Déjà Vu & Gin

by Heather R. Blair

  After several long moments of silence, Viktor got to his feet and walked out, leaving me kneeling on that cold marble floor.

  I drifted through the rest of the day. The sniggers and sidelong looks had already begun, despite Viktor’s promise of discretion, but that didn’t really bother me. It was the rest of it—knowing I’d been so close to having my family back, and that I’d failed because of a momentary weakness. Then again, perhaps he’d never meant to wed me at all. Perhaps it had all been an act.

  My mother was off with Carly, Jett confined to the house in London per her orders. I was alone with only a couple of servants to witness my misery.

  Everyone was packing up, most excited to be leaving this quaint countryside castle outside of Prague to go back to the Inferno Palace and start the new season. A season in which Viktor would undoubtedly pick a new bride.

  It wasn’t until the next day that my temper got the best of me.

  I’d delayed leaving until the last minute, hoping against hope that Viktor would change his mind, that a summons would come. It didn’t. When my carriage crested the top of the hill, I asked the driver to stop and I got out. The wind was light and warm, scented with flowers and hope. Such a vicious lie.

  The castle lay below, nestled in a green and gold valley. The sun was sinking into the western horizon, trailing scarlet fingers across the darkening sky. I could see the royal procession headed in the opposite direction with Viktor at its head and I just . . . snapped.

  Magic has always been easy for me, the casting, the weaving. Even scrollwork—something many witches find taxing—is always a veritable piece of cake for me. On the hill that day, though, I did something I’ve never done before or since. It wasn’t so much a cast as a gathering. I didn’t reach out. I simply opened myself up, and the magic rushed in.

  As if I were some enormous magnet, all the frustration and desperation I was feeling began pulling energy in from the four corners of the earth. I became a black hole, sucking it in, sinking to my knees in the thick grass. When the power became too much to hold, I released it, my eyes on the place where my dreams had been crushed.

  Viktor’s empty castle.

  The roar was like nothing I’d ever heard before. It was as if every piece of glass in the entire world were being smashed at once. The enormous castle shattered before my eyes, a figurine tossed against a hard surface. Then the pieces simply vanished, vaporized as if they’d never been.

  Viktor was far away by then, but I saw him rein in his horse, saw him look back at the castle before his eyes were drawn to my hill. I think I heard him call my name over the shouts and cries of the royal caravan, but I didn’t care. I was numb. I got back into the carriage and ordered the driver on.

  It was only when I got back to London and found the Council waiting for me that I realized Jett was missing, but by then I could do nothing.

  I was held awaiting inquiry. When my mother returned from her visit with Carly, she found both her eldest daughters in various states of imprisonment.

  It was a bad week for our family.

  We survived it. I survived it.

  I was rather curious when the years went by and Viktor never married, but it all began to seem very far away and distant. Like it’d happened to someone else. Other than keeping an eye on something at the Inferno Palace at my mother’s request and the weight of Viktor’s ring on my finger to remind me of the importance of never taking anything for granted, I did my best to forget my time as his fiancée.

  But the internal repercussions were inescapable.

  Every bit of warmth had been wrung from me, and all that was left was an ice-cold shell. I did try at first. I allowed men to court me in Jett’s time. I even slept with one of them. Once. It was a lackluster evening, to say the least. It seemed I had lost the ability to feel. I cared about my family still, of course, as fiercely as ever. But the rest of it was just . . . gone.

  I, who had been trained in the art of flirtation by possibly the greatest courtesan the world had ever seen, had lost all interest in men.

  Until a certain gypsy assassin showed up at my door . . .

  Part I

  1

  I ring the front door, then clasp my hands behind my back, rocking back and forth lightly. This could be a spectacularly bad idea, especially if the wrong sister opens the door. But fate, that fickle tart, decides to throw me a bone.

  This is definitely the right sister—the blackmailing little bitch that’s got me between a rock and a psychotic angry god. Of course, Cerunnos née Herne doesn’t want anyone to know he’s a god yet, but that doesn’t change the fact that my balls are on the line. Or that this witch put them there.

  Whether she knows it or not.

  “Hello, Anastasia,” I drawl, watching her face.

  Her lips part, full and soft as a winter’s rose, those ice-blue eyes widening in tandem.

  She catches herself almost immediately. “I am sorry, do I know you?”

  I wag a finger at her. “Nice try, love, but I’ve got your number. Give up the innocent routine and save us both some time.”

  She makes her mind up fast, I’ll give her that. The coolly polite look becomes a scowl. “What do you want?”

  “Well, I’m not here to sell you a vacuum cleaner. We need to have a chat.”

  With a sigh, she opens the door and waves me in. The house is a trip, just as eccentric inside as without. I pass a mural of an enormous bruin giving me the side-eye and repress a shudder. Perhaps even more eccentric. “That’s an interesting choice of decor.”

  She shrugs. I know she’s not the painter. That’s the redheaded one. I’ve been studying up on this family. Jett, I’m already acquainted with. There are things I know about that one that would turn big sister’s hair white—if it weren’t nearly there already. Then we have the painter of creepy sentient murals, Carly. The one seemingly so sweet she flies under everyone’s radar, but the company she keeps . . . I shake my head, wondering if her sisters have any idea of the monster that one has on a leash.

  Next would be Persephone, the baby of the family, and the other one causing me all sorts of headaches these days, even before Anastasia here interfered. The Dark Council has always netted me lots of clients. Their inherent purpose lends itself nicely to my line of work. These days I can barely keep up with demand.

  It’s a bitter irony, then, that I signed a contract to kill Persephone Gosse not hours before her sister here blackmailed me into another to keep Persephone safe. Not that I knew my blackmailer’s identity at the time. I shake my head, glancing at the mural again. The bear growls at me, flashing a set of unnaturally sharp teeth.

  Yeah. This family has issues. Not that I’m one to talk. My family cursed me just for being born.

  I blink, easing my hands behind my back and squeezing them into tight fists once before slowly relaxing my grip. My past hasn’t slipped its chains in at least a century. I squeeze again, hard enough that my knuckles ache. It’s a technique I’ve perfected over the years to let unwelcome emotions go. Haven’t had need of it in a while, but it still works like a charm.

  My mind goes blank as I let go again, my focus shifting firmly to my current target of sorts. Anastasia Gosse. Her and the twisted mess she has made of my simple life. She shows me to a blue and white parlor, then folds her hands demurely in front of her skirts. She doesn’t invite me to sit and the silence between us stretches as we take each other’s measure.

  She’s a tiny thing. Slender, but delectably curvy. She has to tilt her head to meet my gaze and I’m not particularly tall. Curls the color of moonlight brush a stubborn chin, where a faint dimple sits just off-center. It’s the kind of thing a man might take a notion to kiss. I shake myself internally. Focus.

  “You’re beautiful.” I don’t know where that came from—the words just leap out. It’s the truth. She’s even more beautiful than her baby sister, if we’re comparing.

  But where Persephone is built to warm a man’s heart and bed, this one is co
ld from the top of her gleaming silver-blond head to the tips of her white kid boots. I frown, taking in the heavy silk skirts, the cinched waist and the low-cut, lace-encrusted bodice, feeling uncomfortably like I’ve been transported to my youth, admiring from afar all the women I could never touch. At least in polite company.

  My lip curls as I push the past away again. “What’s with the Marie Antoinette costume?”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” She ignores both my statement and my question without a blink, her gaze level and cool.

  “That depends on your point of view. I want to renegotiate my contract.” Actually, I want out of the fucking thing entirely, but I’m willing to pretend to be reasonable.

  “No,” she sniffs.

  I try again. “I have a rather awkward conflict of interest.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Not my concern.”

  Fine. Enough pretending.

  I snag her arm, none too gently. The next thing I know I’m on my knees, gasping for air. Well, I had a feeling this meeting would go sour fast. Besides fetching my sword from where Persephone left it, I made a pit stop at one of my numerous caches and loaded for bear—or witch, as the case may be.

  Unlike my recent tangle with Persephone, this is a fight I have no intention of throwing.

  One tap at my belt has a fine, black sand arching into the air. It dusts the deep blue folds of her dress. She tries to whirl away, but her movements slow like the air around her is congealing, turning to a thick syrup.

  It won’t last, but for now, the witch is stuck. Her lips part too late. With a flick of my wrist, a silvery, leathery rectangle slaps over her mouth before she can make a sound.

  She’s grinding her teeth together as I get to my feet.

  I grin. “Duct tape fixes everything.”

  At least, enchanted duct tape does. I buy the stuff in bulk.

  Her chin lifts, quivering with indignation, as I step behind her and pull a rope weaved by a sprite out of one of my magic-lined pockets. It’s ice-cold, even through my gloves. I bind her hands. Winter elementals are particularly effective at negating witch magic. I paid a bundle for the damn thing, but I had a feeling it would come in handy.

  “I’m going to take the tape off now,” I say in her ear, her curls brushing and catching at the scruff on my jaw. My nostrils flare. She smells like something light and cool, a half-remembered scent that teases my memory with sweetness and pain. I yank my head back, my voice hardening. “But one hint of a rhyme, love, and I’ll cut out your tongue. Understand?”

  She nods shortly. I rip off the tape.

  “I gave you that pouch of vorpal sand,” she says immediately, her tone indignant.

  “Didn’t think that through, did you?”

  “You are despicable.”

  I chuckle. “Says the woman blackmailing me.”

  There’s a poisonous smile on her lips when I spin her back around. “I’m surprised you didn’t use the Fetters of Fenrir.”

  Now she’s baiting me and it fucking works. Rage licks at my guts, trying to rise up and take over. I shove it down with an effort.

  I shake her once, hard. “The Fetters aren’t required for the likes of you.” So many years, so much planning. How the hell does she know?

  For the first time, she looks a trifle nervous. “My sisters could show up any second.”

  “Yes, they could. So we better make this snappy.” I draw my sword and place the tip of it against that pretty white throat, watching her suck in a breath. “Who told you I stole the Fetters?”

  “No one,” she says evenly. Her heart must be pounding, given the rosy flush staining her cheeks and collarbone, but that ice-blue gaze never flickers from my face. Ballsy little shit, just like her baby sister. “I saw you take them with my own two eyes.”

  “That’s bloody impossible.”

  “Is it?” Her smile widens even as I apply just enough pressure for the blade to bite into her skin. “You walked into the Inferno Palace during the Yule ball. It looked like you were strangling on that tie. Not used to wearing a tux, are we?”

  She’s not wrong, but how? I got away clean, I know I did.

  “Explain,” I grind out, pressing harder. A crimson bead wells up against that pale, silky skin. I’ve made women bleed before and I’ll do it again. Assassination is an equal-opportunity gig. Unfortunately, we both know me killing her is highly unlikely, thanks to her and that bloody contract.

  To my surprise, she answers me anyway. “I watch the palace now and then.”

  “What do you mean, watch?”

  “I can scry anywhere I’ve ever visited.” She sighs at my look of confusion and glances away, silver curls brushing one pink cheek. “Given a reflective surface and sufficient concentration, I can watch what’s happening like it’s live on television. Places are easy. People as well, if I have something of theirs to focus me.” She twists a ring on her finger and it hits me. I’ve done my homework on Miss Anastasia Gosse.

  I tsk lightly. “You use your magic to spy on the man that jilted you? Bit pathetic, darling.”

  She doesn’t respond to the dig, but that flush deepens and she lets go of the ring.

  “So it was an accident, you seeing me that day?” I let her stew as I consider the implications. This is new information. Anastasia Gosse’s gift may not be as flashy as her sisters’, but it is interesting.

  “You could say that.”

  Bloody inconvenient for me.

  Or maybe not. I need to think on this. But first I want to confirm she’s for real.

  “What if I don’t believe you?” My fingers tighten on my sword, watching her face. I’m good at reading people, a necessary life skill in my profession, but experience has taught me no one is infallible.

  She cocks her head minutely, indicating a basin in the corner I notice for the first time. “I can prove it. What would you like to see, assassin?”

  “Perhaps the Inferno Palace again?” I cock an eyebrow.

  Her mouth tightens. “Pick somewhere else.”

  “Aww, too painful?”

  “No.” She gives me an impatient look. “Too frustrating. Viktor’s power negates most other magic, including my sight. It’s hard to see the palace properly when he’s there.”

  Huh. I should have guessed as much. The heir apparent was not in attendance the night of the annual ball. Rumor was Vasilisa and his uncle had had a row—which was precisely why I chose that event to make my move. However, that brings up another question. If she wasn’t watching the palace to see her old lover, what the hell was she doing?

  I want to ask, but time is of the essence. I need to get out of here before her sisters make an appearance. “How about Freya? Or does your power not work on gods either?”

  She blinks. “That would depend on the god. Do you have something of hers?”

  “You could say that.” I lift my blade and press the flat against her cheek. “Use this.”

  “I need my hands,” she says after a slight hesitation.

  I let her think I’m falling for it as I reach for the rope that binds her wrists. Her lips part and I lift my hand away, my voice hardening. “You’ll have to lie better than that to fool me, Anastasia.”

  She curses. Ripely. In both French and English. My eyes widen.

  I’m not often surprised, but little Miss Stick Up Her Ass and her sheer creativity with words is unexpected and impressive. A hint of fire under all that ice. How intriguing.

  But I’m not here to be fucking intrigued; I’m here to get out of this impossible contract.

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” I yank her back against me, the blade pressed again to her throat. She’s warm and soft, but her spine is rigid. No trembling damsel this one. I give into the urge to nip her delicate little earlobe once, sharply, supremely satisfied when she jumps in shock. “Vow it. You will never lie to me again, Anastasia.”

  She sucks in a breath. “My sisters will be here soon.”

  I want to bite her again
, to see if I can rattle that composure some more, but this time I resist. “Somehow I think you are more worried about them finding us together than I am. But by all means, keep stalling.”

  After another curse that would blister a sailor’s ears and has my lips twitching, she gives me the vow.

  “Good girl,” I murmur. “Now, do you need your hands to scry?”

  She squirms. “No.”

  “Thought not.” With a laugh, I lower my sword and push her toward the basin. “Get to it, love.”

  Seconds later, she’s murmuring something in French, the silky sound of her voice stirring something hard and greedy inside of me. And inside of my pants. I shift my weight and give a silent curse of my own. What the fuck?

  I like my women bawdy and biddable. Why some stuck-up ice bitch who wants to use me for her own ends suddenly has my cock harder than gnome-forged steel, I’ve no idea.

  I love my dick, but sometimes I think the damn thing has a death wish.

  The witch coughs and I realize I’ve been staring at her ass instead of the damn basin. It’s silver, runes etched around the edges. The basin, not her ass. Though both are beautifully rounded, flaring at the sides . . .

  “Place the tip of the sword in the water.”

  “What?” Instinctively, I put my body between her magic basin and my blade. “No fucking way I’m letting whatever potion you’ve got in there near him.”

  “Him? For the love of the gods.” She rolls her eyes. “You actually named the cursed thing.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “All men name their swords, love, didn’t you know?”

  She doesn’t even blink, though her cheeks go slightly pink. “Let me guess, Mighty Scimitar?”

  “Scimitars are curved,” I smirk.

  “Needle?” she suggests then, acid in her tone, but that flush deepens. Gods, even with her hands tied behind her back, she looks like a damn queen. Perfect. Untouchable.

  Something old and dark and mean flares inside of me.

  “Your type does have a tendency to leave a man withered and cold,” I drawl. “Apparently even the Firebird Prince.”