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Part One
Chapter 1
I’d sliced a blade across so many throats, if not for my diligent tracking, I couldn’t give a number.
Three hundred and seventy-four.
I knew two facts. One: a gasp, no matter the state of the victim, would always follow the slice. They may sputter or gag on the blood filling their esophagus, but still, they gasp. And two: they won’t die unless I’m the one holding the blade.
I didn’t know a person could smell worse than the sodden alleyway behind Lady Visha’s brothel. Something putrid wafting off Death’s appointed target had proven me wrong. It was either him or the blonde prostitute hanging off his good arm. Based on his stumble and the perfect cadence of her gloriously high heels, he was a good bet for the lack of hygiene. Her patron must have paid very well, even though he didn’t have a pot to piss in. That, or she’d found herself in severe debt to Lady Visha.
I didn’t need to lean over the wrought-iron railing circling the rooftop to see where they were going, nor rely on Death’s magic to guide me. Thomas Vanhutes had been the object of my obsession for days. Since the night Death delivered his name, I knew where he lived and where he found pleasure. He slept on a stained mattress older than he was, with no linens, and his crumbling apartment boasted a leaky faucet. Not surprising for someone living on Beggar’s Row. At least he had shelter, which was more than most in that district. Including the giant black crows that hounded the vagrants. They were always watching. Perth’s most notorious plague.
I leaped from the rooftop, avoiding the puddles that inundated the narrow alleyway like an incurable illness, clinging to the shadows along the close brick buildings. Crossing the uneven brick road to stay close to Thomas, I quickly scaled the next building, digging into the dilapidated edifice I’d grown so familiar with. Most dwellers of the twin kingdoms could navigate these roads in pitch black. The water reflected enough of the streetlamp’s cool glow to guide the way.
The birds pecking at the gaps between the bricks scattered when Thomas stumbled by. And, though he wobbled, and his company clacked, I was as silent as the deaths I delivered. A weapon. Honed and sheathed for as long as I could resist the magic.
A woman’s faint pants echoed through the next alleyway until she grew to a fake climax, satisfying her third patron of the night. The red-haired woman had perfected those moans, and Lady Visha had likely become even more wealthy because of it. As I passed, she held her breath. As if she’d felt me from above, Death’s Maiden, like a promise of deliverance from her plight. There was hope in that breath. A wish, though she’d never know I was there, having honed my skills by the age of thirteen. Some miserable souls were just more desperate than others.
I crept away, eyes focused once more. She’d wipe the remnants of that man from between her legs with a dirty rag and move on to the next within the hour. There was no saving her. Though that was not my job. The twin kingdoms were full of dark merchants, crime lords, thieves, and brothels. Every person needed to be rescued from something, even the Perth king’s daughter. I’d sooner fall under the thumb of a crime lord than endeavor to save the world.
I stalked Thomas from the apartment rooftops, crouching and watching my victim carry on, his silhouette elongating as he neared his favorite alehouse. Every third night, he stopped at the Badger Hole for one final nightcap, and I preferred to avoid the street rats that swarmed outside.
He hesitated for only a second before letting the prostitute tug on his good arm, probably eager to end her suffering. Like most dwellers of Beggar’s Row, she didn’t flinch at the rodents outside his home. They were more welcomed in this city than the failing king.
Heel to toe, I paced along the adjacent rooftop, placating the magic with my movements; not to grant Thomas a final tupping before his ultimate demise, but to give the woman time to pay her debt. A mercy for him, perhaps.
The door would squeak if I opened it. Lifting or pressing down on the handle wouldn’t stop the squeal, so I opted for the window when Death’s magic became too strong to resist. The bars had rusted away long ago, and I fit easily. Aside from the snoring, the space was eerily quiet. The prostitute had never left, but I wasn’t expecting to find her naked, and on her back, tied to the kitchen table, a look of boredom on her face.
The leaky faucet dripped into a puddle on the piss-stained floor, and the woman lay spread open with Thomas passed out in the corner. Based on the scene, he’d had far bigger plans than his drunken stupor would allow. As I neared him, the visions began. Death’s magic showed me all the ways I could kill this man. Breaking every bone in his body until his tortured screams were no longer audible. Slicing him from nose to navel, letting his innards slink to the floor, leaving him to drown in his own blood.
Hand gripping the knife strapped to my waist, I fought the power that would eventually win long enough to free the whimpering woman. She rolled away with a groan before scrambling until her back hit the wall as realization sank in. My presence in the dead of night meant only one thing.
“Deyanira.” The chokehold of shock rippled over her trembling features.
I didn’t begrudge her for neglecting to use my title. Folding my arms across my chest, I let the blade of my curved knife show. “Is the debt paid?”
She held an arm up to count the red bands before nodding.
“You can stay and watch, but he’ll be here in five minutes.”
Dull brown eyes rimmed in smeared mascara widened, followed by the first authentic gasp of the night. She didn’t say another word, only grabbed her clothes and hurried out of the apartment, naked, the squeal of the door, the final goodbye.
“I don’t blame you,” I managed, unable to fight the magic any longer.
A silent slice and the second gasp, the one I’d anticipated, satisfied the power throbbing through my body. A name given; a body delivered. That was my true role. That of a harbinger. A lone assassin in a world of none. Death’s Maiden.
The gargle was hardly audible over the sound of the shrill ringing in my ears, the eerie retraction of magic leaving traces behind, reminding me I was still human, though every kill carried me one step closer to Death’s court.
Three hundred and seventy-five.
Sliding the only chair from the table, I sat, thrumming fingers along the surface, waiting, hating the relief that coalesced with the guilt. Each second was a heartbeat. Each one of Thomas’s slowing rasps, a promise. I no longer watched the final rise and fall of a chest cavity. Though the first had conjured tears, by the fiftieth, my heart had turned to stone. The gods had abandoned us to Death’s ultimate reign, and this was the world he reaped. And I was his weapon.
Death came without ceremony this time. His shrouded figure was no more than an ominous mystery until he swept his shadowed hood back, revealing the face of a beautiful monster. The most stunning man one may ever see, his immortal, god-like features were every bit the trap. Jet black hair and a perfectly angular face only set the tone for those obsidian eyes.
“My darling,” he purred as I bowed low. “You have never been a disappointment, Deyanira.”
His voice was the sound a throat coated in warm, golden honey might be, but I knew better than to utter words in his presence, especially when he tucked a finger under my chin, pulling me from the rancid floor while I watched the name burned into my palm wither away to embers and ash.
