16
The Night Terror Doesn't Miss
Cason sat on the bench inside the prison wagon, running his fingers over the gash in his palm. The unsteady wheels and constant squeak of the lantern drove him insane, but he shoved that annoyance down. Watched the rise and fall of Brela’s breath as she remained unconscious and chained to the thick wall across from him. Tried to focus on anything except the intense blaze swirling in his chest.
Lord Remont had been given orders months ago to track the Night Terror for the King of Severina. For what reason, Cason still didn’t know. Remont had seen the convenience of using Gerrart’s men and Cason to push Warley and Ripley out of hiding. Used the brothers to snuff out the assassin and then tracked them to…her.
The woman from the markets was an assassin. The Night Terror. Brela.
Right under his nose, and he was so distracted by her that he had failed his duty. The assassin had been talking to Serill, a breath away from the man Cason was supposed to be protecting. Standing close to Cason and sharing stories as if he wasn’t her enemy.
Helpinghim.
None of it made sense.
She was an assassin—a trained killer, torturer, and liar. She was a cruel trickster with the means to infiltrate, steal, and kill. A wicked creature.
His eyes rested on the black and purple obsidian in Brela’s collarbone. A Veil Worshipper who couldn’t hide who she was by removing jewelry, yet had worn that green dress with confidence even though it barely hid the shard. Had sat and talked and flirted with her enemy when it could have gotten her killed.
No, worse than killed. If their orders hadn’t been to bring her in alive, Remont would have waited until she woke up and then carved that shard out of her collarbone to keep as a trophy. She would have been tortured worse than anything she had done to others in her time as the Night Terror.
And she chose to sit and talk with the fire wielder. Why?
To knock his defenses down? Eliminate her greatest threat? Or was he just the easy target since he had fallen for her beauty?
Cason growled. It still didn’t make sense.
The things she had said to him… She might have lied about a lot of things, but there was no lie behind the last words she had said to him tonight. Brela didn’t think he had tainted magic. She said she wasn’t afraid of his fire.
She wasn’t afraid to die, either.
He’d seen the look on her face when he broke through the trees. She’d brought down a man twice her size when Cason’s fist had barely made an impact. She’d nearly defeated Ripley, and if they hadn’t crashed the fight, she might have succeeded.
The Night Terror was a woman, and she was fierce and terrifying and more confusing than anyone he had ever met.
Because while Cason had frozen in fear, Brela embraced death. Sheaskedfor death because of what she was hiding under her bloodied hands.
The pieces had connected instantly, but he didn’t want to accept it. He desperately wanted to believe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the second he saw her,he knew.
And he had still hesitated.
Not because they were supposed to bring the Night Terror in alive. He hesitated because it was Brela looking up at him, not the Veil Worshipper. Not the assassin.Brela.
Cason could still see the words on her lips after his silent command, begging that she would see the chance to escape Ripley’s grip. Her quiet apology, but for what? It was clear she knew he had figured out her truth. Was she sorry that she had lied? Sorry that she was a Veil Worshipper? Sorry that she was a killer?
For a moment, he thought she’d use the opportunity to drag Ripley’s arm and slice her own neck. Any other Veil Worshipper caught in that situation would prefer that death over torture, and she had no idea they were there to capture her alive.
No, she created space by driving that blade deeper into Ripley’s arm. She separated herself from him and drew her last knife. Another opportunity to escape. Another opportunity to drive that knife into her own heart rather than face the suffering that waited for a Veil cultist.
Instead, she hadthrownher weapon—her last chance at freedom.
Cason’s eyes were back to knife in his hand.
“You know,” Brela rasped, finally waking up, “I left one of those knives at Gerrart’s the other night. Any chance I can get it back?”
“I lost it,” he mumbled.
The manacles on her wrists rattled as she groaned, pressing herself up using her right arm. “That was my favorite knife.”
