I stumble into more courtiers and disentangle myself before racing outside.
The broad-shouldered figure sprints through the gardens toward the large pond hosting a pair of swans, pausing briefly to look behind him several times as he goes. His cloak flaps around the ankle-length black pants he wears.
Pants not of this century.
“Nico, this guy is not a local. Did you see his pants?” I say, gasping as I dash toward the retreating figure. If not for the pre-mission physical training, running while costumed in thirty pounds of Tudor regalia would would border on impossible. “Any outside cameras in this area?”
“Dodger,” Fagin’s hoarse whisper breaks into the conversation. “Are you sure he’s not a local?”
“His clothing isn’t of this time period.”
“Dodger,” Nico says. “There here are two cameras in the rose garden to your right and several in the trees down the path toward the meadow.”
“I lose sight of him every time he takes a turn through the gardens. You’re likely to see him before I do if he tries to sneak around to the left.”
“I don’t know about that. He seems to slow down long enough to let you catch up to him a little bit.”
True to Nico’s assessment, the assailant pauses at the next corner of the terrace and glances back at me before continuing on.
“All right, asshole,” I say. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
By the time I land on the ground-level promenade, there isn’t another person in sight except for the would-be assassin. Gasping for breath, I spin around and around, looking for the next direction, some clue as to the route Anne’s failed executioner has taken.
“Nico, where is he?”
“He ducked behind that grove of bushes over to your left. I didn’t see him come around the other side, so he could be waiting for you to move past him. Move around to your right and come up behind him on the other side.”
A flash of multi-colored light streaks upward from behind the bushes.
“Is it me or did that flash of light look like a transporter beam?” I poke my head around the leading edge of the shrub.
Nothing.
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Nico says. “I don’t have a camera on that side of the bushes. But, the long-range camera from the West side of the garden would’ve picked up anyone running out from behind that greenery, no matter which direction they were headed. And it should pick up a transport in progress, too.”
There are voices shouting near the palace; the king’s guards are joining the pursuit.
A multi-color beam of light—it looks like a rainbow filtering down through the barren tree branches—appears down a stone path a few dozen meters away. The light shifts between green and blue until a steady blue light comprised of all-too-familiar energy fractals emerges.
Merde.
“Definitely a transporter beam.” I say, trying to steady my breathing.
“Yep, and it’s not one of us. Both Fagin and Trevor are onsite with you,” Nico says.
The dark-clad figure materializes from within the light and stands next to a knight-shaped topiary.
“Seems Trevor’s not bullshitting about having backup,” Nico says.
The failed slayer’s arms are raised, stretched wide as though welcoming my pursuit.
A subtle gesture from the gloved hand urges me closer. My steps are slow as I scan the garden for anyone else who might also have seen the attacker appear out of thin air.
Judging from the volume of the shouting, the king’s guards are closing in, but they’re probably too far away to have witnessed what they would surely have deemed as witchcraft.
The figure stands, unmoving and silent. As I get closer, I get my first good look at the mask: a full-face black leather executioner’s hood with slits for the eyes and mouth, making the features of the one beneath it undistinguishable.
The cloaked one stands as rigid as the stone statues lining the path on either side of me. I close more than half the distance between us when the transporter haze reappears like a halo emanating from within the figure itself.
The air vibrates with a faint hum, and the transporter light grows brighter. A sideways cock of the head, then the assassin waggles a few fingers at me in farewell.
Oh no, you fucking don’t. A primitive snarl explodes into a howl as I sprint toward him. My fingertips brush the billowing cloak flapping in the breeze.
A final lunge forward and, instead of grappling with the attacker, I collide with thin air.
A patch of loose gravel pitches me headfirst into a half-frozen mud hole. My kirtle rips as my knees and hands plunge through the surface layer of ice and grind into the layer of rock beneath it. My chin hits the ground with a bone-jarring thunk that makes my ears ring.
I crawl out of the slurry. Splotches of blood stretch across the raw, shiny wounds on my palms, and I feel the sting of the same broken skin on my kneecaps.
We’ve been playing defense with Trevor for too long, and now there are more Observers on the ground as her backup. Who knows how many of them there are? Whatever else is going on with this shit show, one thing is painfully clear: This mission isn’t just about teaching me a lesson for going rogue with the side jobs on other jobs.
My stomach churns as I march past the palace guards who are still searching the grounds for the attacker.
Courtiers gape at the sludge smeared on my torn clothes and dripping from my chin. I take the stairs two at a time, on my way to the queen’s apartments where hysterical cries echo through the corridors.
Fagin spots me as I enter, ragged and bloody, into Anne’s bedchamber. Her eyes go wide and she extricates herself from Anne’s frantic grasp. I motion to the outer chamber and she follows.
“What the hell is going on?” Fagin asks. “We’re supposed to be the only mercs here.”
“Not anymore,” I say. “Looks like the Benefactors sent Trevor reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements to do what? We just watched an attempted assassination on Anne Boleyn by a time
