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“Don’t be frightened,” he murmured, settling himself on his knees so that he straddled her where she sat. “It won’t hurt a bit. I keep my blades sharp. You’ll feel a little pinch, that’s all. I’ll hold you ‘til it’s done. And if it makes you feel better…” he leaned so close that his deep voice hummed in her ear, “I’ll hand deliver your head to the Crown Prince of Slödava myself.”
Elma was panicking. She couldn’t help it. She felt her body betraying her even as she tried to slow her breaths, to calm her mind. Fear, her father had taught her, led to death. Fear made you sloppy; it made you weak.
“Or maybe,” said the assassin, tracing his finger from her throat to her chest, between her breasts, and resting it on her stomach, “I ought to gut you like a pig. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could share facts and stories about ourselves until you eventually bleed out. I’d enjoy watching the life fade from you, minute by minute. I could make it painful, if I wanted to. I could twist the blade. Reach in, play with your…”
“Don’t,” Elma bit out.
I’m useless, she thought, even then.You’re the Queen of Rothen. Do something.But tears burned her eyes, threatening to fall. In the face of death, alone and helpless, there were no kings or queens. Only people, fragile bones and pumping hearts, blood beneath paper-thin skin.
“Don’t eviscerate you?” asked the assassin, still too close, his finger pressed against her abdomen. “Fine. If that’s what you want, but it’s boring. What if I… hmmm…” he tapped the knife against his teeth. Then his face brightened, his ice-blue eyes beaming with sadistic glee. “What if I stab you in the heart. A bit cliche, and itwillhurt. But think of the romance. The drama. Come to think of it, I might bring your heart back to the prince instead of your head. Easier to travel with.”
Elma sniffled, her nose clogged with unshed tears. As she did, she wriggled, just slightly, moving her arm just enough sothat it looked thoughtless. “Fuck you,” she said, knowing that insults were the true mark of impotence. Of giving up.
“Fuck me?” He made a low sound in his throat, leaned in slowly, and licked her neck.
His tongue was wet and hot, and Elma closed her eyes in disgust.
“Notnow, you sick thing,” he said, pulling back, his eyes darkening. “Don’t you have a preference? There are so many ways I could kill you. Each one, unique and lovely. And no matter what death you pick, don’t worry. I’ll enjoy it.”
“I know how I want to die,” Elma said at last. It was a quiet admission, strangely vulnerable in the dark, her voice raw.
The assassin sat back, just enough to study her face, as if he had meant to play with her, goad her, for a long time. He hadn’t expected her to pick a death. “Oh? What is it, then?”
She made a show of arching her back, slowly, her eyes never leaving his. She had never been more grateful for her ability to lie with conviction. “I want you inside me when you do it. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like, to die at the height of pleasure.”
The assassin froze, his expression almost comically shocked. But it was only for a moment. He collected himself in half a breath, grinning wolfishly. “You know, I didn’t think you Volta were half as—”
But he never got to finish his sentence. Elma drew her dagger lightning fast, driving it toward the assassin’s neck in one swift, practiced move. But the assassin was faster, deflecting the blade before it became a killing blow. Even so, blood flowed freely from a gash just above his collarbone.
Elma, already wet with her attacker’s blood, shoved him off her, relying on the element of surprise. Hestumbled, but quickly recovered as she scrambled to stand. There was so much blood.
“Youtrickedme,” gasped the assassin, as if it were the first time in his life he had been fooled. He touched a hand to the wound on his neck, and his glove came away glistening red. He frowned. “That could be a problem.”
“It is a problem,” Elma said, breathing hard, brandishing her knife. “If that wound keeps bleeding, you’ll be dead in minutes. You can try to kill me, but if you make one move, this blade is going straight into your eye.”
“You think you can outmaneuver me?”
“I don’t need to,” said Elma. “You’re already stumbling. Getting weaker. If you’d wanted to overpower me, you should have done it while you were straddled across my lap. You’re bleeding too much and too fast now.”
“Yes,” he said, pressing his palm to the gushing wound, his cockiness undercut with desperation, “but you don’t know who I am.”
“Who are you?”
He bared his teeth in a cocky grin. “The man who killed the Queen of Rothen.”
Elma only just had time to sidestep his rush attack, and even then, his blade caught her arm, staining her dress red in a burst of pain. But as she’d predicted, he was slow and sloppy. His own blood spattered the wagon floor, dotting Elma’s shoes.
The rest was too easy. He came at her again from the other direction, and she turned to face him, easily kneeing him in the groin. Elma let him fall to his knees in agony, and only then did she kneel across from him, pressing one finger into the gash on his neck.
He screamed, a guttural, animalistic cry of pain.
At once Elma pulled back, sick with herself, sick with theseemingly endless gush of blood. She was breathing too fast, too shallow. The assassin, meanwhile, was leaning into her as if for dear life. Then she realized he had lost consciousness, his body falling into hers, and the weight of him brought her back to reality. She sprang to her feet, a ringing in her ears.
She leapt from the wagon, numb to the icy wind, to the snow that filled her shoes as she cried out for Cora and the guards. Stumbling and half-sobbing, she tried to wipe the blood from her hands as she went.
At last, she found Cora and her men, bound together not far from the wagon. Some of them were even half out of their bonds, having wriggled free while Elma and the assassin faced off. It was almost as if he had meant for them to escape, aware that he would be long gone by the time they freed themselves.
When the guards were free and accounted for, minus the two who had been slain by the assassin, Elma turned, almost sobbing, to Luca.
