by Ann Aguirre
If Slay had turned on them, she’d put him down. Hers was a three-fold task: Find Slay. Determine whether he was a captive or a conspirator. Take appropriate action. The former Ash Valley second knew too much about cat security for Mags to leave him in the wind, and she had mixed feelings about the mission. She loved the asshole like a brother, so if he’d gone bad? It’d be like losing a limb to take him out.
Raff sounded like he was losing patience. “Unless she asked you to speak for her, shut the hell up. It’s embarrassing to see you froth jealousy that masquerades as concern for your lady.”
“I’ll say one thing more, then.” Gavriel paused, maybe thinking about how to phrase what came next. “She may look cold and strong, but she has been alone for most of her life, fighting harder than anyone can imagine. Please, by all the gods you hold sacred, be gentle with her.”
Surprise flickered through her at the tenderness of the request. The sincere intensity, from a seemingly merciless assassin, sent a pang through her, not envy, exactly, but wistfulness for what would never be. Mags had long since accepted that the price of her own emotions was too high and she would never again ask anyone else to bear the cost.
She heard Raff say, “I will,” and concluded the conversation was over. Lingering might get her caught, so she padded away down the stairs. Though Gavriel doubtless thought he was being silent, she caught the faint hint of his movement behind her, but his own skin gave him up even more, traces of cloves, cinnamon, and copper. Before he could return the favor of pouncing from behind, she whirled on him and slammed him against the wall, one hand on his throat.
“It’s unwise to startle me,” she said.
This time, however, he managed to get his blades up, nudging them against her abdomen. “It’s equally unwise to antagonize me. I’m in no mood to be patient.”
“On three, then.” Mags didn’t explain, but from the terse way he lifted his chin, he understood. She counted out the numbers and they both dropped their hands. Taking a step back, she added, “What’s your damage?”
“I just didn’t want you to think you got away with it. The wolf lord may not have known or cared that you were prying into our private conversation, but whatever you’re trying to do, I will stop you, if it harms the Eldritch or my queen.”
The fervent declaration startled a laugh out of her, which prompted a ferocious scowl from Gavriel. “What?” he demanded.
“My mission is no secret, shadow warrior. I’m here to keep Raff safe, but I’m also tracking Slay from Ash Valley, and what I found leads here. Old Lord Talfayen’s people took him or…” Well, she didn’t need to spell it out. “I’ll find our lost jaguar, one way or another.”
Gavriel stared, unable to believe she’d divulge her purpose so readily, but he read no signs of deceit or subterfuge in her expression. “Is this a trick?”
“You’ve got issues,” she said, shaking her head.
Magda Versai was a dangerous woman; of that, he had no doubt. She stood a few centimeters taller than him, weighed more in pure muscle, and she had combat skills the like of which he’d rarely seen in the field. Even his stealth might not be enough to defeat her, unless he used a fast-acting, powerful poison.
“Excuse me?”
“There’s no reason for me to conceal my purpose. You’re loyal to Thalia, so you don’t know shit about where Slay might be. And if I share who I’m looking for, maybe you won’t get in my way out of spite.” She tilted her head. “You might even be useful, if you could put aside all that pointless rancor.”
The ‘pointless rancor’ she referenced so easily spiked in a burst of white-hot rage, so powerful that for a moment he couldn’t even speak. He hated these Animari so much, not for the racial purity reasons Lord Talfayen had touted, but from bitter, personal loss. Gavriel clenched a fist, tucked it behind his thigh to hide the reaction.
“You speak so easily about that which you know nothing,” he snapped.
“I know everything. Your brother died at the retreat, after fighting Dom and Pru, and you’ve hated us ever since. But look, did you ever think maybe you’re hating us this hard so you don’t have to process your own guilt?
“You were there. You failed to save your brother, you didn’t manage to carry out your mission of warning Dom, and you ran to save your own ass. Clean your own house before you burn ours down. And once you do that, think about the part your own fucking queen played in that mess. I know you adore her, and you think she’s perfect, but she gave the orders, right? It wasn’t Dom, or me, so suck it up and stop blaming other people for your loss.”
At first, the pain was blinding, and it made him sick to his stomach because she was cool and relentless, but as the words dropped into him like stones in a still pond, he couldn’t refute her statements. Though it galled him to the bone, he couldn’t admit she was right, so he said nothing at all.
She seemed to take that as an invitation to continue, hammering away at him as if he were a sword she must temper. “And Zan, yeah, I heard about him too. I heard everything from Korin. I know you were close, but that’s not our fault either, Gavriel. I’m sorry you lost a friend, but I heard that he chose to protect Alastor to his last breath. You didn’t even order him to do that. He volunteered. It’s tough as hell. I get it. But you shouldn’t let your pain make you hate the world.”
“You know nothing about my pain,” he finally bit out.
He wasn’t used to anyone coming at him like this, candid and fearless. Everyone in Princess Thalia’s lands was terrified of him. They called him Death’s Shadow because she whispered her orders and he fulfilled them, quiet as a ghost, leaving no trace. Before, when the Noxblade guild was strong, he hadn’t minded so much, but now, most of his sword mates were dead, perished in the Battle of Hallowell or even before. He had no friends or family left, only Princess Thalia, and she—
She did not love him. He would never be more than a blade in her hands.
“Maybe not, but I know mine. And I’m positive of one thing.”
“What is that?” he asked before he could stop the question.
In this light, Gavriel could scarcely make out the Animari woman’s features, but his own must be well illuminated for her. He hated being on the wrong side of the power imbalance.
“It doesn’t help to blame other people… or even yourself. Terrible things happen, and you have to ride them out. When you’re hurting so bad you feel like you could die, stay busy. Work until that feeling fades. Since you’ve lived longer than me, you should know that well enough. Time eases all things.”
Gavriel noticed that she didn’t say ‘cures’ or ‘heals’ and that was the reason he didn’t eviscerate her with a few sharp words. It seemed that Magda Versai did know something about sorrow. “I didn’t request your counsel,” he muttered.
“It was a free consultation. Are you going to help me find Slay or not?”
“What?”
“You didn’t think I was comforting you out of the goodness of my heart, did you?” She laughed softly, husky and low, and he…didn’t hate the sound. In fact, it was almost pleasurable to his ragged nerves, even knowing he’d caused her amusement.
“Clarify,” he said.
“I could use a hand getting these Eldritch to open up. They’re too damned nervous to talk to me. Since you need to stay occupied, help me out.”
Gavriel startled himself by chuckling, a rusty noise born of long disuse. “You think I’ll put the people at ease?”
“Shit. Probably not. You’re the would-be queen’s enforcer, so you might scare them even more.”
“It’s unlikely that anyone in Daruvar knows anything about Lord Talfayen’s loyalists,” he said. “You’ve most likely wasted your time coming here.”
“Well, I needed to be in Eldritch lands regardless. Maybe I can beat something out of one of the enemy patrols who are running recon in Thalia’s territory.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“For them,” she said, smiling.
He surprised himself by acceding to her request. “While I can’t assist with questioning the staff, I can hunt with you. We share a common goal in wanting to extract intelligence from the queen’s enemies.”
“You’ll patrol with me, help me take out the opposition, and then assist with interrogation afterward? That could be interesting.”
“It doesn’t need to be that. Only mutually useful.” Privately Gavriel admitted that the additional work would provide a welcome distraction from the damned marital alliance that Raff Pineda had to come to pursue.
“Then…I accept your offer. When can we get started?” she asked.
He considered. “Tomorrow, we have some official entertainments planned. After that, I’ll be free, or relatively so. Princess Thalia has been distracted of late and has not issued any particular orders since I returned from Hallowell.”
She told you to rest.
Relaxation wouldn’t drive the demons out of his head, a pity the princess didn’t realize that as well as Magda Versai. The tiger woman seemed to grasp that if he retired and closed his eyes, he would see nothing but nightmare scenarios. Guilt would play his brother’s death, again and again, and Gavriel would writhe all night on a pyre of failing to prevent the loss, or worse, his flight to save himself. He had never shared that quiet truth—that he despised himself for surviving—yet she knew.
As if she was reading his mind, she said, “Get some sleep before then, or I’ll have to save your ass in the field.”
Gavriel drew himself up. “Don’t cross the line. My cooperation in this matter doesn’t give you the right to make personal remarks.”
For the third time, she laughed at him, and his jaw clenched. “I can say whatever the hell I want. You can ignore me or shut me up. Which will it be?”
Desperate desire for violence flared. Nobody spoke to him this way. He wouldn’t permit it from this Animari, either.
“Are you challenging me?” he asked softly.
“Could be fun. Fighting’s better than going back to my room, which I’m sharing with a couple of cranky wolf women. Is there somewhere we can go a round or two?”
She didn’t seem to take this seriously, her mistake. Gavriel smiled. “Certainly. The soldiers have a training space past the barracks. It’s cold and damp, but it should suffice for our purposes. I’ll give you the choice of weapons.”
“You can use whatever you want,” she answered. “I won’t need one.”
Gavriel gritted his teeth at Magda’s impenetrable confidence and stepped around her, choosing the corridor that led deeper beneath the fortress. “We shall see.”
2.
As the Noxblade had warned, the practice space was makeshift with gear piled against the walls, poorly lit with a few solar lanterns.
There were no mats to break a fall, but Mags didn’t need them. She doubted Gavriel could breach her guard, let alone perform a takedown. No matter how the sparring match went, she preferred this to returning to her room, currently occupied by Skylett and Bibi, who were doubtless complaining about Raff’s terrible decisions. While she understood disagreeing with pack leadership, she didn’t have time for people who whispered their dissent instead of saying it to the wolf lord’s face.
Across the space, Gavriel stretched with economical grace and Mags figured she should limber up too. The chill of old stones had her muscles tight and that was a good way to get injured. Just because she healed fast didn’t mean she should skip critical steps. She rotated through her usual warm up, until her body felt strong and loose, ready for whatever the assassin threw at her.
This should be fun.
To her surprise, he stripped out of his shoes and shirt, removing his belt. He correctly identified articles she could use against him and eliminated them from the equation. For that reason, she took off her top and belt as well. Her shoes were soft, no laces, so they shouldn’t offer him any advantage. They studied each other in the wan light; he was lean, muscles so well defined that he must train for hours every day. Impressive. Mags couldn’t read what he made of her build, but he wasn’t disconcerted at the sight of her bare skin, unlike the Golgoth who had been so shocked by Animari ways.
“I’m using a stiletto,” he said then.
The blade shone in the dark, sharp and wicked. Gavriel hadn’t wrapped it or added protective padding. She studied his stance and judged him more than willing to slice her up.
“Show me your best moves,” Mags answered, smiling.
Surprisingly, Gavriel circled her, cautious, probably learning as much from her feints as she did from his. Considering his customary bad temper, she expected him to be impulsive in combat, but he was proving to be patient. When he finally struck, she blocked smoothly and went for an arm lock, but he twisted away, tumbling backward in a move that told her he had skills. He came up in a crouch a few meters away, knife ready to strike.
“That was pretty. Could I see it again?”
His red eyes flashed in the dark, a testament to how little he liked or wanted her praise. “Are you mocking me?”
“No, it’s a good move. If I see it a couple more times, I can probably replicate it. I haven’t studied Eldritch combat styles, so I appreciate the insight.”
With a snarl, he came at her again and she grabbed both his arms, just to piss him off. He was used to hiding in the shadows, not matching his opponent strength for strength. To salve his pride, she let go instead of forcing a challenge he had no hope of winning. That enraged him more, and he whirled at her in a flurry of strikes.
Block, block, feint, weave, then she lashed out with an open palm, slamming it into his chest. He grunted but didn’t stagger, sending a flicker of surprise through her. She’d pulled that hit out of consideration, but maybe he was tougher than he looked. Mags stepped up the pace, and while he couldn’t match her for power, his reaction times might even be faster than hers.
She tested him with arms and legs, watching his deadly knife all the while. A few times, he nearly sliced through her defenses, and she was warming up nicely, breath coming quicker and smoking slightly in the cool air. Striking faster, she watched his eyes, his hands, the tightness of his mouth.
He’s tiring.
Mags kept him focused on her arms, occupied with matching her furious onslaught so when she shifted and struck at his knee, he wasn’t braced, and he went down. She pounced, dropping her weight on his chest to pin him, but she didn’t account for his sheer speed. Somehow, he managed to get his stiletto between them and as she pressed down, he increased the pressure, the blade pricking against her chest.
If she relaxed the pressure on his upper arms to knock the weapon away, he’d escape the prone position. For a long moment, she stared down at him, then did one thing he could never expect. Mags bit him on the wrist. Not hard enough to break the skin, but startlement loosened his grip just long enough for her to knock the knife away. The stiletto skittered toward the far wall as she planted herself on top of his hips and held his upper body down with all her considerable strength.
“Get off me,” he bit out.
“Not until you admit that I won.”
He bucked and tried an escape, but she had her weight balanced and he wasn’t physically strong enough to throw her. Even Slay would’ve had trouble dislodging her once she took dominance. Stupid bastard. I hope I don’t have to kill him. The former Ash Valley second had been her closest friend, blessedly uninterested in adding her to a list of personal conquests. Mags had a reputation for being unattainable, but it was safer that way.
His mouth sealed in a tight line, as if he’d rather starve on these cold stones than acknowledge her victory. Mags increased the pressure on his arms, hard enough to bruise, but his eyes only glittered with calculation of whether there was still a way to reverse their positions. Gavriel didn’t cry out, attesting to a high pain threshold.
“You cheated. Used your mouth as a weapon!”
“Every part of me is a weapon,” she purred. “Didn’t you realize
that?”
“It’s a sparring match, not a fight to the death. The Eldritch don’t fight like—”
“Be very careful how you complete that sentence,” she warned.
Her faint amusement faded, and now she was holding him still to keep from venting her temper. She’d swallowed enough outrage back in Ash Valley when old Lord Talfayen called her people ‘animals’ and ‘beasts’. If Gavriel showed he was cut from the same cloth, she might regret not breaking his bones. Hell, this match might take a dark turn, even now.
“Like the Animari,” he finished.
“Acceptable. But you still need to—” Even as she spoke, he twisted and rolled beneath her, trying to turn their brief conversation into a personal advantage.
Mags could respect that relentless drive, considering she shared it. He was stronger than she’d guessed from his light build, wiry, tough, and incredibly flexible. Gavriel drove his foot into the small of her back, trying to push her off with his arms, and she lay down on him, equally determined not to be unseated. That brought their faces close together and he snapped at her, proving that he might bite her nose off, despite what he’d said about the Eldritch not sharing Animari viciousness.
“Just admit the loss. It’s not the end of the world,” she whispered.
She wrapped her legs around his, pinning him further. Now they were completely entwined, her body ruling his. His breath came hard and fast, bitter rage sparking his eyes, driving the churn of his arms and his furious heartbeat. Normally, sparring wasn’t like this. Her pride mate would just tap out, leaving her to swagger around a little, and that would be the end of it. She’d never faced off against someone so…obstinate.
Mags tightened her thighs, pulling his legs farther apart to prove that he couldn’t get away. Gavriel’s breath caught. As he glared up at her, chest heaving, the atmosphere changed. He bit his lip, his arms going slack, and he turned his face away, showing the sharp line of his jaw. His throat worked helplessly as he tried to hide in the tangled mess of his white hair. She registered the warming of his scent first, more cinnamon, and then he swelled beneath her, an unmistakable sexual response. Judging from the tightness of his expression and his ragged breathing, he couldn’t control the reaction.
