Chapter 16 #2
Their replacements won’t arrive for another ten minutes.
Ten minutes is an eternity in my line of work. Ten minutes is enough time to scale a wall, cross a garden, complete a kill, and vanish before anyone notices something is wrong. I’ve done more with less time.
“Now,” Kitty whispers.
We move.
The transition from stillness to motion is instantaneous. Kitty matches my pace exactly, her footsteps falling in rhythm with mine.
The street is empty. Most people are inside for dinner.
I can hear the muffled sounds of family life through closed doors, laughter and the clatter of dishes. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that death is walking past their windows.
The few who pass don’t look twice at two shadows crossing the cobblestones.
We’re good at being invisible. The wall is twelve feet high, gray stone worn smooth by decades of weather.
Ivy clings to the eastern side, dark green leaves rustling in the evening breeze.
The top is lined with decorative stonework of gargoyles and flourishes that serve no purpose except to show wealth.
Twelve feet is nothing.
The assassin’s guild in Tiamat had us scaling forty-foot towers in the rain before we were fifteen.
I’ve climbed sheer cliff faces with nothing but my fingernails and spite.
My fingers find the gaps in the mortar where age has eaten away at the compound.
The stone is cool and slightly damp. Small chunks of mortar crumble under my touch, falling silently to the ground.
I test each handhold before committing my weight, feeling for stability, checking for loose stones that might give way.
Kitty scales it beside me just as silently. She moves like water flowing upward, effortless and smooth. Her breathing is controlled, barely audible even this close.
We’ve done this dance a hundred times in a hundred different cities.
Tiamat. Vennhold. The coastal cities whose names I’ve forgotten. Each job blurs into the next after a while. We drop into the garden on the other side, landing in a crouch among the flower beds.
The ground is soft here, rich soil that gives slightly under my weight.
Our landings are silent except for the faintest rustle of disturbed petals.
The impact sends up the scent of lavender and rosemary.
It’s overwhelming for a moment and reminds me of a memory I can’t quite place, something from before the guild. I push it away.
Kitty and I stay low to the ground to avoid detection. My eyes track the shadows, identifying our cover.
Always know how to get out. That’s the first rule.
The gardens are extensive, sprawling across what must be two acres.
Roses climb trellises and fruit trees line the eastern wall. They create natural cover, their canopies casting deep shadows across the ground. I freeze and listen to the scuffing of boots on gravel.
Two guards on patrol. Their footsteps grow fainter, moving away from our position. I give them another thirty seconds, making sure they’re truly gone and not circling back. The footsteps fade completely. There are at least six more scattered throughout the compound.
Kitty touches my shoulder and points toward the trees. The old oak branches are thick enough to hide in. Its lowest branches start about eight feet up, spreading out in a network of perfect cover. The leaves are dense enough to conceal us completely while still allowing visibility through gaps.
It’s perfect for what we need.
We slip through the garden silently. I climb first, pulling myself up into the darkness. The wood is solid, old growth that’s probably held strong for centuries. I pull myself up smoothly, using mostly arm strength to avoid scraping my boots against the bark.
The bark is rough under my palms. I focus on finding solid footing and securing handholds.
My muscles burn slightly from the exertion but I ignore it.
I settle onto a branch that’s thick enough to support me comfortably.
Kitty follows, taking position on the limb beside me. She settles in without a sound.
From here, we can see the entire garden.
Carefully manicured paths wind between flower beds and walking through the northern trail is Queen Rhianelle.
My breath catches for just a moment. The intelligence reports said she is a High Elf, nearly a thousand years old but of course like most elves who worship the Seventy-seven, she is frozen in eternal youth.
I find the agelessness of High Elves unsettling, that includes Garrett. It makes it harder to read them and harder to predict.
Queen Rhianelle wears a simple cream-colored dress with silver embroidery along the hem and sleeves to match her hair. Her movements are light and unhurried as she carries a bucket. It’s merely a plain pail like any peasant might carry.
There are no attendants or handmaidens around her.
I scan the garden again, checking every shadow, every corner. She’s completely alone. There are no guards hovering nearby or servants following at a distance. She crouches near the fountain, pulling something from the wooden pail.
Her knees sink into the grass. Then three cats emerge from the bushes, meowing. One is a gray tabby, another orange and white, the third solid black with white paws.
They recognize her. Their meowing is insistent and demanding.
Queen Rhianelle laughs softly, breaking the fish into pieces for them.
She spaces the food out so the cats don’t have to fight over them.
I watch her through the leaves and try to reconcile this image with the person who holds Garrett’s life in her hands.
The Queen who could choose Damnation and order an entire house burned to nothing.
All the reports said ruthless and calculating. But none of those words fit the girl feeding cats in a garden.
The gray tabby rubs against her leg, purring loud enough that I can hear it from here. It weaves between her legs, tail wrapping around her calf. She scratches behind its ears and murmurs something too quiet for me to catch. The cat’s purring intensifies, growing louder.
They trail after her like ducklings as she moves toward the fountain. She adjusts her pace to accommodate them then sits on the fountain’s edge. Her fingertips drag across the surface lazily, watching it break into ripples as she hums a lullaby to herself.
This girl is to be Garrett’s rival, a contender for the ruthless Archon?
One of the kittens rolls onto its back at her feet, demanding belly rubs. All four paws in the air, exposing its vulnerable stomach. Rhianelle obliges, giggling as she bends down.
Her laughter twists something in my gut.
The sensation is unwelcome, unexpected. I don’t get feelings during missions. I can’t afford to. But something about this scene is working its way under my armor, finding the cracks I thought I’d sealed years ago.
Rhianelle Wiolant is not what I expected for someone raised for the throne. Instead of being surrounded by guards and sycophants, she’s surrounded by cats.
There are shadows under her eyes that the evening light can’t hide.
They come from too many sleepless nights, worries nursed in the dark hours before dawn.
I see it in my own reflection sometimes.
Does the weight of the crown keep her awake?
Maybe the responsibility crushes her a little more each day.
What the fuck is this? Years of killing and I pick now to grow a conscience?
I’ve taken lives in silence, from range, in alleys and rooms and places people thought were safe. I’ve done a lot of killing. After twenty, they stopped feeling like people and started feeling like numbers. After fifty, even the numbers stopped mattering.
They’re just kills now, missions completed and contracts fulfilled. Some of them probably didn’t deserve the blade I put between their ribs. I had to force myself to forget their faces or I’d never sleep. The alternative is madness.
Rhianelle Wiolant will be one of the faces I remember late at night after this is done. I push the guilt down and lock it away in the same place I lock away all the faces and all the names.
Drop, land, and strike.
I run through the sequence again in my mind. It will be quick. Three seconds, maybe four if she struggles.
Rhianelle keeps singing without knowing what’s coming. She thinks she’s safe here. But she doesn’t know that in the next few minutes, she’ll be dead. Her blood will stain the stones around that fountain and those cats will scatter.
Kitty shifts beside me and raises an eyebrow. Are we doing this or not?
She’s just waiting for my signal, trusting me to make the call like she always does.
Her hand moves to her dagger as she waits for my signal. When I move, she’ll move. When I strike, she’ll cover. That’s how this works. We’ve worked together long enough that she knows not to rush.
Rhianelle Wiolant is harmless. She’s pathetic and I pity her… but killing her ensures Garrett’s survival. Her death protects everyone in his house. I pull my blade, the weight of it feels heavier than usual.
One more kill won’t make a difference.
I prepare myself to land behind Rhianelle. It will be instant death as I drive the blade into the base of her skull, no pain or awareness. Kitty will drop a second after me and cover the exits in case anyone heard. We’ll be over the wall before the guards can scream.
My muscles coil, ready to spring. I adjust my grip on the blade.
Kill the target and protect Garrett.
I take a slow breath and center myself. Below, the black cat’s ears flatten against its skull. Rhianelle straightens, confusion crossing her face.
“What—”
I feel invisible chains wrapping around my limbs. Every muscle in my body suddenly locks. It's as if someone has reached into my body and switched off every nerve at once.
My heart rate spikes but my body won’t respond. It has stopped obeying me entirely. I’m a prisoner in my own flesh. I can’t even twitch my fingers. This is the most terrifying sensation I’ve ever experienced. The air turns colder and denser until it’s hard for me to breathe.
Kitty makes a small, terrified sound. It’s barely more than a whimper.
Something is behind us. I can feel it.
Fear crawls under my skin and sinks into my bones.
“What do we have here?” It speaks.
The voice is young and childlike, like a little girl who’s found something interesting in the garden. “A dog and a cat.”
I try to turn my head to see what’s behind me. Every ounce of will I possess goes into that single movement. But my neck might as well be carved from stone.
The voice is so close I should feel its warm breath on my skin. But instead the temperature has dropped. I have the absolute certainty that if I could see what’s behind me, the sight would break my mind.
“You strayed too far from home, boy.”
The survival instinct I’ve built over years of killing screams at me to run or fight. But my body is a prison. I’m completely fucking helpless.
I’ve faced death before… I’ve stared it down more times than I can count. I've been shot, stabbed, and beaten within an inch of my life. Hell, I’ve stood on execution platforms with my hands bound and a noose around my neck. I know what a blade at your throat feels like.
None of those moments compare to this.
Because this is nothing like death. It is pure terror that bypasses all of my training and strips me down to nothing but a frightened animal that knows it’s about to be torn apart. A prey recognizing a predator it can’t fight or flee from.
Shit, shit, shit. I’m going to die.
Right here on this tree. This thing behind me is going to kill me and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
I can hear soft, desperate sobs from Kitty. She sounds so broken and terrified. In years of working together, I’ve never heard her cry. Not when she had to dig an arrow out of her own leg with a heated knife.
“I should kill you right now,” the dark presence says casually.
My mind fractures and shows me every death I’ve ever witnessed. The images flash through my consciousness. Pictures of every murder and kill come faster and overlap. They flood my mind all at once, overwhelming and drowning me.
An endless nightmare of pain and horror.
This is what I’ve given to others. All the death I’ve dealt, all the violence I’ve committed. That’s what’s coming for me.
Movement pierces through my tunnel vision.
My eyes, the only part of me that still responds, move down in the garden. Rhianelle has turned around. She’s standing and looking directly at this tree. Her face has gone white and her eyes are wide.
She can see it.
Whatever’s behind us, she can see it. Her mouth moves and though I can’t hear the words but I can read her lips.
“Blight, no.”
Suddenly I can breathe again.
Air rushes into my lungs, sweet and cold.
The invisible chains vanish as suddenly as they appeared.
My lungs drag in air like I’ve been drowning.
Each breath hurts and burns, but I don’t care.
I’m breathing. The simple act feels like the greatest gift I’ve ever received.
Kitty gasps beside me. I can hear her shaking, the branch creaking under her trembling weight.
Rhianelle's eyes meet mine across the distance. There’s something in that gaze. Then she turns and walks away, disappearing down the garden path. The cats scatter ahead of her, spooked.
I can still sense it…
The presence behind us backs away into the shadows but it hasn’t disappeared completely.
It’s keeping its eyes locked on its prey, waiting to see if we’ll do something stupid.
I stay exactly where I am, perfectly still.
I’m afraid even the smallest movements might trigger that presence back.
It might change its mind about letting us live.
After a while the oppressive cold lifts and the air warms. Whatever it was, it’s gone.
We need to leave, Kitty signs. Her hands shake as she forms the words.
I nod.
When I finally climb down, my legs nearly give out. My muscles are weak and shaky from the sustained terror. Kitty lands off-balance despite her usual grace. I look back toward the fountain.
The garden is empty now, peaceful like nothing happened.
There’s no evidence of what just occurred here. Kitty and I run through the city in silence, taking random turns through alleys and doubling back as a precaution. But I’m pretty sure nothing is following us. If that thing wanted us dead, we’d already be corpses in that garden.
I lead us through shadows and alleyways, following the familiar maze of streets I’ve memorized over weeks of surveillance. Neither of us speaks until we’re six blocks away.
“Wolf,” Kitty says finally. “What the hell was that?”