulled open the heavy wooden door and entered a long hallway. Right or left? I went left. My feet thudded against the heavy rug lining the broad hall.
“Get back here!”
I turned at the first corner and came to a crashing halt. The room was lovely—decorated with ornately carved furniture and intricately woven Oriental rugs. A shiny wooden violin sat on a desk covered with sheets of music in front of a giant fireplace. My heartbeat hammered against my chest. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I was staring back at myself.
A giant oil painting hung over the fireplace. It was my portrait—one that I’d never posed for but was absolutely me. I wore a lavish blue gown and my hair was loose around my face.