My blade pierces the center of his ear faster than heat lightning strikes the sands of the desert. With practiced and deadly force, I muscle the thin knife into his ear canal, breaking his skull and skewering the contents of his mind before he can exhale the shocked breath he just sucked into his chest. I follow Crit down to the ground, twisting the blade to do as much internal damage as possible as his legs give out on him. It’s a testament to how well the Scorpions care for their weapons that this kill goes as smoothly and easily as it does.
Crit is dead before his head hits the ground. Blood pools around the guard of the thin, sleek dagger, warming my palm before death begins to cool it. The mess is minimal, just like I needed. I wait a handful of heartbeats before I free the slender blade from the contents of Crit’s skull. I jump back just in case any part of him tries to mar any part of me, but nothing does. I wipe the dagger and my palm free of his stain on his treasured guard uniform, staring down at the lifeless guard with scrutiny.
I wait for panic or anxiety to surge in me, but it doesn’t. I just killed one of Tilleo’s personal guards in an unsanctioned hunt, something that’s forbidden and punishable by torture and death, and yet I feel nothing. There’s no relief—or gratification—pumping in my veins. I should feel vindicated and resolute, but all the dead body does is prove just how over my life and dreams truly are.
With a quick grunt, I rush to push Crit’s body into the shadows that sheltered me from him. I can’t wrap them around him like I do to me, but this will hopefully keep him hidden until his stench starts to give him away. Tilleo might suspect one of his blade slaves killed him when he’s found, but he won’t know for sure. Normally, he’d punish us all until someone confessed, but the Bidding and the presence of the Orders should shroud us from any retaliation, lest Tilleo risk not being able to sell us off. I don’t think he’ll chance that. I’m counting on his hubris to press him to save face. He wouldn’t want anyone to know that he’s lost control in any way. I’m betting that he’ll sell us all to the highest bidder and declare whoever murdered Crit their new Order’s problem.
I kick Crit’s lifeless body once for good measure and then check over myself as I straighten my scraps of a dress and my belt. I check for any indication on my skin or the blue silk and metal I’m wearing of what just happened down here. I can’t find anything. Sliding the thin dagger back into its sheath, I release a deep breath and move to the table to fill the empty carafe I was sent down here to deal with. I don’t think I’ve been gone long, but I don’t want to risk anyone noticing that I should have been back already.
I reach for the wine when it happens. That feeling that I’m not alone crawls up my back again. Without questioning the instinct this time, I whirl, sending my dagger flying at that suspicious spot of shadow that made me feel uneasy before. I don’t see anything there other than darkness, but just as the dagger is about to hit the shadow-draped stone of the wall, a hand appears and plucks it from the air.
No. Not a hand...bones.
Dread hammers in my chest as I witness a skeleton peel itself from the shadows. Shock rocks me as I watch one of the Scorpions do something I’ve never seen anyone else aside from me do. The skeleton twirls the dagger around his glamoured bony fingers with expert skill, looking from the blade to me before offering a knowing smile.
“Naughty, naughty, Slave,” he tsks at me, leaning back against the stone wall. His black eyes dart from my face to where Crit’s dead body is hidden.
I sneak a glance just to be sure that Crit is completely cloaked in shadow as a flood of excuses settle on my tongue. Maybe the Scorpion didn’t see. Maybe he’s just trying to rattle me. I start to breathe faster, the air moving in and out of my chest keeping time with my ever increasing heart rate. Black eyes settle back on me, and all thoughts of getting away with the murder I just committed evaporate.
He knows.
I felt him down here before Crit swaggered through the cellar’s entryway. I should have suspected that there’d be others who could do what I can. In the moment, the possibility didn’t even cross my mind, a mistake I know that’s going to cost me. I pull in a deep inhale, trying to settle the rapid-fire worry coursing through me.
I was going to die anyway. This just moves up the timetable.
“I see you’ve been playing with things that don’t belong to you,” the skeleton observes. His astute stare studies the blade in his hand, and I get the impression that his words aren’t just meant for the weapon I stole, but also for the guard I just used it against.
“You might want to wash that,” I tell him, nodding at the dagger he’s still twirling around his fingers. Jealousy flickers in me as I eye the exquisite weapon that was starting to feel like it was made just for me. These skeletons, these members of the Order of Scorpions, have more blades than they probably know what to do with. I can only imagine that each and every one of them was made and handled with the utmost care. What would life be like with that kind of arsenal? “I’ve been keeping it—”
“Oh I know where you’ve been keeping it,” he interjects, a cheeky smile stretching across his glamoured face.
I wish I knew which one of the three he was. Have I touched this one’s cock? Was he the other skeleton in the tub, or was he the one on the pallet? I think he’s Bones, the one who enjoyed the show I put on with his other Order member from the comfort of his silk sheets, but I’m not completely certain.
“While we’re on the subject, why don’t you hand the sheath over too,” he orders, his tone alarmingly light and playful.
Refusing to release the sigh that’s forming in my chest, I reach behind me and pluck the sheath from the crack of my ass. I toss it at him, and lithely he catches it. With deft movements that are almost too quick to track, he rehomes the blade and tucks it in a pocket at the side of the floor-length vest he’s wearing.
The neck of his top is high and buttoned just below his Adam’s apple. It looks to be made of some expensive material that has just a hint of sheen to it, or maybe that’s the dim fairy light playing with my eyes. It has buttons trailing down from his throat to the top of his trousers where the long vest splits down the front as well as the sides like it’s a paneled dress. The design of his frock would look feminine on anyone else, but on this assassin’s thick, hard body, it’s the epitome of masculinity.
“Now,” he starts, “as much as I’d like to strip you down and have you show me how you kept that dagger clenched in the seam of that tight ass of yours, we have more pressing matters,” he declares playfully, but there’s distinct heat banked in his onyx gaze.
My nipples tighten at his words, my body responding to the ripple of desire that suddenly fills the space between us. I’m not a stranger to interest, but I’ve never reacted this quickly to a lust-laced declaration, and it throws me off. I narrow my eyes at the skeleton and try to get a hold of myself. Amusement only grows on the fae’s face as I school my features and square my shoulders, waiting for him to declare what pressing matters he wants to discuss. My aurems—not that I have any—are on the guard I just killed.
“Where do you come from, Slave?” he asks with an odd rising intensity.
I’m confused by the direction of his question. I have to keep my eyes from flashing to Crit, as though my subconscious wants to remind him there are bigger issues at play here. I just killed a fae. Why would where I come from matter?
“Who’s your sire?” he continues, his black eyes now keenly studying my face as though the answers lie in the shape of my nose or my cheeks and chin.
“Why do you want to know?” I retort coarsely instead of providing him with the bleak truth, which is I have no idea.
“Does Tilleo know you can do that?” he counters, jutting his perfectly chiseled jaw in the direction of Crit’s lifeless body.
I scoff at the Order member, the false bravado helping to calm my panic. “It is what he’s been training us to do,” I sneer.
The skeleton fixes me with a stern stare. “Not the killing,” he dismisses with a wave. “The shadow walking.”
My stomach both drops with trepidation and tightens with excitement. He knows what it is, which means he could tell me more about it. Is there more that we can do than the few tricks I’ve picked up by sheer chance? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him everything, but I stop myself. He could use this against me somehow. I’m not sure exactly the angle, but why else would he want to know? It’s not like he and his fellow Order members are here to help. They’re here to procure. I would be stupid to trust this stranger with any part of me, including my desperate curiosity.
