The man-bounty hunter?-fingered the paper she had set down, the list of Larocka Myll’s business entities. “Indeed you can. You can assist me all night long.” His leer had none of the charm of one of Maldynado’s. “As much trouble as you’ve given Hollowcrest, I figured you’d be some giant beefy woman with arms like cannon barrels. Not a perky little kitten. Yes, you’ll have to assist me quite a bit before I hack off your head for Hollowcrest.”
“You’ve been following me for him?” She eased to the side so the bookcase did not block retreat, though she doubted she could outrun him. Who would she run to anyway? Night had fallen, and the streets were empty. The image of the vacant clerk desk flashed through her mind. Was there even now a body stuffed behind it, out of sight?
He only smiled, his eyes chilling and invasive. “Not at all. This was the purest stroke of luck. Hollowcrest has me researching Myll, too, you see. Maybe you can share your findings with me before…”
“I’ll have more information if you leave me alone to work a while.” She backed into the aisle. Nothing but books stood within reach; she doubted throwing a book at someone who moved like Sicarius would help. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so.” He leaped off the table.
Amaranthe whirled, using the movement to hide the drawing of her knife. She sprinted down the aisle. At the end of the row, she darted behind the bookcase and dropped into a crouch. With luck, he would expect a standing target when he lunged around the corner. She might have a fraction of a heartbeat to surprise him.
But many heartbeats skipped by, and he didn’t round the corner. She dared a glance down the aisle. It was empty. She looked down the one on the other side of the bookcase. Empty too.
He’s toying with me.
She looked up. Too late.
The dark form dropped from the top of the bookcase. She leaped to the side, slashing at the inside of his ankle.
Too fast to see, he kicked the blade from her hand. By the time it thudded onto the carpet, he was on her, his hand around her neck. He tore her parka from her shoulders.
She tried to jerk her knee into his groin, but he blocked and pressed her into the end of the bookcase.
He loomed broader and a foot taller than her. He pinned her with his body, trapping her arms. A sewer odor rolled off him and assaulted her nose. He shoved his hand into her blouse and mashed her breast.
She’d escaped from groping men before, but he was too big, too strong, and he didn’t give her any space to gather any leverage.
If she could get his pistol, or one of his knives…
She needed to free her hand first. She twisted, and her knuckle bumped against a knife hilt.
His hand tightened on her neck, a vise on her windpipe.
“More fun if you’re alive,” he rasped, hot breath flooding over her, “but not a requirement.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She wasn’t going to be able to get away from him. “Thought you…wanted… information.”
His fingers denied her air, but she couldn’t give up. She dropped her chin, thinking she might bite his wrist, but he knew what he was doing.
“Later,” he panted.
He yanked her skirt down and his maw lunged in close. She bit his lip. She tasted blood, but he laughed. He drew back his arm to punch her. The movement gave her just enough space to grab for the knife. The angle was awkward, but she yanked it out, twisted her wrist, and jabbed it into his chest…
…only to have the blade deflected by his ribs. Cursed ancestors! He’d kill her for sure now.
But a spasm jerked through him, and his eyes bulged wide.
Quick to take advantage, Amaranthe shoved him, preparing for another stab. But he stumbled away. Shock plastered his face as he grabbed at his back and staggered around.
A knife hilt protruded from between his shoulder blades. He wobbled, pitched forward, and collapsed on the carpet.
Twenty feet away, Sicarius stood, rolled plat maps in one hand and a second throwing knife ready in the other.
“Thank the emperor.” Amaranthe sucked in deep breaths, dropping her hands to her knees for support.
“You should have screamed,” Sicarius said blandly. “I was in the basement.”
“I thought you’d left.”
“Work’s not done.”
She tried to pull her clothes into a semblance of order, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and the buttons thwarted her. She grabbed her parka, slid down the bookcase, and pulled her knees up to her chin. Feeling vulnerable, she watched Sicarius with more wariness than he deserved.
After scanning the shadows and listening for a moment, he searched the dead man’s clothing. An inner pocket offered up a wad of money and a small notepad. He flipped through the latter, then held it and the cash out, silently asking if Amaranthe wanted them.
She did not yet trust her hands. “Yes. Just…in a minute. You can…” Go? Stay? She wasn’t sure what she wanted.
For a moment, he simply stood, gazing down at her, and Amaranthe felt a stab of bleak amusement. He doesn’t know what to do.
She was about to tell him to get started on the business names and that she’d be fine-he’d arrived in time, after all-but he stepped around the body, and sat beside her, not quite touching.
Sitting in the shadows, with a killer, in an empty building, gazing at the corpse of another killer. When had her life grown so strange?
“Anyone you know?” Chin on her knees, she pointed her nose toward the body.
“An assassin. I’ve met him before.”
“Then I appreciate your willingness to stab an acquaintance in the back on my behalf.” Talking felt inane, but she did not want to dwell on what had almost been.
“Any assassin who allows himself to be distracted by his work deserves a knife in the back. It’s not professional.”
Amaranthe almost laughed, imagining some handout in Assassinry 101, where rules of etiquette were passed out with Sicarius’s wisdom at the top of the page. She doubted he had intended the statement to do so, but it lightened her mood. “I guess I’m lucky to have recruited a professional assassin.”
“Yes.”
Modest, he wasn’t, but compared to the dead man on the floor, he was a gentleman. Remembering the way he had not looked at her while she bathed, she wondered if his apparent lack of interest was an actual lack or self- imposed detachment. Might it be a “professional” choice to define her as “work” and stay focused on his goals? It was probably better not to ask. If he just wasn’t interested, did she really want to know? And if he were, what would she do with the knowledge anyway? Ask him out on a date in between the blackmailing, counterfeiting, and assassination attempts? Still, curiosity got the best of her tongue.
“Am I work?”
The sideways look he gave her was the closest thing to humor she had seen from him. “You’re a lot of work.”
“I meant, uhm, never mind.”
His eyes glinted, and he held out the notepad, already open to a specific page.
“Right.” Amaranthe accepted it this time and gawked when she read it. “Larocka’s address!”
“If his notes are correct, yes.”
“This is all we need, then. We can-wait.” She tapped the notepad on her knee a couple times. “He was here looking for more information on Larocka for Hollowcrest. I assume that means Hollow wants the Forge leader assassinated-he wouldn’t want someone killing the emperor he’s drugging into submission, now would he? But the home address wasn’t enough for some reason. Why wouldn’t an assassin be able to get in and kill her at home?”
“Wards?”
“What?”
“Barriers or alarms made using the mental sciences,” Sicarius said.
