I take one deep breath, then another, stretching my lungs and filling up all my cells with oxygen. Timing the breath is the biggest challenge when it comes to what I can do. If I don’t get it right, I could wind up gasping for air at a really bad moment.
Then, on one final inhale, I flip backward over the edge of the cargo doors and into open air.
I fall away from the airship, arms and legs spread out, the wind screaming past me, but my pulse is calm, relaxed. I fix my eyes on my target—I can’t just think my way somewhere, I have to see it—and then, on my next inhale, I disappear.
This. This is what I’ve been waiting for. What my anticipation has been building toward. I am nowhere and everywhere. I am nothing. I am air and space and darkness. I am a blur streaking through bright skies and a constellation of metal. Trinity’s song rings wilder, clearer, brighter in my ears.
And then, in a moment, I’m solid again, the curving walls of the other airship closing around me as all the pieces of my body re-form. The first breath scrapes down my throat, and I suck it in greedily, a little lightheaded after phasing such a long distance. I let the pull of Trinity’s song give me my bearings, automatically reorienting myself to its constant, humming chorus. It tugs at me, just a little, always in the same particular direction—northeast—and I’ve gotten accustomed to using it as a compass, so I know which way I’m pointing, even in the middle of a phase.
I take in my surroundings with a few sharp glances. The corridor is narrow, with a burnished floor and walls lined with dark-red paint that went out of fashion decades ago. The fake gold varnish along the ceiling and naphtha lighting sconces is faded and peeling.
My mouth already feels parched again—phasing sometimes does that to me—but I leave my canteen where it is. I’ll drink whatever I have left when the job is done.
I check my goggles, adjusting the layers of colored lenses that allow me to see through the walls around me and pick up on things like movement and body heat. The airship’s layout bounces back to me in shades of blue and black, and it’s a pretty typical one for a ride like this. The top deck is made up of bunk rooms, a galley, and a dining compartment, with the steerage deck up at the prow of the ship. Below me should be the naphtha engines and the cargo hold, but those will come later.
First, I need to stop by the steerage deck and pay a visit to the two figures inside, glowing bright-orange in my lenses.
One heat flare stands at the ship’s wheel—that must be Karolyi. His name was part of the information handed over toDani, but I don’t know much about him. Except that, apparently, he was the only trained helmsperson who was either bold or idiotic enough to throw in on this venture.
The other has to be Eteri, the reported ringleader. I can pick her out just by the shape and attitude, draped casually across a seat, swinging her legs back and forth. Unlike Karolyi, Eteri I definitely know. She’s been neck-deep in most of the Gang’s less savory business for a long time and built a reputation for being casually cruel. I’d wondered how long it would be before her aspirations landed her on the other side of my knives.
I guess now I know.
I creep forward on silent feet, listening to their muffled voices vibrating through the door.
“How much longer?” I can hear a little thrum of tension in Karolyi’s voice. Like he’s struggling to sound calm. “It feels like we’ve been sitting underneath this homestead for hours.”
“It takes as long as it takes,” says Eteri. She sounds exasperated. Bored. “You can’t rush the process.”
I tighten my grip on Reason and quietly slip Wrath free. I’m not sure what process they’re talking about exactly—getting clearance to leave? connecting with a buyer for the water?—but it doesn’t matter. No one pays me for those kinds of details. They pay me to kill. They pay for the reputation that earned me my nickname: the Butcher. A mysterious assassin who appears from nowhere, kills without question, and somehow disappears without a trace.
“I just like to know the specifics is all.”
“Shit, if I’d realized you were all gurgle and no guts, I never would’ve brought you along.” Eteri sighs, tilting her head backto the ceiling. “Quit worrying so much. Everything is covered. All you gotta do is fly this thing, so just relax. Say a prayer to the Heralds or whatever.”
Bad choice of words. There’s no salvation coming for them. Not from the Heralds or anyone else.
There’s just me.
In the space between breaths, I phase and reappear in front of Eteri—tall and sharp-featured, with long wavy hair dyed harsh blond. In the second she registers me, I move, punching both blades into her stomach. Shock crosses her face, pain, rage. Her eyes meet mine, and I see the shadow of fear deep inside them as it hits her:
She’ll never see another sunrise.
There’s a muffled thud deep inside my rib cage, where I’ve tucked Val away, but I breathe them out on an exhale. The Butcher is in charge of my skin now.
Eteri lashes out with a long arm and strong hand, and I almost don’t phase away quickly enough. I can feel the whisper of knuckles across my mask as I re-form on the other side of the deck. Both of them turn and lunge for me—Karolyi scrambling to get around the helm—and I barely skip away again, slipping through the air.
My lungs are tight. I let myself get distracted and didn’t get a deep enough breath between those last two phases.
I piece myself back together in a corner, inhaling hungrily. I need more than a heartbeat to steady myself, but that’s all I get because Eteri is close and her reach is long. She swings, focused despite the blood staining her shirt.
Darting low, I drive the knives forward with three quick jabsand disappear. Then I’m there again, slashing high and then low, aiming for openings and vulnerable points.
Eteri collapses in a heap.
Karolyi leaps at me. But I’m dead space between his fingers. I’m a ghostly apparition, reappearing at his back. I strike fast, and a moment later, he sinks to the floor.
One breath, in and out.
