Magia Posthuma ✓

Ten

The driver was leaning against the carriage, swigging from a flask when Irina finally emerged from the alleyway, and when he took in her dishevelled appearance – her hair tumbling over her shoulders and her fine gown soiled with blood, snow and mud – he spat a shower of brandy into the street.

"My lady, what–!"

Irina waved a hand and rolled her eyes. "It's fine, I'm fine."

The driver became alarmed when Vlad stepped from the alleyway like a looming shadow – the dagger still embedded in his shoulder. Without a second thought, he dropped his flask into the snow and – with a shaking hand – drew the pistol tucked into the belt of his uniform. "Are you the monster what's responsible for this?" he'd shouted at him, nodding once at Irina. "You'll regret it when you find out who she is, you know!"

Vlad sent the driver a pathetic look.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Irina groaned as she stomped through the snow towards the driver. She placed her hand on the gun and lowered it. "He saved me, you fool."

The driver glanced uncertainly over her shoulder at Vlad and the dagger sticking out of the shoulder pad of his elegant black cloak. "...There's a knife sticking out his shoulder."

"You're quite right," Irina replied with a nod. "And – just so we're clear – it's going to remain lodged in his scapula until we're back at the palace and I can go about removing it safely," she insisted, talking to the driver but shooting the warning at Vlad.

He sighed. "If it must."

She turned back and arched a dark brow. Her lips curled, "Doctor's orders."

The three of them stood there in silence for a moment; the snow drifted softly around them as the driver hovered on the spot – not really knowing what he was expected to do.

Irina pointed her eyes at the carriage, then sighed impatiently. "I'll open the door myself then, shall I?" she barked.

The poor driver flustered and sprung to action, wading through the snow piled at the side of the street as he moved to open the carriage door. "Apologies, my lady."

"Home... and quickly," Irina commanded as she picked up her damp skirts and climbed inside the cabin.

The driver looked unsure when Vlad followed his mistress into the carriage and closed the door, but any objection he had was quickly silenced when Irina poked her head through the window and firmly warned him that he wasn't to breathe a word of what he'd seen to anyone.

As the carriage rambled up the hill and though quiet streets towards the governor's palace, Irina's mind raced. Now that she was out of danger, the minutiae of the attack – small, strange details that had been drowned out in the moment – suddenly came into focus.

She shook her head. "He was dead..." she muttered. She looked at Vlad, "I mean... I shot him, didn't I?" she asked, gesturing to the vast blood stain across her bodice.

He was lounging opposite her looking very comfortable given the circumstances, with one riding boot propped across his thigh, an arm resting against the windowsill and the length of his black cloak spilling over the seat around him. "It certainly seemed that way."

Irina raked a hand through her ruffled mane of brown curls. "And even supposing it might take hours to succumb to such a wound... he hit that wall with such force... force enough to shatter every bone in his body," she thought out loud, frowning as she recalled how Vlad had flung the man across the alleyway as if he were snowball. She looked at him, her eyes drifting from his arms to his broad shoulders. "...You're incredibly strong."