Fae yell and grab at the dress, and it’s only as I finally find the edge of the guests that I glance back to see them fighting over the torn fabric, arguing about what happened to the assassin. It shreds apart in their hands, turning to wisps of insubstantial smoke.
Guests whisper and gasp. Some are crying. It’s a crush of braying donkeys begging for the slaughter, and I’m forced to become a little generous with my elbows to make my way out of the crush.
Fools. Ducking into the shadows that line the columns, I head for the chamber where I saw them taking Mistmark’s body.
Time is ticking out.
I had ten minutes from the moment I kissed him, and right now I have to guess that only three minutes remain. Malechus dragging me into that antechamber cost me precious time I don’t have.
Even if I can always make a little time for murder.
A guard steps forward to stop me as I enter the cavern that leads toward the lord who is dying. “Here, you. You can’t go back there—”
I grab the wrist of the hand that reaches for me and twirl beneath it, driving my dirk up into his armpit. Axillary artery. My favorite. Close enough to the heart to leak a few decent pints. Nobody ever thinks to protect themselves there and a single slice can make a man bleed out in a few minutes.
As he hits the ground, I flip my dirk and keep walking. It’s almost tempting to hum.
Blood spatters lie on the floor, and I track them.
Blood that Mistmark no doubt coughed from his lungs as they carried him away from the amphitheater. I track it toward a set of doors, but even if I hadn’t seen the blood, the four fae standing guard would have told me this is where they took him.
Four Blood Court guards. Not particularly great odds, but hardly something that will stop me.
The captain snaps to attention when she sees me. “Here, you. What are you doing—?”
“Do they train you with such language?” I chide, as I stalk toward her. “‘Here, you?’ That’s the best you can offer?” The handle of the dirk flips into my hand as I mock her. “And what am I doing? I’m here to save the day, don’t you know?”
She reaches for her sword, but I’m in and under her guard before she can blink. I have a particular respect for females who’ve reached the pinnacle of their male-dominated careers, so I merely spin beneath the sweep of her sword and slice across her Achilles. She’ll thank me later. Maybe.
As she goes down with a scream, I drive my elbow into the back of her head and then lunge up, burying the dirk in the belly of the next guard. Right between the rings in his chain mail.
It’s why I like the dirk so much. It’s such a thin, delicate weapon, and when you’re facing guards armed with swords, they’re always terribly smug about the fact they have an extra sixteen or eighteen inches on me.
The problem is, those extra inches are a liability in close quarters.
I grab the guard’s collar and yank him closer, making sure I skewer his liver, before I spin him to take the strike of his fellow guardsman. The sword glances off his chainmail—there has to be some use for it, after all—and then I kick him in the chest.
They both go down with a clatter, like turtles on their backs.
And I face the last guard.
This one is no fool.
He held back while the others attacked and he crouches low, his spear held in steady hands. “Thou shalt not pass.”
Oh, we have Mr. Determined here.
I spin my dirk between my fingers and grin. Suddenly, there are two of them, one in each hand.
His gaze flickers down, focusing on the spinning knives, but I’m already slipping my skin. I put the dirk through his throat and the image behind me—a grinning young woman with two knives twirling—vanishes in a puff of smoke.
“Never even saw it coming,” I whisper in his ear as the light goes out of his eyes.
Glamor. The next best thing to an entire arsenal of goblin-forged blades. Too many of the fae focus on what they can see.
And if there’s one thing that growing up with my sister taught me, it’s that being able to “vanish” into thin air is a powerful weapon.
I step through the doors, sheathing the knife.
The room is quiet. Still.
There’s a marble slab in the center of it and someone’s laid the Lord of Mistmark there in quiet repose.
The sight of Alaric lying so still is a shock that makes my feet slow. He’s always seemed so energetic to me; a whirlwind of determination that would stop at nothing and no one. I’ve fought with him, kissed him, tried to kill him…. And every time we’ve clashed, he’s been the one in control.
Now he looks like he’s sleeping.
It takes me right back to that first night I crept within his chambers, intent upon murdering him. He was so beautiful that I hesitated for a moment, and that hesitation cost me. Just as I summoned my goblin blade, he suddenly woke, grabbing my wrist.
It even feels like that night again—like fate is going to reach out and kick me in the teeth—though the weight in my chest is different.
I could let him die.
I could let this entire twisted knot that binds us together die.
All I have to do is tell Zemira I was too slow to bring him the antidote.
He’d be gone
