Chapter 1
Sometimes, the rich were desperate enough to beg for the help of a criminal.
It was one of the reasons why the Assassins’ and Thieves’ guilds of Alorynthe flourished. The favorites in the larger cities, Lorna’s Cross and Nimbles, respectively, catered to a broader, richer clientele – their members worth every penny.
Nervous desperation, hidden behind lock and key from prying eyes, kept bounty hunters and mercenaries with coin in their pockets and a job needing to get done. It was the inspiration behind the eyes of spies and the breath in the lungs of murderers. And it was, supposedly, the same desperation feeding the heartbeat of a vigilante determined to make a name for herself.
A vigilante who tried and failed to stifle another yawn.
The cool, night air kissed her exposed skin, washing along her pale neck to play with the black cloth pressed tightly to her shoulders. It was enough to bring thoughts of her makeshift hammock deep within the forest to mind. How much she wished she were there and not here.
Her eyes closed.
Part of her contemplated leaving the whole affair behind. The day’s exhaustion weighed on her. This was her third meeting of the evening. And she worried the rumbling in her stomach was enough to scream her location. Either way, was it worth it?
She’d been waiting for a little over an hour to feel… something. Something more than the yawning hole brimming with boredom. Inexplicable, unrelenting boredom. At this point, she was certain it would be the death of her.
Stop it.
Her eyelids drooped, a wrinkle of her nose the only indication she heard the rumbling, male voice echo through her thoughts. I can’t. She could hear the whine in her reply but did nothing to curb it.
You can’t or you won’t?
Is there a difference? If I fell asleep, you could handle this by yourself.
And if a stray arrow found you where you’re sitting, I’ll rat you out faster than you can gut me.
He was in a mood tonight.
Blinking away the bleariness, she straightened and peered over the edge of the tree branch. Through the wavering branches, she eyed the lone figure sitting on a rock outcropping, near the middle of the small clearing, fifty feet below.
What distinctive features she could see were his pale hands and the top of his head – his silver hair cast in an ominous light in the moonlit darkness. The black garb he wore would make the lord of the night, Zo, proud. If it wasn’t for the shocking features of the mask outlined in white, he could’ve blended in with the shadows pressing in on his backside.
She eyed the mask.
The exaggerated features were of his design. Slanted eyes curved upward. Horns, ranging in size, decorated the edges where there was space. The mouth was a frown of shadow and the wood was stained a red dark enough it resembled blood.
You wouldn’t, she retorted.
His head didn’t move to look in her direction. Try me.
Her lip curled. Demons were known for having acute survival skills and if it came down to him or her with Osher, he’d set her on fire quicker than she could try to find a bucket of water.
Fine. I’m up. She shot a glance toward the other end of the clearing where an elderly gentleman stood. By the look of his clothes, he could be on his way to a party rather than mysterious dealings in the woods. He hadn’t moved from that spot since his arrival, blathering on about… something.
Why does it always take them so long to get to the point?
Because they’re idiots.
She snorted. He wasn’t wrong. Part of me thought he was going to be different.
Why?
His reputation.
On the other end of the mental bond, she could almost hear him roll his eyes with exasperation. He’s human. Their reputation means nothing.
For him, this was true. The life span of a demon far exceeded that of humans and long before the man groveling before them was born, her partner had at least four great wars under his belt. He never really told her how old he was, but from hints dropped, she could guess. Older than dirt was enough to cover it.
But for their latest client…
His reputation wasn’t comparable to someone who’s lived ten times as long, but it was enough to catch the attention of anyone in Alorynthe. And it was enough to catch her eye when his letter arrived – begging for help to find his missing wife.
The Executioner.
A groveling sop of a legend he’d once been.
The lord dropped to one knee. Heart-wrenching sobs wracked his body. His bones creaked and his wrinkled hands trembled when pressed against the edges of his eyes where tears tracked lines down his tan cheeks.
If she tried, she could see some of the man he’d once been. Deep beneath the folds of his face and perhaps if he stood a little straighter… and wasn’t so fat.
A hero and a villain. Once, he was an admirable adversary of any enemy to the crown. He slayed those who stood in his path and bowed his allegiance to his King. He’d stepped into the epitome of heroism – an idol worthy of admiration despite the dark rumors stalking his shadow.
Yet, what hunched before her was a crusty, old man with most of his hair lost to time and slipping into an age of comfort and ale. She was disappointed and disgusted.
Somewhere in the distance, she heard the whicker of horses. The Lord had arrived without his finery and carriage and with one servant in tow.
Her sanguine gaze studied the young butler and wondered if she was looking at a wall for all the movement he made.
Servants and footmen talked. Maids were the biggest gossips in Alorynthe. Yet, this one man was privy to this conversation. Was it embarrassing for him to see his great employer as nothing more than a man who couldn’t solve his problems?
The butler stood, impassive, with a tight-lipped expression. He did not step forward to comfort his master nor did he assist him when he struggled to his feet. He kept his distance, one step away from merging with the forest at his backside. His clothes were pristine and despite the recent rain, his boots were unnervingly polished.
Magick. She could smell the spells covering every inch of both of them.
Her eyes found their way to his ears and their fine points. Elven ears.
They were an odd pairing considering. Elves did not work for humans. Even half-breeds.
How do you think he got an elf into his employ?
Why aren’t you focusing?
I am… sort of…
Had the Executioner started talking again?
How do you think?
I heard he’d been serving Lord Dieren for a little over fifty years now.
That’s not an answer. Stop bothering me.
He looks to be in his early twenties.
There was silence on the other end.
She sighed. Early twenties. Close to her age, but Elves aged differently. Did half-elves? She wasn’t sure. If he aged the same as her, it meant the Lord would’ve taken him… bought him… when he was barely older than a babe. Something low in her stomach tightened. She could guess at his quality of life.
He’s getting to his point. Focus.
Of all the demons in all the land… and she was stuck with this one.
I heard that.
She shot him the bird.
“Please… I beg of you, Terror.” Lord Dieren’s eyes watched the masked figure. It took effort for them to stay there. And even then, he didn’t seem to know where to look. “If it’s payment you seek, I’ll pay you triple.”
The half-elf dropped a pouch and cane into his master’s waiting palm. Lord Dieren maintained his grip on the top-notch of the polished wood and tossed the pouch of coins across the clearing to land at the feet of the figure sitting stiffly on the rock.
At least he’s stopped crying.
When can I kill him?
She rolled her eyes. After we see if he has what we’re after.
Taking a breath, she said, partially amused, “Is that all?” Her voice carried through the clearing.
Lord Dieren froze.
The butler’s posture stiffened – almond-shaped eyes looking to the trees. She didn’t miss the slow movement of his hand to a partially hidden hilt hooked into the leather belt at his waist.
Using her voice as a cue, the masked figure on the rock pulled a satchel from behind his back. He tossed it where it landed in front of Lord Dieren. The flap fell open, spilling a bloodied diamond necklace into the dirt. The color drained from the Lord’s face.
“I believe you can pay the rest of the fee now,” she purred. “Buried by your butler one week ago beneath the garden she so lovingly nurtured. You and your brother seem to share the same taste for cruelty.”
Lord Dieren licked his lips and opened his mouth.
Softly, she said, “Careful your next words, Lord Dieren. Your wife’s diamonds had plenty of secrets to share.”
“So, it’s true then…” His voice was barely a breath above a whisper.
She snorted. “If I had a gold coin for every time one of you and yours said that to me…” Pressing herself to the balls of her feet, she prowled along the length of the branch toward the trunk of the tree. The branches of the forest creaked against an onslaught of wind. “A storm is coming, Lord Dieren. Make this quick, I don’t like liars.”
Lord Dieren licked his lips, something akin to a resolution settling across his expression. She watched his back straighten and a little bit of the killer instinct she’d heard he had come alive in his expression. His pug-like nose wrinkled when he loosed a sharp, piercing whistle.
From within the surrounding shadows an arsenal, just shy of what an army would carry, peaked through. No less than ten arrows were aimed toward her companion while the rest sought unnatural movement in the branches above.
Slowly, she clapped. “Bravo, Lord Dieren. I expected someone with your reputation would come alone, your pride your downfall, but here I sit, humbly surprised. I did not think you’d want your embarrassment to be public.” A smile played along her full lips. “But, I do believe in the more the merrier.”
“Arrogant child,” Lord Dieren spat, his spine straightening when his shoulders rolled backward. He withdrew a thin blade from within his cane. The sheath fell to the grass. His butler gripped two slender knives. At least, in his expression, she saw one of them was a little uneasy.
“Before morning, your head will be stuck to a pike as a warning to others,” Lord Dieren snarled. He turned – eyes searching. “The crows will peck out your eyes and your entrails will be a feast for carrion.”
She laughed, her lilting soprano carrying. “Now, if I had a coin for every time I heard that. None of you are ever creative with your threats.” Her head tilted, suspicious. “Is this why you’re here, Lord Dieren? Acting the part of another lackey to carry out his King’s every command?”
“I know my place. You should’ve learned yours.”
Not an answer, but she hadn’t expected it to be that easy. “I know my place. It’s between you and leaving this clearing alive.”
He licked his lips. “Hardly if you’re too much of a coward to come out!”
Her fingers tapped the top of her knee. She needed another way to loosen his lips. “Do you know who you remind me of? Lady Halina.”
At the name, Lord Dieren visibly stiffened.
“She was here a few nights ago. Said something similar to what you’re saying with a boast of her connection to the Baron Eviros. Do you know what it got her?”
Lord Dieren’s lip curled. “Shut up.”
“Is that why you’re here? To avenge her? I thought she was your brother’s lover.” Her finger paused in its tapping. The fabric of her boots pressed uncomfortably into the crease of her ankle.
“I’m here because the King will reward me. I’ll be known as the man who took care of a pest in his kingdom,” Lord Dieren hissed.
I suspect his brother didn’t send him.
You’re right. Look at his eyes. Glory-filled.
“Halina said the same thing. She didn’t have as fancy a title as the Executioner though.” She smirked. “I must be a very big pest for you to come so far to hunt.”
A hungry smile spread across Lord Dieren’s face. “You should know I am nothing like Lady Halina. If you come out now, I’ll make sure your death is swift.”
“I think I’ll remain where I am.”
He snarled and lifted a hand.
One of the archers loosed an arrow. The tip sliced through the edge of the left sleeve of her partner.
“For each comment, a new hole will be poked through your companion,” Lord Dieren yelled, stalking toward the rock outcropping.
You owe me a new shirt.
You know how to sew.
“Was that supposed to unnerve me, Executioner? Your archer didn’t even draw blood.”
“If it’s blood you wish to see, I’m more than happy to oblige, you brat.” He stopped a foot shy of her partner and leveled his sword at the base of the throat where a line of skin was exposed beneath the mask. “How deep of a cut do you wish? A sliver or a whole head’s worth?” Light pressure was applied, drawing forth a slender rivulet of dark red.
Orionite.
She frowned. He’s too stupid to know to need it.
“You can try for the whole head,” she challenged. “However, this brat warns you.” Her tone took on a darker edge. “He is the greater threat of the two of us.”
Lord Dieren barked a laugh. “I wasn’t told you had a sense of humor! And while you entertain, this game is over.”
“Oh, no, Lord Dieren. You misunderstand,” she answered, a note of warning clear. The sole of her foot twisted on the bark, her fingers itching to reach for a weapon. She rolled her shoulders to ease the tension gathering between them - her outfit of black moving with her as if it were a second skin. “This game has just begun and you are not the prey I seek. On your guard Executioner, for you might make me break a sweat despite being sorely outmatched.”
“You’ll regret your words,” Lord Dieren hissed – his face flushed.
“And you’ve not come prepared to survive.”
He pulled his sword arm back. “You would’ve been better off surrendering.”
Her smile grew feral in the shadows. “The Terror of Metaire never surrenders.”
Arrows loosed.
She rolled.
Sometimes the rich could be such assholes.
