Page 16 of The Devouring Time

“One,” Evans says, and I take a couple of steps back from the door to get a running start.

Without him to brace it, the parlor door bursts open, and Mrs. Foster surges out.

“Two.”

Barney charges down the stairs, ax raised high.

“Three!”

Our shoulders slam into the door, hard enough to bruise. It creaks—but fails to give.

The door won’t open, and now our enemies are between us and any escape.

Mrs. Foster leaps onto Evans’s back, gripping with her knees and clawing at his eyes. Before I can help him, Barney rushes at me, ax raised high.

I drop to the floor as the blade swings down. It bites deep into the wood of the door and sticks there.

Barney’s face is eerily emotionless as he struggles to pull it free. No anger flits across his features, no frustration. He might easily pass for a monk peacefully splitting firewood.

What the hell did that tainted booze do to him?

I take the opportunity to scramble away on hands and knees in the direction of the stairs. A thud sounds in the hall behind me; Evans has thrown himself against the nearest wall, catching Mrs. Foster between his body and the crumbling plaster. She lets out a pained grunt. “Barney, you lump! Stop them!”

Barney abandons the ax in the door and comes at me with big hands outstretched. I scramble back, my shoulder knocking into an umbrella stand. It falls in a clatter, spilling out a walking stick and a tattered umbrella with a bent arm.

Of the two, only the umbrella is in reach. I grab it and swing it in front of me in a desperate attempt to keep Barney away. Not much of a defense—he’ll surely just knock it aside, then lock his hands around my throat.

He doesn’t. Instead, he jumps back, as though I’m holding a knife instead of a broken umbrella.

I’m so shocked I just gape at him. He doesn’t make any further move toward me, though, as if he’s somehow forgotten what he’s doing in the last few seconds.

“Barn—” Mrs. Foster starts to shout—then she hits the floor on her back, flipped up and over Evans’s shoulder.

“Don’t just stand there!” Evans pulls out his gun and points it at them both. “Use the ax and chop the door down.”

I grab the handle only to discover it’s slick with blood. Wiping my hands off on my trousers, I try again, this time getting enough of a grip to wrench it free of the door.

On the floor, Mrs. Foster struggles to sit up. A trickle of blood comes from her mouth, perhaps from a bitten tongue. “Barney, stop them!”

Evans points the gun at him, and he takes a step back. The impassive expression on his face doesn’t change.

I bring the ax down with all my strength, aiming for the area around the doorknob. I hit it again, then again—and the wood splits, the entire mechanism popping loose.

The door swings open. “Good work,” Evans says, even as he grabs my wrist with his free hand. He hauls me out behind him, and we both break into a run.

It’s still raining, but I don’t give a damn. We flee back to the road, the sound of Mrs. Foster raging at her son fading into the darkness behind us.

12

I throw the ax into some bushes and hope the rain will wash the blood off my clothes. It works somewhat, at least until the rain stops about half an hour later.

We trudge along the road until dawn, when a farmer pulls his truck up alongside us and offers us a ride. We’re both beyond exhausted, not to mention hungry, but there’s no chance of a hotel out here. Evans left his bag behind in the Fosters’ house, along with our coats and hats, so neither of us have anything beyond the clothes we’re wearing and whatever is in our pockets.

The farmer drops us not far from the train depot for Hart’s Leap. “At least we can take the train when we leave,” Evans says glumly.

I wince. “I’m sorry about your car, Mr. Evans.”

“Adrian, please.”