“I vaguely recall reading something in the constitution regarding how humans are not to be owned. You don’t strike me as particularly literate, but—”
“Maximus is counting your indiscretions. He will punish you for any backtalk or sass. I would keep your insubordination to a minimum.”
“For me to be an insubordinate, I’d have to recognize your authority.” I lean forward. “Newsflash; I don’t.”
“Bad decision. Max is extremely experienced in reigning in errant women. He lived the BDSM lifestyle for a while; he knows how to get what he wants. Word to the wise, Ember, I wouldn’t cross him.”
I yawn again. “I can take him.”
“Yes, you seem quite confident that you’re this big, bad wolf who can take anyone.”
I force a smile. “I’m not the wolf,” I hiss. “I’m the void that swallows the wolf whole.”
Greyson appraises me with vague interest. “On that note,” he says, “I understand you’re in the hitman—or hitwoman—business.”
“Not quite. To be a hitman, I’d have to get paid. I’m just a humble assassin.”
“You are neither humble, nor an assassin.” Greyson types something on the keyboard. “You’re an executioner.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes. Assassins have a holistic approach to murder, from gathering information on targets and planning the operation to making the final decision on whether or not to pull the trigger. Executioners are a bureaucrat’s errand boy—or girl.”
“Calling Dagon a bureaucrat is like calling a circus performer the president. Thank you for confirming that your IQ is room temperature.”
“World governmentsarea circus. Completely performative and barely functional, held together by poor public stints—”
“Spare me your anti-establishment bullshit.”
“Very well. How many people have you killed?”
“How is that relevant?”
“You’re now a resident of the Nighthawks. You’ll soon be considered a Nighthawk. There’s a five-year hole in your life story that needs to be filled in before you get outof this room.”
“And you expect me to help you fill it?”
“Yes.” Greyson gazes at me. “Otherwise, you’ll be talking to someone whohasn’tgiven Max their word that they won’t hurt you. Trust me, Ember, you’re better off with me.”
“I’m quaking in my boots.” I squint at the light fixtures on the ceiling. “I lost count after the first few dozen. That’s to say, a lot.”
Greyson begins typing on the keyboard. “Do you have a callsign?”
“I picked up names along the way.”
“The principal one being?”
Can’t hurt to instill some fear, or at least respect. My callsign is no secret, and according to Dagon, most players in the criminal underground have heard of it and consider me a boogeyman. Something that brings him endless pride.
“Viper.”
Greyson’s fingers freeze on the keyboard. He looks up at me, eyes briefly widening before narrowing once more. “I’m sorry?”
“Ember Sands; callsign, Viper,” I repeat slowly, raising my eyebrows. “You’ve heard of me?” I ask innocently.
“You’reViper?” Greyson asks. “TheViper?”
“Someone else tried to steal the moniker once. I cut him into pieces, extracted his organs, then popped them back inside him. In the wrong places.” Dagon told me to make a point with that one; I followed through.
