“Not time, yet?” he asked.
“It’s time,” she said. “Gods, is it time.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
She put her hands on his chest. “Jace loves you, Sol. She does, truly.”
“Now I really don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand either. I shouldn’t be saying anything. It’s just, I know you, Sol. I know you have feelings for her. And I know you’ll ignore those feelings because of what she is.”
“I know she’s an elf, but she’s different. Humble and vulnerable and funny, and I feel like I shouldn’t be talking to you about her.”
“She’s amazing. She is, Sol. I just… don’t forget that.”
“Mig, you’re confusing me.”
“Promise me you’ll give her a chance. I think she deserves that.”
Sorrows glanced over his shoulder. “Now? You want me to go back to her?”
Mig pulled him toward her, turned him around. “You’re immortal. I’m not. Someday I’ll… I want you to be happy. That’s all I’ll say about it. And no, I won’t let you go back to Hammerfell.”
“No?”
“No. At least not right now. Right now, you’re mine.”
“That so?”
She brought his face to hers, her mouth to his. Kissed him hard, smiled.
“That’s so.”
Chapter 49
IVRA JACE LEAPT from the balcony, measured time, mass, distance. Calculated force. Manipulated the air and gravitational forces at play on her body, reduced accordingly. Landed softly on her feet. Master Ostev Ga’Shel grimaced, glanced over his shoulder, tried to scramble away. But the fall broke his left femur just above the knee. Unfortunate. A clean break that left his leg bent awkwardly. Jace straightened her jerkin, walked toward Ga’Shel, grabbed his shoulder, and turned him to face her.
The night was dark, and the shadow of the house hid the knife in Ga’Shel’s hand. He was an elf. Fast, strong. He was Mage Guard. Trained, practiced. He thrust the blade fast and low, aiming for the inside of her right thigh. Probably hoping to sever a vein, cause rapid blood loss. A good tactic against an evenly matched opponent. One that would cripple. One that showed an intermediate understanding of elf anatomy. One that came nowhere near Ivra Jace. She caught his wrist easily, bent his hand forward, and rotated his arm until the knife slipped from his grasp and fell into the snow. He cried out. She maintained her hold.
“Speak,” she said. “I know you can.”
“What would you have me say, whore?” he asked.
She closed her left hand into a fist and struck the side of his face. Too hard. Heard bones break—his zygomatic processes and her metacarpals. A sharp pain throbbed in her knuckles; radiated through her wrist, up her arm. He went limp. She let him go, sighed, manipulated the physical plane within her hand. Did the same for his face. Picked him up, slung him over her shoulder. Started walking, stopped a while later when he stirred. Dropped him to the ground. He cried out, grabbed his leg.
“Let me go, you gods-shunned whore,” he said.
She hit him again. Too hard again. Carried him again. He woke five times. Insulted her four times. She modified her physical response. He suffered less; a broken nose, two broken fingers, a dislocated shoulder, a punctured lung. She manipulated, reduced his injuries, but not as much. Left small breaks and tears, inflammation. Enough for him to remember the pain. He stopped insulting her. They limped along in silence until they turned into a narrow alley and stopped before a stand of pine trees. She led him to a hidden door, opened it. They stepped into a hidden room.
She stopped, turned to face him. He stared at her. Arrogant, angry.
“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with.”
Jace shook her head. “I’ve already killed twice. Though once was by accident and once was arguably self-defense. Regardless, I can’t kill a third time. There are rules. I could no longer exist here. And then I’d lose him.”
“Lose who?”
Jace shrugged, paced, trailed a finger along the wall. Said nothing. Ga’Shel watched her for a breath, then turned toward the open door, took one step and another. Then another. Kept glancing at her. She kept sliding her finger along the wall. He reached the door, felt a hand on his shoulder.
“You killed so many times,” Jace said, soft, near. “Would you do it again? If you could?”
“Yes.”
“Then do so.”
She pushed something into his hand. He grasped it, lifted it before his face. A sickle sword with a wooden handle. Runes adorned its surface. He stared at the steel, at the reflection of the room behind him. Of Jace. She was blurry. Like she was made of fog. He saw the gold of her hair, the pale cream of her skin. But it shifted and flowed like river weed in the current. He felt her breath on his neck. Felt her lips brush against one ear, then the other, then his neck, the back of his head. All at once. Enveloping, surrounding. Tendrils of flesh crept at the corners of his vision. Her voice split into a hundred whispers, a thousand; the rush of wind through a forest, filling the room.
“Run and hide, run and hide…”
He turned. His eyes widened, his mouth opened, he tried to scream. Couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe. Fumbled with the sickle sword, heart pounding, hands shaking. Tried to scream again, still couldn’t. Lifted the blade to his neck, jerked it across his throat in a desperate, violent movement. Felt the warmth of his life spread across his chest, soak into his tunic. His fingers grew cold. He fell to the floor, welcomed the darkness.
✽✽✽
ASHRA STEADIED HERSELF, manipulated the planes, aligned her energies into the body of Ivra Jace. She sighed. It was a good body. A gift from an unexpected and unlikely ally. A strong body once she’d undone the effects of aging. A body Solomon Sorrows had found appealing, as she knew he would. She knew what he liked. It was important.
