Our Master requires the Creatrix Regium," the lead rider announced, his scimitar pointing directly at the carriage door. "The Lord valerian requires his destined vessel. Step out, Miss Finch. You are claimed."
Mr. Finch shrieked, a sound of absolute terror, and flung himself across the carriage. He didn't reach for a weapon or flee; instead, he shoved Clara down onto the floor, his entire body serving as a frantic shield. "Take my money! Take the strongbox! Leave my daughters alone!" he cried, his love for his children overriding all sense of tactical thinking.
Ezra didn't hesitate. She had expected this.
Her hand, moving with the preternatural swiftness inherited from her Vampire blood—one of the few useful traits of her Fae-Lesser lineage—reached under her skirt. The tiny revolver was drawn and aimed in a single, fluid motion.
If I were the Creatrix Regium, I could summon Fire and shatter the ground again, she thought bitterly. But I am only Ezra Finch, and I only have a few bullets.
Bang!
The shot was deafeningly loud in the enclosed carriage. The bullet splintered the wooden doorframe, but her aim—sharpened by years of secret practice—was true. The lead rider, the one who had spoken, jerked back in his saddle, his shoulder momentarily blooming red before his inhumanly quick healing began to close the wound.
The initial shock of the attack briefly broke the attackers' formation. The wounded rider roared, his placid expression gone, replaced by a cold, demonic fury.
"Attack! Bring her down, but do not damage the vessel!" he commanded.
Two riders immediately dismounted, drawing their scimitars and moving with unnatural grace toward the Brougham. Their speed was superior to Ezra's own; they were clearly of strong, perhaps Demon or Fae, lineage.
Ezra shoved the revolver into her father's hand. "Father, shoot the horses! Distract them! I will find a breach!"
Mr. Finch, paralyzed by shock and his lifelong devotion to propriety, stared blankly at the weapon. "Shoot? Ezra, this is—this is barbarity! We are not brigands!"
"We are prey, Father! Shoot!"
The first dismounted rider reached the carriage and with a single, massive swing, shattered the glass of the rear window into a thousand fragments. He reached a gauntleted hand inside, aiming for Ezra.
Ezra reacted instantly, throwing herself across the seat. Her Vampire strength, though weak, allowed her to kick the strongbox at the window. The strongbox slammed against the rider's forearm, causing him to hiss and momentarily retract his arm
It was enough of a distraction. "Clara, hold onto Father! Do not move!"
Ezra wrenched the Brougham's forward door open and scrambled out. The air immediately filled with the scent of horses, dust, and the metallic tang of Vampire adrenaline. She drew another, deeper breath—a desperate measure—to focus her speed.
The second dismounted rider was already circling the front of the carriage, his scimitar a blur of cold steel. Ezra fired the second barrel of the revolver into the ground near his feet, kicking up a blinding cloud of dust and stone.
He recoiled, momentarily blinded. This was the breach.
"Driver! Cut the mare loose!" Ezra screamed at the stunned stableman. Then, she used her enhanced Vampire speed—a quick burst, fast enough for a blur, but nowhere near the legendary speed of a pure-blood—to vault over the horse's back and land on the far side of the barricade.
She looked back. The mare was still hitched, the driver too terrified to move, and her father was still frozen, the revolver dangling uselessly. The riders were recovering, quickly remounting their horses to leap the shattered carriage.
Ezra had the chance to flee toward the open plains, but she couldn't leave them. Her father had risked everything to save her, however clumsily.
"Father! Clara! Follow me!" she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. She plunged into the deep, thorny undergrowth of the Devil's Teeth woodland, knowing that on the open road,
Hoping this and her mother's death would all be a dream she would soon wake up from
Her hairpin drop from her hair leaving the hair loose and open for the wind to pass through she would have pause and to pick it but she was on a hot pursuit every seconds matters a lot