Fucking hells. That’s not the news I was hoping for. “Understood. It’ll mean a delay, but it can’t be helped.” I smile, even though the news only adds to my weariness. “Thank you, my friend. I appreciate the warning.”
“Take care, Zayd. You are willingly throwing yourself into the viper pit. Please stay alert. I will help where I can.”
They don’t wait to say goodbye, and the mirror goes dark. Their message is disappointing but not unexpected. Not with the rot spreading through the Guild. And based on what Kenji said, it goes even higher than that.
Disgusted, I shove the mirror into my pocket. I’d suspected that more than the guild masters were involved, but Kenji’s confirmation helps. And I do know where I’ll find the proof. The Vault of the Shabah is where the Guild keeps their dirty little secrets—signed contracts, deadly poison recipes, blackmail files, secret histories, and their most powerful onyx gemstones. If it still exists, the contract for Kas’s death will be there, with the names and signatures of everyone involved.
I groan inwardly, thinking of the planning it will take to make this happen. The Vault is an actual Shabah fortress, protected by a variety of magical and mundane traps designed to kill intruders in the most painful ways. I’d hoped that, in their capacity as Uguisu, Kenji could have found the details I need so I wouldn’t have to break in. Now it’s time for a change in plans.
There are one or two relatively safe places I can hunt for more information, even at this early hour. Glancing at the rumpled bed, I push to my feet. Anything is preferable to finding myself in the middle of another nightmare. IfI can’t get useful information from my sources, maybe I can find a warm, willing body to help keep the bad dreams at bay. I’d like to avoid reliving the worst moment of my admittedly violent thirty-seven years if I can help it.
Grabbing my cloak, I settle it around my shoulders and extinguish the light as I leave the room, careful to securely close and ward the door behind me. Maybe it’s out of habit learned on Earth, where my magic was significantly diminished, or maybe I’m being overly cautious, but I take the time to wedge small markers inconspicuously around the door. If anyone tries to enter my room while I’m out, and they make it past the wards, the small markers will slip to the floor. It’ll be enough warning that someone was in my room, and could possibly help me avoid a trap, magical or otherwise. I step back, check my handiwork, making sure nothing looks out of place, then slip down the hall to the rear staircase and exit the inn through a back door.
Pulling up my hood, both as a barrier against the chilly night air and to keep my face from being seen, I castCloakingon myself as I skirt the edge of the inn yard and slip into the shadows. With the full moon lighting up the sky, it’s better to be safe than sorry, as they say on Earth. It’s easy enough to keep to alleys and side streets as I head toward the seedier part of the city. Houses get smaller and more run-down the closer I get to the docks. Earth stories frequently assume that magic can fix everything, including poverty and disease. And magic does help, but it hasn’t overcome all of society’s problems. If it’s possible to do, no one’s found the right spells to accomplish it. And as long as there are groups of people who are targeted forbeing different, like the non-magical in Amagi, there will be poverty. They won’t be offered a living wage. They won’t have access to the same opportunities as everyone else. And it’s all because they’re different. Even someone as cynical as I am can see the injustice in that.
It’s not a problem I can solve tonight, or alone, so I let it go and focus on my surroundings. A twenty-minute walk brings me to the warehouse district. Even a few blocks back, the smell of decaying fish and lake water is overpowering. I cast a masking spell to filter the worst of the stench and slip around a corner. Angry voices carry through the night air, amplified by the warehouse walls and the water, making it difficult to tell where they’re coming from. I slink forward, trying to understand what’s being said, and peer around the end of the building. Three bulky individuals, all in black, one left-handed, two right-handed, all amply armed with daggers, move to surround a fourth person who towers over them. The tall one, based on body shape and musculature, is male-presenting. He’s also heavily armed with daggers and a short sword. All know how to handle their weapons, but the fourth man is outnumbered and outclassed in the fighting sense. I step into the darkest shadow and strengthen my cloaking spell before risking another look.
I really don’t want to get pulled into this situation, but there’s no way around them. Although the street to my left goes straight to the docks, it’s far too exposed to risk using. The alley to my right dead-ends in a three-story warehouse. There are no trellises, balconies, or windows, so no escape there either. Damn.
I glance at the figures in the alley, now thankful for the bright full moon. Despite a valiant attempt to blend in, the mark is clearly not a local. His clothing isn’t flashy, and the cloak he has on appears to be made of unadorned wool, but there are no patches or frayed hems on any of his garments. And his boots are sturdy, unscuffed leather, with a heel that hadn’t seen much wear. But the biggest tell is the way he carries himself, like he has every right to be wherever he wants. He isn’t using a cloaking spell, though neither are the three thugs. Maybe they’ve dropped them, given the circumstances. There’s no sense using magic that isn’t helping.
Not that it’s any of my business. If an intoxicated rich brat took to the slums to find his evening’s entertainment, that’shisbusiness. And if it has unintended consequences, well, that’s life. There’s no reason for me to get involved, and I have my own business to see to.
And yet, here I stand, my feet all but glued to this spot. I watch, fascinated, as the mark flings back his cloak, unsheathing his short sword and the dagger. As I suspected, his graceful movements and easy grip on the blades show a level of comfort with weapons that only comes from hours of training. It also indicates a decided lack of intoxication.
The aggressors in black have numbers on their side, and the way they fan out, in a silent but coordinated move, shows they’re used to fighting together. And I haven’t heard them make any demands at all. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and the onyx in my tattoos, my earrings, and the hilt of my blades thrums as instinct settles my protection spells into place. Fucking hells. The patternof attack is all too familiar. I could perform it with my eyes closed. And I have. In far too many training sessions. The three ‘thugs’ are Shabah. Most likely Wraiths. Which means this is a contracted attack. They aren’t here to take the mark’s coin. They’re here for the mark. The question is, do they want him dead or alive? The fact that he’s still breathing probably means they want him that way.
The mark throws off his hood, white teeth flashing in the moonlight. “Will you continue to watch from the shadows, or will you help me end this?” He’s looking right at me, and shock momentarily roots me in place. He truly has seen through my cloaking spell. And I recognize that voice. The mark, Nicolas, feints left and lunges at one of the Wraiths, who swipes his blade across Nicolas’s chest, slicing through the fine linen. Without making a conscious decision to do it, I launch myself into the fray, onyx daggers slashing. Ultimately, I suppose taking out these three assassins means fewer left to deal with later. Helping Nicolas is just a side benefit. For him, of course.
I raise my blade, catching the edge of my opponent’s onyx dagger with the guard, deflecting it from its target. That earns me a surprised shout from the Wraith wielding the weapon.Theyhadn’t seen me until I was in front of them. Idiot. I twist my wrist, prying the attacker’s dagger from their grip, while thrusting forward with the dagger in my opposite hand. My opponent turns in time to avoid the worst of the attack. But my onyx blade resonates with their shields, passing through easily, only to skitter over their ribs as they grunt and stagger back. Definitely Shabah. Dropping low, I sweep the feet of another Wraith,elbowing them in the face on their way to meet the stone street with a hard thud. Ducking and stabbing upward, I aim one of my blades at the first attacker, who barely moves out of the way in time. Behind me, the clanging of blade on blade and the shuffling of feet across the stone alleyway mean Nicolas must be holding his own. With a feint to the right, I slice my opponent’s cheek before they step away and whistle two quick trills. In unison, the three Wraiths disengage and hurry back the way I came, disappearing into the darkness.
The entire skirmish barely lasted a few minutes. Two against three was obviously more resistance than they’d been prepared for. I sheath my daggers, grinning beneath my hood. “It would seem your friends didn’t want to stay.”
Nicolas also sheaths his weapons. “Yes, too bad. I thought they would put up more of a fight.” His gaze slides over me in blatant assessment. “Please, allow me to thank you for your assistance.”
I rest my hands on my hips, letting him get a good look at my torso and legs but keeping my face hidden in the shadow of my hood. “It was the least I could do after you asked so sweetly.” Even if he shouldn’t have been able to sense I was there, let alone see me. And that bears further investigation, as does his offer. Finding a companion for the evening had been my alternate plan. And I definitely like the spark of arousal in his eyes. Should I give in to the very handsome distraction and see where this goes?
Nicolas moves closer, inclining his head. “I am Nicolas Medina. And youare—”
The words are like ice down my back, but I keep my tone light and my body relaxed. “No one important.” Unlikeyou. Fucking hells. House Medina. Lorenzo’s house. There’s no doubt in my mind that Nicolas had been a targeted hit. And I let myself be dragged into it.
He laughs and adjusts his cloak. “So you will not tell me?”
Fine. He wants a name? I’ll give him a name. “John Smith.”
His eyes sparkle with amusement. To his credit, he doesn’t say anything more about it. “You are the same person from the market.” He steps toward me. “And in the Government District.” He moves even closer. “Perhaps I should be less concerned with your name and more with why you seem to be everywhere recently.”
It’s a fair question. One I’ve been wondering about too. “I assure you, it’s purely coincidence. In fact, I was on my wayoutof the market when I heard you. You have a very distinct voice.” A smooth, sultry voice, full of delicious promises. “When I turned and saw your handsome face, I was intrigued, so I lingered.” Which I shouldn’t have. Nor should I be doing it now. Or telling him about it. Not when Lorenzo Medina is some relation, and House Medina is affiliated with the Shabah. Even if neither is a direct link. Nicolas has obviously been trained to fight by very skilled instructors. His abilities aren’t Shabah level, but theyarebeyond what a typical spoiled brat gets from self-defense instruction. There’s so much more going on here, and I’m missing critical pieces. Nicolas comes from money but strolls through the most dangerous area ofPanah City in the middle of the night for reasons other than carousing. He’s just been attacked by three Shabah Wraiths yet doesn’t seem bothered. And he’s smart. His eye picks out details that his mind pulls together in calculated, plausible ways. He’s an enigma. A thoroughly tantalizing, dangerous puzzle, and Founder help me, he’s intriguing. Iwantto know more. About him. About why he’s being targeted. About why he’s out here alone so late, and most importantly, why the Shabah attacked such a connected family?
Therearealways power struggles within the Guild, and if that’s what this is, maybe I can use it to my advantage. But before I can do that, I need more information. And isn’tthatthe sad story of my current existence.
Nicolas’s eyes sparkle in the bright moonlight, and I fight the urge to ignore all the Guild machinations for a few hours, close the distance between us, haul him into a kiss, and maybe pursue more since he seems interested. If he were anyone else, and the situation was less deadly, I would. Without question. He’s very much my type. With his handsome face, big hands, and strong body, he’d make averyenjoyable distraction.
Nicolas touches the edge of my hood, giving me time to step away if I want. But my arms and legs won’t move. Not even when he slowly pushes the fabric back so it pools around my shoulders. “Beautiful.” He drags a finger along my jaw, ruffling my short beard. “I am sorry. There is no way you are a John Smith. I will just have to make up my own name for you.” He smirks. “Tell me, Bello. Would youcare to have a drink with me to celebrate our victory over my attempted mugging and possible murder?”
I should say no. This is a bad idea. A horrible, terrible, freakishly bad idea. Far too risky with someone so well connected. Yet there might be advantages to saying yes. Besides the obvious naked ones, though I’m not discounting those even if I should. If there are political rifts forming, ones big enough to send assassins after a member of the Medina family, maybe I can learn enough from Nicolas to exploit them. If flirting and drinking—and possibly more—help me gain that knowledge, who am I to pass up the chance? I’m trained to take advantage of any opportunity, and my gut says thisisone. Sometimes risks have to be taken.
This time, it’s my turn to smile. “How can I say no?” I rest my hand on his upper arm, squeezing lightly. “Allow me to show you a place that’ll still be open. It isn’t fancy, but the drinks aren’t poisoned, and I trust the innkeeper and his staff to be discreet.” With the ease of old habits, I turn the conversation to familiar territory. “Like you, I was out tonight looking for a diversion. Maybe after a few drinks and some stimulating conversation, we might find—other things to do.”
