"What do you want from me, Scales?" Trinket asked, not willing to play games while Booker's life was in danger.

Scales frowned. "I thought I was rather clear in my note."

"I don't have Benedict."

With impressive speed, Scales pulled a knife from his pocket and began to trace Booker's fingers. "All right, then. So which one should go next?" he said as Booker's hands twitched, unable to move for the rope tying them to the arms of the chair. "Perhaps we should even things out? Take the left ring finger?"

The blade circled the stump that had once been Booker's right ring finger. Trinket's stomach twisted at the sight of the thick, congealing blood.

"I don't have him with me, but I know where he is," she blurted out, her attention still on Booker's mutilated hand.

The knife paused, and she dared to tear her eyes away to meet Scales' gaze. "Now we're getting somewhere," he said. "Where's the map?"

She shook her head. "There is no map."

He gave a dramatic eye roll and sighed. "I saw Larkin with the map. Don't tell me there's no map."

"There's no longer a map. I destroyed it."

Even Booker seemed taken aback at this. "You destroyed it?" Scales said, each word clipped and filled with impatience. "And why, my darling strumpet, would you do something quite so stupid? You do realize you've made yourself completely useless to me now, don't you?"

He steadied his hand and moved to pull the trigger. Trinket's heart was in her throat, causing her words to come out in a strangled gasp. "Kill me and you kill the map."

Silence. Scales remained in position, narrowing his eyes at her. "Explain."

Something with many legs was crawling along her calf, but she dared not look down to see if it was real. It didn't matter. Nothing was more terrifying than the reality before her. "I memorized the map and then destroyed it to make myself invaluable, thus securing my survival."

A long moment passed without any reaction. Trinket's heart was still clawing up her throat. Did he know? Could he tell she was bluffing? There were more creatures scurrying up her ankles, and as something brushed against her cheek, she was certain she saw a long, furry leg. But she wouldn't move. Her eyes remained trained on Scales as he took forever to decide whether or not he believed her claim.

"You memorized it?" he said at last. "The entire map?"

"You said it yourself. Booker doesn't waste his time on ordinary things. I have an uncanny knack for details. Memorizing a map is child's play for me."

Another pause. Trinket longed to turn her gaze to Booker, to be sure he was still there, still alive. But she feared giving something away if she looked into those warm, intoxicating eyes of his. She couldn't risk it.

As one of the imaginary pests began climbing down the back of Trinket's dress, Scales released a deep breath and lowered the gun just slightly. "Clever girl," he said. "You play your hand well. Much better than this fool."

Without warning, he plunged his knife into Booker's leg. Losing all control, Trinket let out a scream and ran towards him. At the same moment she did, Scales raised his pistol and pulled the trigger. Glass shattered, and Trinket froze, taking stock of herself to be sure she hadn't been hit. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw shards from a small window fall to the floor, letting in a trickle of rain.

"But you both need to learn your place," Scales said, pointing the gun at Booker. "Now, tell me where this madman friend of Booker's is hiding. Unless you need more incentive?"

He cocked the hammer and raised an eyebrow, pressing the muzzle of the pistol to Booker's temple. Shadows danced about the room as Trinket met Booker's eyes. They were wide and insistent as he gave his head an almost imperceptible shake.

She opened her mouth and stopped, her lips trembling. What could she do? Even if she told Scales where Benedict was, would that keep him from killing Booker? Of course not. He'd kill Booker no matter what she did. Because that was as much his goal as finding Benedict. They were one and the same to him.

But with Booker's life being threatened right before her, she had no choice. She couldn't just do nothing and watch as the man she loved was murdered. Turning her eyes to Booker, she tried to convey how sorry she was. It seemed to get through to him; he began to struggle against Scales, shaking his head and mumbling desperately against the cloth in his mouth.

"Come on, we don't have all day," Scales said, grabbing Trinket's wrist and pulling her closer, sending a shock of pain through her arm as he upset her injury from the hairpin. "It's your choice. The map or your lover boy. Which will it be?"

Again, she opened her mouth to reply, not knowing what words would come out. "I—"

The basement door slammed open, and she nearly choked on her own gasp. All three of them turned their attention to the stairs as footsteps came racing down. A tall, gun-wielding figure stumbled into the room.

Benedict.

Quickly righting himself, he assessed his surroundings with the cool control of a detached and logical scientist. He scanned her and Scales with as much disinterest as he might show an embroidered pillow. But when he got to Booker, something changed. His eyes went wide, every muscle in his body tensing to such a degree he actually looked larger than he truly was. Tightening his grip on the pistol, he aimed it at Scales.

"Release them this instant," he demanded.

Scales gave a short laugh, his gun still pressed to Booker's head as he held on to Trinket's wrist. "Lord, Larkin, how many followers do you have? Who's next, your maid?"

"Your interest is in me, not these two," Benedict continued.

All humor vanished from Scales' face, replaced instead with dark intrigue. "Excuse me?"

Trinket's gaze flickered to Booker. He'd ceased his struggling and was now staring at Benedict in utter disbelief. Had there been no gag in his mouth, she was certain his jaw would have fallen open. She returned her attention to Benedict, whose eyes had darted back to Booker. There was something very warm and sincere behind them. His lips twitched at the corners, as though he were holding back a smile.

"I'm the man you're after," he went on, tearing his gaze away from Booker and focusing on Scales. "The mutant wolf? The mutilated bodies? The vampire? They were all my creations."

Though he stared at Benedict in amazement, Scales' hold on Trinket didn't loosen for a moment. "You're—"

"Benedict Hawk: scientist, doctor, genius, and madman. I'm the one you're looking for if I'm not mistaken."

Booker had resumed his violent struggling and somehow managed to spit the rag out of his mouth. "No!" he cried, his voice like rusted metal. "Benedict, don't you dare. Don't you dare do this."

"Shut your mouth, Larkin," Scales hissed, lowering his gun to twist the knife lodged in Booker's leg.

A howl of pain burst from Booker's lips. Trinket tried to wrench herself out of Scales' grip, desperate to help him. But Scales pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her chest and squeezing tight. Her breath escaped her, and she gasped for air as tiny dots of darkness flooded her vision.

"Let them go," Benedict repeated.

"So you're the infamous friend," Scales said. "Quite a show you've put on. You enjoy theatrics, don't you?"

"You're one to talk, Scales," Booker spat.

The dots in Trinket's vision were joined by flashes of light, making it difficult to keep track of the conversation going on around her.

"Don't you dare agree to anything he says."

"Booker, I can't just—"

"Don't you dare. I'd rather die than see you fall into the hands of this monster."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Larkin."

"Why the obsession, Scales? Aren't your men gruesome enough without adding pig snouts and bird claws?"

"You'd be a lot less witty if you didn't have that bloody tongue of yours."

"Touch him and I swear—"

"No! Upon my word, if you agree to his terms, I will slit my throat right here and now."

"Oh, blast, you spoiled my grand finale."

"Why him, Scales? Answer me!"

"Quite demanding for a prisoner."

Through her impaired vision, Trinket could see Booker practically foaming at the mouth while Scales basked in his rage. Benedict still stood where he was, his gun trained on Scales, seeming unsure of what to do.

"Why did you risk so much for a single man, Scales?" Booker asked. "For power? For fear?"

"Power and fear are everything, Larkin. And when you meet a man capable of generating both, you either kill him or recruit him. Something Viper never understood."

"And what made you think Benedict would willingly join you?"

Grinding the gun's muzzle into Booker's temple, Scales relished in the wince he pulled from his lips. Benedict's aim faltered as he took a sharp breath.

Scales raised an eyebrow and turned his gaze back to Booker with a grin. "I think I just may have the right bargaining tools to convince him. You see, this is why emotions are such dangerous, pesky things. They make a man hesitate. And hesitation can mean the difference between life and death."

Booker snapped his attention back to Benedict. "If you do this, I'll never forgive you, Benedict. You can't let this man gain any more power than he already has. He'll destroy the city. He'll destroy you. Don't do it."

Benedict's eyes darted between Booker and Scales, his hand trembling.

"See? Emotions," Scales said with a chuckle. "They make even the most brilliant of men pathetic and useless."

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Trinket said between clenched teeth as she fought against Scales' hold.

He drew her back hard, and she nearly lost her breath again. "If you don't watch that tongue—"

She gasped. "You're driven by emotions. They mark everything you do."

Booker's eyes went wide. "Trinket, don't—"

"Your feud with Booker," she continued. "He's just as brilliant and capable as Benedict, but your hatred for him keeps you from recruiting him. It's why you want him dead. Not because he refused you, but because you refused him."

Scales let out a laugh. "Well deduced, little—"

"Viper. You didn't kill him just because you needed to get to the top. You killed him out of rage. Out of revenge. Hatred, anger, pride—all emotions you reek of."

Tightening his grip, Scales hissed, "Sentimentality. Sentimentality ruins a person. And it's sentimentality that I—"

"Charity."

He froze, and Trinket could feel his heart skip a beat in his chest. "What did you—"

"She's still a part of everything you do. She haunts you, shames you. What would your sister think of the person you've become?"

Spinning her around to face him, Scales grasped her shoulders, his eyes wide and dark. "How do you know about that? How?"

He shook her, but she refused to give up. "What did she think when you tortured Gin? Did she try to stop you? Did she beg you to reconsider?"

Panic washed over his face. His breaths became shallow and his gaze distant, as if remembering that moment when he'd brought the little urchin to the brink of death.

"It won't end. The guilt will always be there," she said, her voice nearly a whisper as she appealed to his heart. "She'll keep coming back to remind you of all the wrong you've done. You can't run. You can't hide. And you surely can't kill those who are already dead. Trust me, I know."

Scales' body trembled as tears welled up in his eyes. "Charity," he breathed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Hope grew within Trinket's chest as she gained a glimpse of the boy Scales had once been. A scared, lonely, innocent child who'd lost the only person that mattered in his life. Just like Booker. And Benedict. And even her. In that instant, he was as human and pitiable as they were.

And then it disappeared. Grabbing her, he spun her back around and held the gun to her head. Booker fought against his bindings, cursing at Scales and vowing to slit his throat. Benedict's weapon wavered, and he looked to Booker, as if for guidance.

"You're right," Scales said. "Charity is still here. She questions my every move, my every decision. She's with me after every robbery, after every lie, after every murder. And each time, she begs me to stop, begs me to change. But it's because of her that I do all of this."

He turned to Booker. Trinket could see the utter terror in Booker's eyes as they moved from her face to the gun pressed to her head.

"It's because of cocky, self-important upstarts like you that she's dead," Scales spat with more raw emotion than he'd ever expressed before. "Men who think they're so much better than everyone else. Foolish, selfish men who hold more power than they deserve. So yes, maybe I am haunted by emotions from my past. But unlike the rest of you bleeding lot, I know how to put them to good use. I've taken that pain, that guilt and shame, and I've turned it into a reason to go on. A reason to destroy all who try to stop me."

"How are you any different from the people who hurt your sister?" Trinket wheezed, straining her neck to get away from the gun.

Jerking her back, he hissed, "Because when I kill and maim, it's for a purpose, not for pleasure. That's what makes me different. That's what makes me better. That's what makes me right."

"It's what makes you insane," Booker said, his voice hushed and strained.

Scales turned back to him and regained some of his decorum. "If you're going to play the selfless martyr, let's try this."

His eyes darted to Benedict, who tensed under the Mouse's glare.

"You'll agree to my terms and demands or else," Scales ground the warm metal of the gun's muzzle into Trinket's skin, "I blow the girl's brains out."

"No!" Booker cried, attempting to lunge towards him and nearly toppling the chair over.

"Ah, see, I thought that would get a better reaction. What will it be, boys?"

Booker stared at Trinket, his mouth opening and closing without uttering a single word.

"Booker, I'm not worth it," she whispered. "Please, don't. Please."

Still, he didn't speak. Or couldn't. She'd never seen him like this before. The pain, the terror, the absolute helplessness.

"Let her go," Benedict said.

Scales scoffed. "Haven't we been through—"

His words faded away, and as Trinket followed his gaze, she realized why.

Benedict had given up on Scales and turned the gun on himself. With the barrel tucked under his chin, he met Scales' eyes with a hard, cold stare. There wasn't an ounce of hesitation or fear in them now. Only a terrifying determination.

"Let her go or you lose me," he said. "And along with me, you'll lose everything you have planned for your rise to power."

Scales stared at him in disbelief before giving a breathy laugh. "You wouldn't dare."

"You're threatening the woman my best friend loves. Booker means more to me than anyone or anything in this world. Don't think for a moment I wouldn't sacrifice my life to preserve his happiness."

Another long pause. Trinket's pulse pounded in her ears, throbbing against the barrel still pressed to her temple. Whispered voices filled the room with words she couldn't comprehend, muddled and vicious, trying to distract her from the horrifying moment. But she wouldn't let them. She was so afraid if she blinked or breathed at the wrong second, something awful would happen.

Finally, Scales shifted. Her heart stopped as he pressed the gun harder to her head and—

A shot rang out. Trinket gasped, not sure who had been hit, her or Benedict. But then Scales' arms fell away from her. His gun tumbled to the ground with a clatter, followed by a dull crash. She looked to Benedict, finding him alive and unharmed, his eyes fixed on something behind her. Taking a deep breath, she slowly turned.

Scales was lying motionless, a growing pool of blood seeping into the dirt floor beneath his head. His eyes were wide with shock and disbelief, still as cold and heartless as ever.

And now lifeless.

Was this real? Or was it another hallucination? No, her mind only brought her nightmares to life. It never killed them.

"Yoo-hoo!"

A voice called from outside, and Trinket looked up to find two faces peering in through the window Scales had shattered earlier. It was too dark to see their features, but there was a flash of fiery copper that was impossible to miss.

"You're welcome," Frieda said as the other face disappeared from view.

Still unable to fully comprehend the situation, Trinket turned back to Benedict. He hadn't moved from the spot he was in, though he had lowered the pistol to his side. He was staring at Scales, but as he sensed her gaze, he looked up and caught her eye. Letting out a breath, his shoulders slumped, and he attempted a weak smile.

A hiss of pain stole her attention away from him. "Booker!" she cried out, spinning back to him and rushing to his side. "Oh, Lord, Booker, are you all right?"

Gently running her fingers through his hair and over his arms and chest, she tried to reassure herself he was there.

He was there.

And alive.

Alive.

Booker was alive.

He offered a smile despite the deep cut on his lower lip, revealing teeth now stained red. "I'm going to be honest. I've been better."

A tearful laugh escaped Trinket's lips, and she wrapped her arms around him, swearing to herself she would never let him go.

Footsteps hurried over to them, and as Trinket reluctantly pulled back, she found Daphne sawing away at the ropes around Booker's hands and feet with her ever-trusty kitchen knife. Catching Trinket's gaze, she smiled and laid down the pistol still gripped in her other hand to reach out and give her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Oh, Lord! Booker, darling, what happened to you?" exclaimed Frieda as she came down the stairs and caught sight of the bloody mess.

"Seems there may be a few fractures," Benedict said, kneeling before Booker and assessing the damage. "Most of the cuts appear relatively minor, save for the knife in your leg and the missing finger."

"It's not the first time someone has stabbed me there," Booker said. "Though losing a body part is a new experience. Not one I'm hoping to repeat."

Benedict glanced up, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "Hello, old friend," he said softly.

Booker returned the smile. "Hello. It's been a while, has it not?"

"Indeed, it has."

"You think maybe next time you could just send a calling card?"

Laughing, Benedict turned his eyes to the knife in Booker's leg, carefully examining the wound.

"I mean, if you really want, you can leave it in a skull or a dead cat or something," Booker went on. "I just worry if we continue our reunions in this manner, I might not live long enough to rekindle our friendship."

Daphne cut the last rope and pulled it away, allowing Booker the freedom to move. He gave Benedict a friendly slap on the shoulder, drawing the man's eyes back to him. Smiling, Booker gripped his arm tightly.

"I missed you, Benedict," he said.

Benedict took a sharp breath and then grasped Booker's shoulder. "I missed you, too, Booker."

"You two are sickening," Frieda said as she stepped closer. "I really hate to break up this touching reunion, but there are two dead men outside and a dead body in here, not to mention all the gunshots that have likely alerted someone to our presence. Shall we head off to safety before we all get arrested?"

"They're not dead," Benedict said, rising to his feet. "Just knocked out. But you're right, we should go. Booker, I'm sorry, but I think I need to leave the knife in until we get to the house. Will you be able to walk?"

With some struggle, Booker lifted himself from the chair. Trinket quickly slipped her arms around his waist to steady him, and he gratefully draped his own arm over her shoulders. He smiled through the pain and replied, "I've been in worse shape. Well, no, I haven't, but it'll be fine."

With Frieda leading the way, they headed back up the stairs and out into the rainstorm. Daphne brought up the rear, her gun at the ready, while Benedict helped Trinket with Booker, draping Booker's other arm around his neck.

"Where are your boots?" Booker asked Trinket as he limped along.

"It's a bit of a long story," she replied. "Best told when I'm sure you won't bleed to death."

"I take it you ignored my message?"

"I did. And it's a good thing, or else you might be dead right now."

"I'm sorry, Trinket. I'm sorry I lied. I just wanted to keep you safe."

Gently patting his chest, Trinket placed a kiss on his brow. "We'll talk about it later."

Turning his attention to Benedict, Booker said, "So you've met my assistant. What do you think of her?"

Benedict smiled sadly and caught Trinket's eyes. "She's remarkable. But I expected nothing less from Booker Larkin's partner."

Feeling slightly uncomfortable under his rather emotional gaze, Trinket looked back at Daphne and asked, "How did you two find us?"

Raising her eyebrows, Daphne pointed at Frieda still leading the way up front.

"I found that matchstick box on the floor and guessed it had something to do with your disappearance," Frieda said. "But your little maid couldn't make a connection between the matches and the finger we assumed belonged to Booker. So we went in search of you and bumped into that night flower friend of yours. We asked her if she knew anything, and she explained about the Mice's penchant for cutting off fingers and Scales' history with the matchstick factory."

"You saved our lives," Trinket said, glancing at Daphne and smiling. "I don't think 'thank you' can truly sum up our gratitude."

"Just remember that next time you get the urge to stab me with your hair ornaments," Frieda said.

After an agonizing hustle through the city center, they made it back home. Trinket and Benedict hurried Booker down to the laboratory, and as Frieda tried to follow after them, Benedict turned and blocked the doorway.

"No," he said firmly.

Placing her hands on her hips, Frieda gave him a scowl. "Excuse me, but I do believe I saved your lives back there. Where do you get off bossing me around?"

"As far as I can tell, it was Daphne who shot Scales. And you've caused enough trouble today. Stay up here and don't drug anyone else. Understood?"

Though she huffed at his tone, Frieda obeyed and trudged back to the parlour.

"What sort of chaos did she create now?" Booker asked as Trinket led him to the operating table.

"Oh, we can talk about that later, too," she said. "We'll have lots to discuss and plenty of time. Let's just focus on keeping you alive until then."

"I'm not going to die," Booker said, though he winced as she helped him onto the table, the knife still digging into his leg.

Benedict wheeled over Booker's surgical tools. "Hope you don't mind me borrowing your supplies," he said, dousing a rag with alcohol.

"There are very few people I trust in my laboratory," Booker said. "Actually, I can narrow it down to two. And they're both standing here now."

With another uncertain smile, Benedict got to work cleaning Booker's wounds. Trinket stood by Booker's side, holding his uninjured hand, their fingers laced together tightly. She watched Benedict carefully, picking up on his sudden change in behavior. No longer calm and confident, he kept avoiding Booker's eyes and babbling on about his injuries, as if trying to fill the silence between them. Fortunately, Booker was too battered to notice.

"Aside from the casualties," Booker said, "it really was a brilliant game. I haven't felt quite this alive while almost dying since . . . well, since never."

"You were rather impressive in your deductions," Benedict said, gently dabbing at the open wound where Booker's finger had been. His gaze darted to Trinket and then quickly returned to his work. "Both of you."

"I must admit, I worried at times I was going to disappoint you," Booker said, his eyes fluttering closed, exhaustion taking its toll on him. "It's been so many years, I could only imagine how your skills had improved. I didn't think I'd be able to catch up."

Pausing, Benedict bit his lip and took a deep breath. He glanced at Trinket and then at Booker. "There was never a possibility that you would disappoint me, Booker. And besides, you've surpassed me in so many ways. I should be the one worried about disappointing you."

Booker gave a snort of a laugh. "I find that hard to believe."

Benedict set the rag aside and turned back to the small table where Booker's tools rested. He picked up the bottle of ether and a clean cloth, handing them both to Trinket and nodding at Booker, whose eyes were still closed.

"I worry that in your current state," Benedict began, threading a needle and returning to Booker, "the pain of being stitched up could cause you to pass out."

Forcing his eyes open, Booker scoffed and made a pathetic attempt at waving him away. "I'm fine."

"Booker, as your doctor, I insist you take something to ease the pain."

Looking between Benedict and Trinket, Booker finally sighed and shrugged a shoulder. "Go ahead, then. Just be sure to wake me up when the police come pounding on the door. I'd like to be conscious when they drag me into the station."

Benedict gave a tight smile. "Of course."

Lying back with Trinket's assistance, Booker smiled up at her as she doused the rag. "See you soon," he whispered.

She brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead before pressing the drugged cloth to his nose and mouth. In less than a minute, his eyes fluttered closed, his breaths deep and even.

"I may need your help with his leg," Benedict said.

Coming to his side, Trinket watched silently as he pulled the knife out and quickly got to work stitching up the gash. The voices had died down to a nearly unnoticeable whisper, and the shadows had all but disappeared. But everything still felt unreal, like one of her hallucinations. It felt as if the moment could disappear and be replaced by a cold, harsh reality she didn't want to even imagine.

"He'll be all right," Benedict said as he finished with the last few stitches.

She glanced over and noticed he was using a regular, straight sewing needle. "I trust you," she said. "After all you did back there, I trust that you'll do what's right for him."

His hands twitched. He winced as if in pain, but continued to tie off the thread. "I lied earlier," he said, reaching for the scissors.

"What do you mean?"

After checking over the stitching, he moved on to Booker's missing finger. "When you asked if your being with Booker bothered me. I lied."

She furrowed her brow. "So you are against us being together?"

"Not against it, exactly. More . . ." He heaved a sigh, pausing his work and staring down at the table. "Booker is my only friend in the world. And I thought I was his closest friend. But clearly that's no longer the case."

"He still cares about you, Benedict. Trust me, you're very important to him."

"But not like before." He lifted his gaze to her, and she was shocked to find so much emotion behind it. "His priorities have most certainly shifted, as is clear by the fact he risked his life to keep you safe."

Her stomach sank, and she averted her eyes as she swallowed. "I—"

"And it's not a bad thing. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm happy Booker has found someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with. Frankly, from the short time I've spent with you, he has good taste. You'll keep him on his toes and take care of him. That's what he needs. It's just an adjustment. I suppose I thought when Booker and I reunited, we'd pick up where we left off. Studying science and medicine together, coming up with designs and experiments."

"Can't you still do that?"

He shook his head and resumed his stitching. "Booker already has a partner. What use does he have for me?"

Benedict was having the same doubts she herself had been struggling with? He feared Booker didn't need him anymore? That she had taken his place? It seemed ridiculous considering Benedict was far more qualified for the job than she was. Shamefully, though, she was slightly pleased to know that her rival for Booker's attention felt just as inadequate as she did.

He sighed and tied off the final stitch. "I think he's good now. We should get him back upstairs, have him rest. It's going to take some time for him to heal, but I expect a complete recovery. Could you help me?"

Together they lifted him off the table and carefully walked him up to his room where they laid him down on the bed. As Benedict removed Booker's shoes, Trinket pulled down the covers and tucked them about his body. Gazing down at him, her heart still aching, she trailed her fingers along his jawline, as if touching him would remind her she hadn't lost him.

Yet.

"You should stay with him," Benedict said as he headed back towards the door. "Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't need anything. And I daresay he'd appreciate the company."

Trinket spun on her heel. "Where are—"

"Don't worry. I'll be here. I'll check in on him later. Just be certain he gets some rest."

With that, he closed the door with a soft click, his footsteps receding down the hall. Trinket turned back to Booker. Walking around the bed, she climbed up on the other side and inched as close as she could get to him without actually slipping beneath the covers. She wrapped her arms about his sleeping form and leaned her chin against his shoulder. Even after all the blood and rain and gunpowder, he somehow still smelled like chemicals and machine oil.

Breathing the scent in, she closed her eyes and held him tighter.