But before I leap backward, he throat punches me instead.
Uh…
I gasp, stumble backward, but I still have both knives. It’s no use trying to get him to back off. I use the motion to my advantage, pivoting, spinning, and slashing each dagger, one after the other across his chest. The blades slice against his suit but don’t cut through.
It’s my turn to get a case of the wide eyes.
His suit protects him. I don’t have anything near that advantage. I abandon the gentle approach, following up my swinging slashes with another boot to his chest, following him as he stumbles backward, taking advantage of his failing balance to slam the dagger into his shoulder. The knife glances off his chest, shuddering in my hand.
He winces.
I’ve bruised him, but it didn’t break through the material. Shock shatters my calm for the first time.
That’s some serious protective gear.
Before I can blink, he slides another weapon from his boot and rams it upward. The new knife thuds right into my side, aimed to slide between my ribs. It sticks and stops. I inhale, swallow a scream, fear crashing through me as I jerk upright and wobble backward.
He glares at me, rising to his feet, waiting for me to fall.
But … I don’t feel any pain.
I’m not dead. I don’t feel a cut. There’s no blood.
Maybe I’m in shock and I can’t feel anything.
Maybe he missed me?
Nope. The knife is sticking out of me, attached to my side. I steady myself. If I’m dying, I’m taking this guy down with me.
His suit is made of material and that means it has seams.
I leap back at him, abandoning my fear and angling the knife to the side, slicing down the side seam as I pass by. His suit splits open, exposing his stomach, all muscles.
A glow grows around his edges that makes it hard for me to focus on him, but I head right back into the fight, spinning and kicking him so hard that he slams against the brick behind him.
I land on him, pressing my blade to his bare stomach.
He freezes.
Fear and confusion dance in his eyes.
“How did you…?” He shakes it off and demands again, “Tell me who you are!”
My vocal chords are lacerated because of the punch he landed to my throat. I’m sick of hiding my true identity. It’s time this asshole knows who he’s dealing with.
My voice rasps, scratchy, a deep growl. “My name … is Archer Ryan.”
My real name. The one I don’t tell anyone.
His eyes widen with shock. He recognizes my name.
Good. He should be afraid.
My dad was Patrick Ryan, one of the most feared mobsters in Boston before he went down in a blaze of glory, taking ten hit men with him on his way to hell. Or so the story goes. Seven of them were actually my kills, but that didn’t save him.
I couldn’t save him.
That old bastard, he dressed me as a boy, cut my hair short, taught me how to use every weapon imaginable, and told everyone he had a son. When I reached puberty, he made me wear baggy clothing and strap my chest and waist to disguise my curves. That only worked for a year—until I developed a D cup to be exact. After that, I hid in the shadows, became a name, a myth, someone who was never seen. Anyone who saw my face or figure didn’t live long enough to talk about it. Even the nanny who raised me disappeared and I had no doubt Dad was responsible. His answer to everything was a bullet. I hated him for my solitude, but I came to understand his motives as I got older.
In the world of crime, sons are allies. Daughters are liabilities.
Judging by the shock on my assailant’s face, being the child of a well-known mobster gives me an advantage.
I press the knife against his stomach, drawing blood but not enough to kill him. “Get off my turf before I end you.”
He splays his hands wide, sliding upward, finding his feet, placing each step carefully. I let him go, wary in case it’s a trick on his part.
He makes it to the fire escape at the side of the building and steps onto the bottom rung, but right before he disappears up it, he says, “You don’t know what you’ve done, Archer Ryan.”
I let the threat wash over me. Most men will use threats to save face when they’ve been beaten. I shrug it off as he disappears up and over the edge of the roof. My biggest concern now is the dagger that didn’t kill me…
As soon as I’m certain that the man is gone, I check the knife he thrust into my side, holding my breath. I’m not sure what I’ll find. The dagger is rammed into something … but not the ribs he aimed for.
I almost laugh when I discover that it’s stuck in my hardcover book.
Well, what do you know? Reading just saved my life. I cycle through amazement, relief, and then rage as I assess the damage to my beautiful possession. That asshole’s dagger sliced all the way to the back cover; every page has a slit in it. It’s unnerving that he had that kind of strength. I recall the strange glow that grew around him, like an electrified force.
I shake it off as I deposit his dagger safely into my pocket, on the outside of the book so there’s no chance I’ll stab myself with it when I move around. Then I reach for the old lady, helping her to her feet. She doesn’t cry or go into shock. She’s tough—I’ll give her that. But her eyes are wide pools.
Her hands hover across her damaged throat as she whispers, “Archer Ryan.”
Yeah. That’s me. Apparently my parents wanted to give me a strong name. At least, that’s what Dad told me. I don’t remember Mom.
It looks like this lady recognizes my name too. Except, unlike her would-be killer, she knows I’m female because she’s seen me come and go in this coat day after day.
My voice is still husky as I ask her, “Who was that guy?”
Her voice is lacerated like mine. “His name is Lutz Logan. He is an assassin.”
I frown, brushing off her fearful reply. “Assassins are myths.”
She shakes her head, pointing to my pocket where the dagger hides. “He belongs to Slade’s Legion.”
That explains the “SL,” but I struggle to believe her. I believe in mobsters. I believe in hit men whose job it is to kill and bury their boss’s rivals. I believe in thugs, criminals, and drug lords. I believe in tyrants like the newest queen of the underground—a woman who calls herself Lady Tirelli.
I believe in acts of vengeance and blood feuds.
But assassins are something else entirely—trained warriors who disappear into the shadows, who hire themselves out to deal death purely for money. They don’t exist. Besides, why would anyone pay to kill this old lady?
I try to refocus the conversation. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
“I’m Briar.”
“I’m really sorry about the coffee, Briar, but I brought you some food. You must be hungry.” I gesture back along the alleyway but my smile slips when she grabs my arm before I can move further. Her bony grip is surprisingly strong.
She speaks urgently. “Archer Ryan, you need to run.”
“Why? Because of that thug?” He threatened that I would regret my actions, but most men do after you beat them in a fight.
“Slade’s Legion will hunt you down. You interfered in a sanctioned assassination. They follow a code. They don’t tolerate interference. Especially not from someone who can beat Lutz Logan.”
I contemplate her. She didn’t scream or cry when the guy was choking the life out of her. Not when I fought him either, but now tears spring into her eyes.
She says, “I don’t believe you are the person the stories say you are. I don’t want you to die because of me, Archer Ryan.”
I shrug. “If they’re going to hunt me, then nowhere is safe.”
Even Dad had nowhere to hide in the end. There was only one woman he trusted—a woman I never met. He called her his “Glass Fox.” They died on the same night. As soon as she was killed, that was the end of him.
Briar poin
ts to my side. I have no idea why—I already removed the dagger—until a flap of blue paper catches my eye. It’s the flyer that was pasted on the pole out on the street. It must have worked its way out of my pocket during the fight.
Briar says, “Go to the Tomb.”
“A bookstore?” I’m dubious now. Sure, I love to escape into books, but realistically a bookstore isn’t going to save me.
She pulls me closer. Her voice is raspy, forced, the damage to her vocal chords revealing itself. “Go to the Tomb. You will be safe there.”
Safe in a Tomb. Sounds perfectly likely.
Briar’s gaze darts around the alleyway. The shadows suddenly seem deeper. The street outside is too quiet. An uneasy tension settles in my stomach. Whether or not I believe that my assailant is coming back to take revenge, I have a very strong sense that I need to get out of here right now.
I spin back to her. “What about you?”
She gives me a toothy grin and whispers, “Once an assassination fails, the target is off limits. They only get one shot. You saved my life. But your own is in danger. Go now, Archer Ryan.”
I find it strange that she keeps calling me by both my names. But it’s clear that Briar really wants me go to this bookstore. Truth be told, I’m a little uneasy now. Whether or not I believe that assassins exist, that guy was serious about killing Briar. Dark bruises are already spreading across her throat where he wrapped his big hands. He wasn’t a hallucination and I’ve got his dagger to prove it.
I need to get out of here but going to a bookstore isn’t my best bet—no matter how insistent Briar is. I make no promises as I head to the alleyway’s opening. Once I’m at the corner, I peer around it. The street is too quiet. Too deserted. I glance back one last time. “I hope you’ll…”
I was going to tell her I hoped she’d be okay, but she’s already in the process of darting past me.
“I’ll intercept them,” she says, racing away down the street in the opposite direction to the bookstore.
Taking one last look at the flyer scrunched in my hand, I shove it into my pocket and out of sight.
I need to go back to my apartment before the shakes kick in. The after-effects of fighting are what I fear—my body shuts down and I’ll be completely vulnerable. It’s like punishment for being so calm while I fight—I feel the fight afterward, not during.
I will be able to recover safely once I reach my apartment. Then I’ll get my things and catch the next bus out of here. I only paid up this week’s rent so it’s not a big loss. I have enough money left from Cain’s tip to pay for the bus ticket.
It’s time to leave Boston once and for all.
2
I’m only halfway up the street, just approaching the café again, when the shock hits me.
Too soon! It has never hit me this fast after a fight. I usually have an hour at least. I stumble across the pavement, my legs wobbling and my eyesight blurring.
No, please, no. I can’t collapse here.
I try to right myself before I draw attention from people passing by. I take deep breaths, fighting off the darkness encroaching on my vision.
I don’t have to look back to know I’m being followed. A cute guy in faded jeans, leather jacket, and blue scarf peeled off the far corner as soon as I appeared on the street again. He looks like a college student, clean cut and harmless. But he’s been on my six for the last five minutes. He’s got something up his sleeve too; he’s not smart enough to stop checking it. It could be a dagger. Or a syringe containing a paralytic if kidnapping is his game.
I was reckless to speak my real name aloud. I have no way of knowing whether the guy following me is working for someone with a long-held grudge against my dad or whether he’s involved in this assassin stuff that Briar was so worried about.
It doesn’t matter. He’s gaining on me.
If I collapse, I’ll be defenseless.
Part of me wants to turn around and face him right now before I’m totally gone. It’s not like me to run from a fight. But now I’m really shaking, my hands clattering against my sides, my shoulders trembling. I estimate I have five minutes at most before I literally pass out.
Keep moving, Archer. Don’t forget the dagger in your pocket. I don’t want to reach for it and give away that I still have it, but if I become desperate, I will. I have to believe that the calm will return once I hold it in my hand again.
I stick to the populated pathways, walking near people at all times: a couple holding hands strolling down the path, then a group of girls…
Once I pass the café, the shakes become unbearable. My heart is pounding. I’m sweating despite the cold. I need to sit down. I need to lie down.
I bump into the next person—a guy—and he reaches out to steady me.
“Grace? Are you okay?”
Oh no. The last thing I need right now is to meet someone I know. I just need to get back to my apartment. I don’t need anyone’s help. I wobble as I look up, making a mockery of my own determination not to lean on him.
I stare in shock. “Cain?”
He assesses me with eyes that remind me of a stormy sea. He’s still dressed in workout gear, but I don’t see Parker anywhere nearby. I’m surprised Cain recognizes me given that I’m covered up to my ears. Only my eyes and cheekbones are visible. I make another mental note to switch up my contact lenses. The blue ones I currently use are too pretty, too eye-catching. Using contact lenses with such a memorable color is clearly not doing me any favors.
“You’re shaking. What’s wrong?” His grip tightens on my arms and I’m shocked to realize that my legs just failed. He’s the only reason I’m standing upright.
And … dammit … he knows it.
My voice is small. The admission hurts much more than the fact that I’m completely reliant on a stranger right now. “I don’t feel very well.”
That’s twice today he’s ripped the truth out of me.
He glances to his left, where a black sedan waits, his speech cautious. “Okay … so … getting into a car with a stranger is normally a really bad idea and I would absolutely tell you not to do it, but I don’t think I can leave you here.”
His driver has parked the vehicle in the parking bay again. Parker isn’t inside it. I pretend for a moment that I’m not completely reliant on Cain right now. “What are you doing back here?”
His expression hardens. “I sent Parker home and then I came back to pay off your friends so they wouldn’t talk to the press.”
A trickle of indignation finds its way back into my body. “They aren’t my friends. Well, maybe Joe is. Jeremy and I used to date, but I use the past tense with emphasis…”
My voice trails off. As I speak, Cain focuses on something behind me, his attention shifting from me for the first time since he stopped me from falling. I attempt to turn to see what he’s looking at.
The guy who was tailing me stands only five paces away, but he stops in the middle of the pathway. He considers Cain with an uneasy expression. If I wasn’t so out of it already, I’d say he was worried.
Cain’s eyes narrow.
That’s all it takes for the guy to back away. He makes it look casual. Then he turns and strides down the street, pulling out his cell phone as he walks. So it was a phone up his sleeve after all. He’s too far away for me to hear what he says.
My head tips back. Oh God, no … I can’t control my limbs. I’m going to … pass out…
Cain’s grip ascends to the back of my head. With one hand he deftly slips off my hood, and with the other he supports my head before it tips backward, all without letting me fall. Unearthly tingles shoot down my spine from the places where his fingertips rest against my scalp.
He murmurs into my ear: “I need to get you out of here right now.”
My heart almost stops when his lips brush my ear. I tell myself it’s the oncoming disintegration of my senses. My knees are already jelly. His husky voice has nothing to do with it…
Somehow, the touch
of his hand on my head keeps me grounded and present. The threatening darkness recedes, but only enough that I don’t fall unconscious right then.
Despite the certainty in his voice, there’s a question in it. Am I okay with that?
If I hadn’t seen him with Parker this morning, there’s no way I would get into a car with him, no matter how much money the tabloids say he has. He could be a millionaire serial killer for all I know. But the reality right now is that if he lets me go, I’ll end up passed out on the sidewalk. That’s not a safe option either. Especially since I have no doubt my pursuer will come back.
Even if I don’t believe in assassins, there’s something going on here. Of the two options, I’ll take the guy with the sweet sister who is offering to help me out.
I mumble, “Okay. But take me to my apartment, please.”
He frowns. “I think you need a doctor…”
“No hospitals!” The assertion saps the last of my energy. Hospitals require identification, and then medical staff go digging where they shouldn’t.
Dad’s orders repeat on me: You fix your own wounds or you fucking die from them.
He taught me how to disinfect and stitch cuts, even how to remove bullets. Besides, I’m not going to die from my current ailment. I just need to lie down for half an hour…
Cain is reluctant. “Okay. Please tell my driver where to go and he’ll take us there.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as he has my agreement, he lifts me up, hooking one arm under my knees and supporting my head and back with his other. His driver jumps out of the car, no doubt waiting for such a sign, and races around to the passenger door to open it for us.
Cain leverages me inside the vehicle onto the back seat as if I don’t weigh a thing—which I know isn’t true. I may be able to bust a move once I have a weapon in my hand, but I’m taller than average and curvy in a lot of places.
Leaving the door open for a moment, Cain speaks rapidly with his driver in hushed tones before he closes the door and rounds the front of the vehicle.
Shadows and Sorcery: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 42
