The Guardian by Diana Knightley

Forty-six - Kaitlyn

“What has begun, you creep?”

“The final assault on Kilchurn castle, and a storm of destruction to cover — I can tell you this, because you aren’t there to stop it, the storm will cover us while we take all the vessels from the cave on Ben Cruachan. Did you know that in the twenty-first century there is a hydroelectric power station there?”

My mind was gone — flooded by fear.

I was here, brought here by Lady Mairead, the sort-of-helpful one, who was nowhere to be seen, while her big plan of grandiose ideas, fell apart around me. Not one of her ideas was in play.

Then there was a second Lady Mairead, not helpful, weakened and useless. She had nothing to offer to the situation, but I couldn’t run away. If she was left behind she would be killed.

And there was the young woman in the corner. I couldn’t leave her here.

I wished I had a weapon.

I wished I could punch that sneering woman sitting beside Sir Paddy.

I was literally in all the worst case scenarios.

But I had been told to tell Lady Mairead one thing.

I interrupted Sir Padraig’s monologue to say, “Lady Mairead.”

“What?” She sounded dazed — surprised I had spoken to her.

“I was told to tell you to run to Elmwood. Do you understand?”

She met my eyes and nodded.

Sir Padraig spluttered. “What are you talking about, you bitch? You aren’t in any position to be advising anyone. Look at you, alone, unarmed, by now I have all the vessels. I have this machine, right here.” He pulled the Trailblazer from his pocket. “By now I have the kingdom of Riaghalbane under my control, made certain by the death of your family, one by one, including the former King of Riaghalbane, whose heart fails as the last life blood squeezes from it. Death will be slow, but he is awfully young, that will be the poetry of it.”

He kissed his fingers, like a chef’s kiss, a motherfucking chef’s kiss, like he was some fucking two-bit mobster in a movie, acting how he thought a mobster would act. He was in this old Hollywood restaurant, pretending he was going to take my life, my children’s lives, pretending he was going to kill Magnus.

Rage filled my heart.

I hadn’t had this kind of rage in me in a long time, but like an old familiar friend, I welcomed it. Let it fill me — blood coursing, heat and energy, like a goddamn exploding star.

I was the motherfucking matriarch.

Lady Mairead wasn’t the matriarch, she was taking my orders.

It was me.

And this piece of shit was talking about killing my children? Killing Magnus?

Time slowed down. The man continued to talk, crowing about what he was going to do to me — my sight focused.

I thought about what Magnus had taught me through the years: calm down, pay attention, watch your opponent, look for their weakness.

And boy did this dude have a weakness.

He had a way of talking that had him stretched back in his seat. That condescending, bullshit-talking, mansplaining kind of relaxed. His head was tilted back, so he was looking down his nose at me. He had a habit of gesturing with his left hand.

I looked at how his hand settled near my gun, but then lifted as he gestured, his neck exposed, his head turned. A pattern. I had found his weakness.

I said, “The crazy thing about this situation, if you think about it, is you’ve beaten us in literally every timeline, you’re unstoppable. That’s what Magnus was just saying to me the other day.”

His head tilted, he nodded approvingly. He said, “Now, that isthe first intelligent thing you’ve said this whole...”

His hand gestured

and I leapt.

My left hand on the table.

My hip crashed down on the plates, but I was fast, had caught him unawares,

I swung, the claw of my hand ripped down his cheek.

Fucking classic Katie temper there, fellas.

As Magnus had said back in the day, “What that tiny scratch?”

This was not a tiny scratch, this was talons, this was scarring — he was off balance, shocked, and I was right there, over him, above him. I had grabbed my gun from right in front of him.

He reached for it, tried to fight me, but I pushed his hands away with my left hand and fired with my right, right at his smug-ass evil psychopath face, and with a spray of blood and gore, Sir Padraig Stuart, the man who had been traumatizing and brutalizing my family was dead in a chair in front of me.