Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.I chant it like a benediction. The Dark World gods are long dead, cut down by the queen’s curse. There is no one left to hear my plea, but I pray anyway.
Suddenly, Mirren’s eyes shoot open. They are no longer emerald—they swirl and churn, a riot of grays and blues and greens that glow in the moonlight. They writhe like the waves of the Storven Sea itself.
She who captures the sea in her eyes.
It is only then I realize it’s begun to rain, though there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Droplets speckle her pale skin and I watch in wondered horror as they begin to stream together. Thousands of tiny beads join together in undulating rivulets until a river rages across Mirren’s body. It streams across her lips and flows between her breasts before curving across the soft planes of her stomach. The assassin hasn’t noticed, the blade making a sure curve toward her throat. Before he can end her, the river jumps from Mirren.
It shoots toward the assassin. It splashes across his face and dives down his throat. The water moves with purpose. Like it’s sentient—like it’salive.
The dagger falls from his fingers. He claws at his throat as he chokes and sputters. The assassin drowns from the inside out.
Mirren rises. Her hair is wild around her, the glow of her eyes eerie and consuming in the dark. Blood coats her arms and legs. She takes no notice of me as I skid to a stop in front her, huffing raggedly. Her gaze is entirely focused on the assassin, watching him struggle with a foreign detachment, one that is horribly familiar. The man gasps, the sound wet and strained, and falls to the ground.
She’s going to kill him, I realize with a vague sort of horror. Mirren, soft and kind, isn’t going to stop until the assassin gasps his last breath.
“Mirren!” I cry again, a different sort of desperation ballooning inside of me. It’s no longer her life that is threatened. It’s her soul.
I try to move toward her, but the water droplets circle around her, an impenetrable forcefield. I thrust my hand forward, but my knuckles crack against it like it’s made of pure stone. Whatever is inside her, whether it’s part of her or something else entirely, Mirren cannot kill the assassin. He surely deserves it, but Mirren—Mirren will never be able to live with herself or the hole his death will rip in her soul.
I give up trying to break my way through the water and turn, narrowing my eyes on the assassin. If I can’t stop the power that rages inside her, I’ll have to end his life first.
He isn’t worth your vow.
I shove the words away and pick up Mirren’s dagger, kneeling before him. His dark eyes are wide and rimmed with red as he gasps for air. His mouth opens and closes and his body twists and seizes. I wonder distantly if I will be giving up the last piece of myself with his death. There’s no way to know, really, how many pieces remain, but I don’t imagine it’s many.
The monster inside me roars for his blood, commands me to take what he was so willing to steal from Mirren, and I give myself over to the beast. No longer ignored, it is a terrifying thing with jagged claws. The assassin’s face turns blue, and his eyes roll upward. I have only moments.
I lift the dagger and steel my breath. Just as I give into the most vicious parts of myself, a voice cries out. From somewhere inside me, it’s young and helpless and alone; a child alone their whole life. With this man’s death, that child will be no longer. Innocence struck down.
Mirren’s soul is pure. You always do what needs to be done. It is your gift and your curse.
I was trained to be ruthless. I can be that now.
Nausea rolls over me. I have never taken a life with my eyes closed, but I squeeze them shut now. I lift my weapon once more.
“Stop.”
Her voice is soft, but commanding. I drop the dagger instantly, freezing with my arms in the air. Relief and disappointment war inside my chest. I look back at her. “He deserves to die.”
Her eyes have reverted to their natural color and though blood coats her, there is no sign of injury. Her small body trembles, wracked with violent chills and it takes everything in me to stay where I am instead of gathering her close.
The assassin groans and coughs. His body shudders and then goes slack beneath my grip. He’s passed out.
“He isn’t worth it,” Mirren says, her face gravely serious. I wonder whether she is convincing me or herself.
“We can’t just let him go, Mirren. He’s trained. He won’t just say ‘thanks’ and give up.” I know because I wouldn’t have. I was caught only once when I was barely ten. The man spared my life because I was a child, the natural inclination of a decent person that my father counted on. Back then, disappointing my father was much more terrifying than turning against a man who showed mercy. I finished the mission while he slept.
I won’t give this man the chance to do the same.
Mirren nods, running her hands over her bare arms. The dress I so carefully selected hangs in tatters from her shoulders, matted with blood and pond scum. Her face is pale and wan as if whatever power she held drained and left her diminished.
“We won’t let him go. We’ll take him back to the manor and question him. We need to know who hired him.”
I raise an eyebrow and her mouth lifts in a mocking smile. “What?” she asks blithely. “It’s not as if you’ve never held anyone hostage before.”
In spite of everything, I laugh. Another wave of chills ravages Mirren’s body and this time, I go to her. I wrap my arms around her, telling myself it’s to warm her and alleviate the aftershocks of that power, but it is just as much to soothe my own soul. To reassure myself with the vibrant warmth of life that still runs through her. I was so close to losing her forever.
She allows me to pull her close, her body settling against mine. Her head rests against my chest and I feel her sigh. The electricity that usually rushes through me when I touch her has turned to something softer that runs along my skin and cools the fire still burning in my throat.
