CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Daromir
The bloodbond leads Daromir back to the Opal Tower, exactly where Vana is supposed to be. That’s a good sign, but Daromir can’t relax until he sees Vana safe and sound. His worry tears so painfully inside him, it’s difficult to trace the bloodbond link. Daromir has never been this magically unstable. He never should have left Vana’s side, not when there’s an assassin loose. Fuck his feelings—Vana’s safety is paramount.
Daromir’s worry escalates as he mounts the tower stairs. Plenty of lower-ranked drasgard are around, but when Daromir bursts into the parlor, Vana stands alone at the table. His head is bowed, intent on a piece of paper in his hands.
“Where are Zu and Indra?” Daromir demands.
Vana glances up, his expression reserved. “There you are, Daromir. Come look at this. It’s about the treaty arrangement, but something isn’t quite right.” He sounds calm. Professional. None of the desperation Daromir heard the last time they spoke—just an hour ago.
Perfectly done.
“Let me see,” Daromir says, approaching as bidden. “Yeah, something isn’t quite right,” he agrees, hooking his arm around Vana’s throat and slashing his long knife forward.
But the assassin stands half a step away from the illusion’s center. Daromir’s arm thuds into his shoulder instead of looping around his neck. Vana’s image shatters like iridescent glass. The assassin scrambles out of reach, half-hidden in strands of shimmering space.
The temperature plunges, but only the smallest crystals form in the air. Daromir brings his knife up to block the assassin’s blade. The force of the blow rocks through the assassin, so hard his illusive cloak vanishes as he darts back. They face each other, knives in hand, and Daromir recognizes his opponent.
“Oh, dear,” Mori says. “This is going to be annoying, isn’t it?”
The round-faced young man looks as cheerful as ever. But Daromir doesn’t doubt for a second that this is the Hound Kazia warned him about.
“Consider it payback for the way you keep annoying me at parties,” Daromir says.
Mirror just grins. “Trust me, I didn’t enjoy talking to you either.”
Daromir’s muscles soften into a ready stance as he catalogues everything in the room. Their breath frosts in the frigid air, but there isn’t nearly enough water in the air for the fight ahead of him. Mirror planned ahead. There isn’t a carafe of water in sight.
Something glints on Mirror’s left hand. A braided metal ring Daromir recognizes from Radovan’s laboratory. That would explain why Daromir can’t sense Vana’s location. Other than that, the bloodbond is intact. Only the tracking magic is blocked.
Daromir has only traded two blows with Mirror, but he has enough of the assassin’s measure. Mirror’s posture is just as professional as Daromir’s own, his eyes fixed on Daromir’s body instead of his face. He’s far too dangerous for Daromir to face without water—a situation Daromir hasn’t practiced enough recently. Why would anyone attack Daromir if Vana wasn’t there to call down the skies?
Daromir can’t tell where Vana is now, which is alarming. But all that matters is that Vana isn’t here. Daromir needs to kill Mirror fast before that changes.
“Whatever Petir is paying you, it’s not going to be worth the trouble,” Daromir says, hefting his knife. He backs up, circling towards the front door—then flings the nearest chair at Mirror’s head, and lunges for the bedroom.
Mirror dodges the chair, his every movement sleek and fluid. There’s no trace of his disarming clumsiness. Pain slices into Daromir’s shoulder. He takes advantage of Mirror’s proximity to punch the Hound’s head into the doorway. The dull thud echoes, and with most opponents, Daromir would stay there and finish it.
Today, he leaves Mirror there and races through the bedroom.
The pain in Daromir’s shoulder is muted by the bloodbond. Hopefully Vana will take the warning and stay the fuck away.
“I’ll be honest,” Mirror calls out, following more slowly now. He isn’t rushing or letting Daromir set the pace of the conflict. That’s a bad sign. “I expected to get at least ten seconds out of that disguise. What gave me away?”
Daromir skids into the bathroom and catches himself against the sink.
“Vana doesn’t open his own mail.” Daromir hooks his knife’s crossguard on the faucet and yanks hard. The metal clangs away, and water pours from the broken pipe. “He was wearing his Tavoc perfume today.” Daromir’s magic surges, and the spilling water shatters into knives, spinning into the air. Between glass and tile and shimmering ice, the room is a kaleidoscope of reflections. “And Vana always calls me Daro in private.”
Frozen blades hover in front of Daromir, angled to reflect and strike. The bathroom echoes with the rush of water. Daromir’s breath fogs in the cold air, and his mind is clear. There’s something primal about the conflict. This is simple. It’s a problem he can solve.
He needed this.
“What a pity,” Mirror sighs. “At least you won’t survive to tell anyone how sloppy I was.”
Daromir can’t see Mirror anywhere, but by the sound of his voice, he’s invisible in the doorway. Probably. If Mirror could project his voice, surely he would have done so when he was disguised as Vana. He wouldn’t have needed to stand so close to the visual illusion.
“Don’t think killing me will clear a path to Vana.” Daromir edges away from the sink. The floor is already slick with water, and it’ll only get worse when the sink overflows. “He knew you were here the moment you struck me.”
