Basilus’s words haunted me long into the night. Even after I’d written a letter to Dalziel to see if we could meet at the soonest convenience on the off chance this threat is real. I dreamt of my father wringing the life out of Violence, of Basilus’s laughter, and of my mother’s death. All the while, I was never able to get to them. Never able to help.
In every nightmare, my hands had been bound, or I’d been caged in some way. Helpless. I’m always helpless.
Sweat trickles down my forehead and into my hairline as I wake with a quiet gasp. My cracked window allows a small gust of wind in to help dry the perspiration. Still, I feel as though I’m drowning in my own liquids. I shift minimally to confirm that I haven’t also pissed my own pants.
No, my sheets are dry enough. At least I’ve saved myself from that embarrassment. I let out a slow breath and close my eyes.
Think of happy things... think of safety... think of Valentina... no, don’t think about Valentina,I scold myself.Think of whiskey, think of full lips...
I grind my teeth together.
Something else. I need to think of some—
A whisper. Not words rolled softly off the tongue but silent steps on a tiled floor. I hold my breath, listening. I crack my eyes open. Moonlight filters in, and the thick outline of a shadow moves without sound over the wall at my left.
I roll, hopping so it looks as if I’m only turning in my sleep. The shadow stops. My fingers slip under my pillows to curl around a cold, golden hilt. Another step. My own shallow breath as I try to steady the thrumming of my heart is the only sound within the room.
Who could be so quiet? So well trained?
My bowels turn to liquid as I contemplate the answer. I snap my eyes shut.
The outline moves closer still. Until I can feel their presence at my side.
Then I move.
Blade pulled free from the sheath, it collides with another, already dirty with someone else’s blood. Who had they cut through to get to me?
I grunt as I push back. My attention lifts to the face of my attacker. I hiss as I recognize the tattoo that cuts across the man’s forehead. The markings are still visible through the shaved path around his head as the ancient language circles his skull like a halo.
Assassin.
Any air left in my lungs leaves me as I shove the blade away. I’m sitting, pushing my heavy comforter away as the assassin releases another dagger from his belt. A beam of moonlight bounces off the end of my short sword as I point it toward the man.
“Who sent you?” I seethe.
He answers with a lunge. My blade shrieks against his. One swipe deflected, the other only narrowly avoided. He’s already moving again, wheeling his arms, expertly shifting his feet. A well-trained assassin, I see.
I’m well trained too. And I meet each of his blows with blocks and strikes of my own. One of his daggers swipes past me, slicing through the excess fabric of my billowing sleep shirt. It stabs through the cloth and into my bedpost behind me. I let the fabric tear as I pull away. He’s fast enough, though, that he yanks the blade free, able to skim my side with his blade.
Hot blood instantly stains my shirt. I hardly register the burning sensation of split skin as I return his success with a wound of my own. My sword cuts across his forearm, deep and punishing. Muscle is torn. His fingers go limp. The clatter of a dagger bouncing against tile, music to my ears.
My shirt clings to my sweat and blood. The outside of my vision turns red as I point all my burning emotions toward this one very, very stupid person.
He holds his other hand out in front of him while I kick the other dagger away. His lone weapon cuts through the air. Steel to steel, we collide.
“Who sent you?” I ask again. Everything builds within me. I’m fueled by my fury, by my nightmares, by the threat of Violence’s death, and by the mourning of my mother’s. I push.
Both of us take steps at the same time as I move him toward my fireplace until his back is pressed to stone. His eyes flare. He knows he’s been beaten even before I knock his dagger from his hand, sending it into the ashes in the hearth. With heavy breaths, his chest rises and falls. The tip of my sword digs into his flesh, drawing crimson at its point.
“This is the last time I’ll ask nicely. Who sent you?”
The assassin flashes me brown-stained teeth in a quickly spreading smile. I see the black-capped tooth a moment too late as he bites down with a crack. Foam froths over his lips. His eyes rolling to the back of his head till only the whites are exposed.
I step away with a growl. Thudding into a heap, his body goes limp against my floor. As his life leaves him, his muscles twitch, and his bowels release. My nose wrinkles with disgust as I turn away. His stench quickly fills my room. I ignore it as I walk quietly to my window and peer out.
A few guards’ bodies can be seen frozen in death at their posts. I scan the yard, the roofs of the castle within my vision. Nothing moves. It’s as if the entire night holds its breath waiting for something else, just as I am.
Chapter Eight
