Free The Clockwork Crown by Beth Cato Page B

hallway—­guiding the fight away from Octavia.
    A good thing, she realized, as she was still partly buried in books and gawking like a fool.
    She extracted herself while keeping an eye on the fight. Esme was more aggressive by far, her movements sinuous as a cat’s. Alonzo offered few jabs. Octavia bit back a curse. His injury still pained him and restricted his movements. If only I’d been able to give him a proper healing!
    Octavia rummaged beneath the books and found her headband. The flower had been ripped off. No time to spare, she shoved the cloth into an outer pocket of her satchel. The domino fall of shelves had stopped, and in the distance there were cries and alarmed voices. Broken leg. Ribs. Arm. Bruises. Concussions. She shivered, wondering at what distance she was detecting these injuries, and afraid to know the answer.
    She grabbed a book—­ A History of Frengian Maple Patisseries—­ and flung it. The book spun through the air and smacked the assassin in the lower back. Octavia grabbed another one—­ The Inherent Violence of the Caskentian Psyche. That one, quite appropriately, struck corner-first directly into the back of Esme’s head. The woman couldn’t help but glance back with a scowl, and that’s all the advantage Alonzo needed. Esme screeched as he slammed her into the debris-­covered floor. He twisted her wrist, snapping it with a jolt that pierced Octavia’s ears and senses.
    New bodies flooded the library. Strong hearts and songs, not unlike Alonzo’s. Calm in the face of chaos. These are police, soldiers. How did they respond so quickly?
    â€œWhat magic’s on the blade?” Octavia asked.
    â€œShe will not answer. ’Tis a part of the training I have yet to attend.” He wrenched Esme’s arm more.
    Esme lifted her head a tad. Across the drifts of books, she stared at Octavia. Her jaw shifted as she chomped down. With her shielding headband off, Octavia could almost taste the bitterness, reminiscent of almonds, as it gushed over Esme’s molars and numbed her mouth. Her dark skin flushed, her next breath rattling.
    â€œCyanide!” Octavia cried. The favored poison of Mercia’s elite, one she had encountered in the suicides of several officers at the front.
    Alonzo wrested Esme around. Books pattered to the side. Esme’s song—­oh Lady, her song screeched as if rabid wolves were chasing down a marching band. Her organs shut down in a vicious cascade, each wailing and silencing as if devoured in a single gulp. Octavia wanted to hurry forward, to help. Instead, she curled into a ball, heaving as if her own body were starved for oxygen.
    â€œOctavia!”
    â€œI’m not hurt, it’s just . . .” Hot tears poured down her face as she fumbled to pull on the headband again. She didn’t care how it looked—­she simply needed her ears covered, and quickly. “I can heal her.” With her intimate awareness somewhat dimmed, Octavia crawled forward, wiping her face with her sleeve as she went.
    She was a foot away from Esme when the new songs in the room grew close and bold.
    â€œDo not move.” The order came from the hallway beyond the claustrophobic hug of the shelves. A man in vivid blue stood there, gun drawn. Braids gilded his sleeves, neck, and along a triple row of buttons. More men in similar attire crowded behind him.
    Alonzo grimaced, raising his hands above head level as he shuffled around on his knees. Octavia hesitantly raised her arms, her gaze going between the men and the Clockwork Dagger. Esme convulsed. Red froth flowed from her mouth.
    â€œI’m a medician. Let me get her in a circle—­”
    Alonzo shot her a glare of warning. She felt pressure anew in her chest. A life debt to Alonzo, again. The Lady is watching.
    The soldier scowled. “A circle? Nep. Doctor, over here! Now!” he bellowed. “You lot, come out of there. Keep