Chapter 18: Rehearsing "The Dying Swan" with Roses in Hand

The container terminal felt like a labyrinth of steel beneath the torrential rain.

Alistair leaned one hand against a rusted iron frame, the blood seeping from between his fingers washed into a pale pink by the downpour.

Silas Knight tore open an emergency hemostatic pack. As he wound the bandage for the third time, he let out a soft chuckle. "If Miss Clara saw you like this..."

A smirk played on Silas’s lips. "She’d probably be terrified, wouldn't she?"

"No," Alistair countered with a grim smile. "She’d probably find it interesting."

Alistair pressed the emergency button on his satellite phone as the sound of gunfire, mixed with the roar of motorcycles, drew closer through the storm.

Five modified Kawasakis pierced the veil of rain, the riders' reverse-gripped machetes glinting blue under the searchlights.

The moment the call connected, Alistair kicked over a stack of freight crates.

Amidst the thunderous crash of rusted metal, he roared into the receiver: "Gulfstream G650, Veridia Freight Pier 3. I want to see the landing lights in twenty-five minutes!"

Silas’s Beretta 92FS spat fire into the curtain of rain.

The lead rider collapsed backward, his wheels carving a crimson arc across the slick pavement.

Alistair seized a katana from a dying attacker, the blade slicing through the rain and trailing a string of blood droplets.

"Eighteen minutes left!"

Silas leaned against a container to swap magazines, the dull thuds of bullets piercing the iron plating whizzing past his ears.

Alistair spun, severing the wrist of an ambusher. The bloodied tip of his blade hooked the silver chain beneath the man’s collar—the cobra totem flickered eerily in the storm.

By the time the roar of a helicopter descended from the clouds, Alistair was kicking a fifth attacker into a sewage trench.

The moment the Gulfstream jet pierced the rain, twenty black Land Rovers smashed through the pier gates.

Silas emptied his final magazine and hauled Alistair up the air stairs.

As the cabin door sealed shut, Alistair ripped open his soaked shirt.

Between the jagged edges of the wound in his side, a half-deformed bullet rose and fell with his ragged breathing.

He bit the cork from a bottle of vodka and poured it over a pair of surgical forceps, the cabin lights casting long shadows of his lashes against his tightened jaw.

"Guess what Clara is doing right now?" Silas asked, wrapping a bandage around Alistair’s bleeding abdomen. "Holding roses while rehearsing

The Dying Swan

?"

In the muffled sound of the metal forceps probing his flesh, the veins on Alistair’s temples pulsed violently, yet a smile touched his lips. "Right now... she’s probably practicing her worried expression in front of a mirror."

The bloodied bullet dropped into a tray just as a beam of golden light broke through the clouds outside.

The night was as black as ink, pressing heavily over Veridia. The plane touched down on the runway, the jarring impact briefly jolting Alistair and Silas from their exhaustion.

Dragging their heavy steps, the two headed straight back to Alistair’s villa.

The moment they entered, Silas forced himself to stay conscious long enough to dial Julian.

On the other end, Julian was sitting comfortably on his sofa, leafing through a magazine. The sudden ring of the phone shattered the silence of the house.

He glanced casually at the caller ID and sat bolt upright, his relaxed expression replaced by sheer shock and worry.

"What? You guys were attacked? How are you now?"

Julian stood up abruptly, his magazine clattering to the floor.

As he fired questions into the phone, he strode toward the wardrobe, frantically grabbing his jacket and pulling it on.

Just then, Clara emerged from her room, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

Seeing Julian in such a panic, she looked bewildered, a bad premonition rising in her heart.

"Julian, what’s the hurry?"

She walked quickly to his side and grabbed his arm, her voice laced with anxiety.

Julian hesitated, his eyes full of worry. After a second, he told her the truth. "Silas and Alistair are in trouble. I have to get over there."

Clara’s face turned deathly pale at those words. A flash of panic crossed her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a cold determination.

"I’m coming too."

She gripped his arm tighter, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Julian frowned, about to refuse, but seeing the resolve in her eyes, he swallowed his words.

He nodded helplessly. "Fine. Be quick."

Clara spun and ran back to her room, throwing on a coat and not even pausing to fix her hair before rushing back out.

The two sped out of the house. Julian floor the gas, the tires shrieking as the car shot toward Alistair’s villa like an arrow.

Upon arriving, Julian rushed inside.

Clara followed close behind. Her fingertips brushed against a gold-plated ornament in the foyer; the sharp edges of a crystal swan felt cold under the moonlight.

The scent of blood wafting from the second floor made her stomach churn, yet her face bloomed into a perfect mask of alarm. "How did Alistair get hurt?"

"A little trouble with the maritime trade," Julian said, blocking the spiral staircase, his suit jacket stained with specks of blood.

Clara lowered her gaze to hide the sharp light in her eyes. The ginger tea she held rippled in its porcelain cup. "Then I’ll go brew some soothing soup for them..."

A sudden gasp erupted from the room.

Clara pushed open the door to see Alistair leaning against the headboard, shirtless.

Gauze was wound from his powerful waist all the way to his collarbone. In the medical tray, blood-soaked cotton balls were piled into a small mountain.

The man’s pale face was flushed with an unnatural fever, but his palm was still clenched around a metal object.

"39.7 degrees," the family doctor muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "The wound infection triggered a—"

Before he could finish, Clara had already wrung out a cold towel and placed it on Alistair’s forehead.

Her fingertip brushed seemingly by accident against his burning earlobe. Through her earpiece, a familiar voice commanded:

"Retrieve the object from his hand."

In his delirium, Alistair suddenly seized her wrist. His eyes, damp with high fever, were clouded with mist. "Clara?"

His raspy breath fanned across her neck. "You have snow on your lashes..."

Clara’s heart skipped a beat.

Memories of Veridia from three years ago came rushing back. Back then, she was the ward of the Vance house, hiding in the attic to watch the young heirs deal with traitors.

Alistair had wiped the blood from his face and smiled at her just like this: "The Little Swan should be in bed."

But back then, she had been disfigured by training, looking nothing like she did now. Alistair had never even looked at her properly then, so why...

Had he gone back to Veridia to investigate her!

"I'm here," she whispered, softening her voice. Her other hand gently pried open the man’s blood-stained fingers.

The sharp corner of the metal dog tag pierced her palm. The cobra totem, soaked in blood, looked eerily lifelike.

Alistair fell into a drug-induced sleep. Clara stared at his quiet face, her nails digging deep into her palms.

The moonlight outlined the girl’s slender silhouette through the curtains. No one saw the cold, triumphant smile in her eyes as she pressed the bloodied tag against her chest.

"Clara, let Alistair get some rest."

Julian walked in and placed an arm around her shoulders, leading her out of the room.

Silas had just finished showering and changing into clean clothes. His glasses had been shattered during the escape, leaving his vision slightly blurred.

"You aren't hiding any bullets or shrapnel on you, are you?" Julian joked.

Silas arched an eyebrow. "Just flesh wounds."