“It does not matter. One of us dies here tonight.” Leopold smirked. “And I believe it will be you.”
He grinned viciously. I highly doubt that, boy. I very highly doubt that.
* * *
Marguerite hadto be restrained by a guard to keep from flying in between the two men. She did not know when she began to cry. It was so frequent these days that she barely noticed when it began and stopped.
For a moment, she had hoped it would be an easy match. Leopold had several inches and perhaps fifty stones of muscle on Dr. Faust. But as Johann had shed his cloak, she was reminded there was more to the doctor than met the eye at first glance. The man was slimmer built than Leopold, and he lacked the bulky muscle that defined her friend. But he moved with a smoothness and grace that worried her.
And when she saw how easily he handled the silver rapier he had fetched from his room, her worry turned to terror.
Each man fought with a sword and a dagger.
They ignored her pleas. If she raised her voice, the guard shook her roughly on the shoulder. She was forced to stay quiet. But it took all her strength to swallow her cries as the fight began.
Leopold was stronger. He hit harder.
But Johann had speed…and skill. The man fought as though he were merely in a dance. As though his life were not at stake. He dodged and parried Leopold’s strokes with practiced ease.
But that was not to say that Leopold was entirely outclassed. He was a soldier, and one of the best she had ever seen. Where Johann seemed to treat the duel with a casual air, Leopold fought with drive and passion, putting every ounce of strength he owned into each strike.
The moments dragged on, seemingly without end. Swords clashed, and the sound of steel ringing out mixed with her choked sobs as she watched in horror.
Her heart leapt into her throat as Leopold managed to get in close for a strike. He dug his dagger deep into Johann’s stomach. It was hard to tell from where she stood, but it seemed as though it had sunk in deep to the hilt.
Johann gagged in pain.
And then drove his own dagger into Leopold’s throat. He stuck the blade in from the side and yanked, slicing her friend’s throat open from side to side with one, vicious, tearing rip.
Blood gushed from the wound, instantly soaking him in shades of deep crimson.
His eyes went wide. And glassy.
Marguerite did not even scream before she fainted.
* * *
When she woke,she was in her bed. A damp cloth was being dabbed to her forehead. But it was the smell of something near her that jarred her out of her sleep. It was the smell of spices, of petrichor, and…of blood.
She jolted in shock, whirling and smacking the hand away from her face. She looked up at the tired and strained expression of Johann Faust. “I—”
“Shush, Marguerite…” He frowned as he placed the damp cloth to her head again. “You are safe.”
“L…Leo…?” Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it was all an illusion. Perhaps—
Johann shook his head mournfully. His voice was deep, soft, and full of sadness. “Forgive me, my love…but I had no choice.”
“No. No. This cannot be real.” She sat up, plucking the cloth from her head. “He cannot be dead. You—you—”
“He would have taken my life in turn. He nearly did.” It was only then that she noticed the bandage he wore around his midsection. It was stained a shade of red that looked darker than perhaps it should. “He challenged me, Marguerite. I did not wish to fight him. I told him to begone. I am sorry for what I have done, but I am not to blame for his death.”
Tears poured down her cheeks. She knew he was right. She had heard the exchange—she had witnessed it all. Leopold had demanded Johann’s honor.
Arms circled around her as she wept into her palms, and she did not have the strength to push him away.
But her best friend in the world…was dead.
At the hand of the man she was to wed on the morrow.