Claimed by the Assassins (An Academy of Assassins Novel Book 3)
Page 21
“Wait. What?”
Chapter Nineteen
Light blasted through the room, the concussive force nearly knocking Morgan on her ass, and the blades in her hands melted down and skated up her arms. Morgan glanced around cautiously, half expecting a portal to have opened up and sucked her into another dimension.
Instead, the air rippled around them, the temperature dropping so quickly she’d swear she saw snow floating in the room. She didn’t think they were in the actual veil, but they were close enough for it to leak over into the human realm.
“Ambrose!”
Breanna’s voice thundered into the warehouse like she’d yelled into a canyon. Power drenched that one word.
Breanna was no longer remotely human, now completely ethereal in her banshee form. She went from pretty to downright gorgeous, her blond hair curling, as if drawing energy from the world around her. She wore a flowing dress, the fringes in tatters, black smoke tugging at the edges. Her hair moved and lifted, the cold wind circling around them playing with the strands. Her skin was deathly pale, which only made her look more stunning, power all but pulsing from her.
She was both light and dark.
Morgan had no trouble believing Breanna could see when death was near…she was death and life.
And someone far more important than the lost girl she’d pretended to be at the club.
Cold skated down Morgan’s spine, like the grim reaper ran his ice-cold hands over her body, the frigid temperatures stealing more and more of her heat. The mark on her face hurt, like she’d been branded by a hot poker.
When she probed the area, she didn’t feel a cut, but a puffy mark, like a new tattoo.
The phoenix on her back stirred sluggishly to life, fluttering along her spine and sending warmth tingling down her back. It wasn’t enough to offset the ice that had begun to crackle along the walls and floor, but enough that her teeth stopped chattering and stave off her becoming a block of ice.
Breanna didn’t seem to notice the literally soul-sucking cold, but when Morgan looked down at herself, she stifled a gasp—she was completely transparent and practically glowing.
It took her a second to realize why she was different from the others…the veil was a place for the dead, and she still had her soul. She suspected if she stayed in the veil too long, it would feed on her until she was nothing more than another ghost.
“Ambrose, you don’t want to make me mad. Show yourself.”
A heavy male sigh sounded behind her, and Morgan whirled.
The man was a mountain, nearly seven feet tall, his shoulders nearly half as wide. He was wearing furs, the clothes centuries out of date, a warrior who had stepped out of time. He sported a tangled, snarled beard, his brownish red hair curling down to his shoulders, but it was his eyes that captured her attention. They were completely black and soulless.
“Why hello, little Breanna. It’s good to see you again.”
Sincerity rang in his deep voice, the low sound seeming to resonate in Morgan, making her think of sex. Despite his rough exterior, there was something almost gentle about him when he looked at Breanna, his face softening until she could see he had once been a handsome devil…before he died and turned evil.
Breanna narrowed her eyes, ignoring the sexy grin he cast her way. “The Hunt you called is illegal.”
His lips pursed, but desperation sparked in his eyes. “Now, Breanna—”
“You’re breaking the rules.” Breanna tightened her grip on the pommel of her sword like she wanted to use it on him. “You know the penalty you will have to pay.”
“Bending, not breaking.” He stretched his arms over his head, his spine cracking. His shirt lifted, revealing muscles on top of muscles, and based on the way Breanna swallowed hard, the banshee noticed.
And Morgan realized that Ambrose was trying to distract Breanna.
He was a very fit man…ghost…spirit…whatever.
But Breanna was made of sterner stuff. “You’re interfering where you don’t belong.”
Ambrose scowled, not backing down in the least. “It was a favor I couldn’t turn down. I chose my best men. If they win, they’ll have a chance to finally be free. A permanent rest.”
“We all have choices.” Breanna wasn’t the least bit intimidated when Ambrose straightened to his full height. “Call off the hunt.”
“Sorry, but I can’t.” He really did look apologetic, but there was a tightness around his mouth that spoke of resolve. He would never change his mind. “Her life in exchange for yours. You can finally go home.”
For the first time, Breanna looked shaken. “Do you think your precious queen will ever stop coming after me? If you want to help me, call off the hunt.”
When Ambrose refused to speak, Breanna placed both hands on her sword. “Very well, you give me no choice. May the best hunter win.”
Without giving him a chance to speak, she yanked the blade out of the ground. The air around them warbled violently, like a percussion grenade had detonated, all the energy and air sucked forward to shut the portal.
The chill faded, leaving the mild winter air almost too warm against Morgan’s skin. She gingerly touched her face, and the cut was once more back in place, but if she pressed hard enough, she could still feel the mark of the dead. Shaking off that disturbing thought, she glanced around the warehouse.
Breanna had taken solid form again, her clothes once more normal. She stared down at her sword blindly for a second before she straightened her spine. “Let’s go kill some ghosts.”
Morgan followed after Breanna as she headed toward the entrance. “So. You and Ambrose?”
Breanna’s shoulders tightened. “Rule one…never date a ghost. It can never go anywhere.”
Morgan couldn’t imagine never being able to touch her guys, but if it was a choice between a ghost of them and not having them at all, she’d take the ghost every time. “You know the bitch queen. Is that the real reason you’re helping?”
The banshee laughed at the pet name, but the humor quickly faded. “Only the queen has enough power to order the hunt, and she and I have a little score to settle. If helping you will piss her off, I consider it a bonus.”
That made an odd sort of sense to Morgan. “What did you do to piss her off?”
“What did you do?” Breanna countered, easily deflecting the question as they exited the last of the collapsed shelving.
“I fell in love with a guy she wants for her own.”
“That would do it.” Breanna blew out a heavy breath and rolled her shoulders, as if struggling under a heavy weight. “I was banished for saving a life instead of standing idly by. You can’t kill a banshee without being cursed, but banishment is a punishment worse than death for us.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” Morgan halted by the door. “You can start a new life away from the bitch queen. Win-win.”
“She’s the queen of the whole isle where my people live, her reign extending beyond just the sea.” Breanna reached for the door handle, her knuckles white as her grip tightened. “Banshees aren’t the kind of people who make friends. Period. We tend to stick together. For some reason, knowing when a person will die scares people. Go figure.”
Without waiting for any more questions, she pulled open the door, but stopped before heading out. She nodded toward Morgan’s hands. “I sure hope you know how to use them. If you can’t stay alive until morning, your soul will be lost. You can stay inside the warehouse. There’s a small chance that they might not be able to breach the grounds before morning.”
“You and I know that it would only be putting off the inevitable. Killing five men is totally doable.” The blades formed without conscious thought. She peered beyond Breanna to see four of the aforementioned men in various stages of death waiting for them. “One is missing.”
For some reason, that fact worried her more than the four hulking warriors waiting for them. One of the ghosts lingered near the wall of the warehouse. Every time he stuck
“Eventually, his presence will taint that spot and he’ll gain entrance.” Breanna hefted her sword up in salute. “Are you ready to be free of this curse?”
Morgan nodded, clenching her own weapons tighter. “I’ll go out as bait, keep them distracted while you take care of them.”
“Be warned, they don’t fight like humans.” She tipped her head toward the waiting warriors. They were all transparent versions of themselves, their forms stripped of color. Two of them had very nasty-looking weapons sticking out of them. “They’ve spent more time as ghosts than as men. They can walk through anything, even you, and they’ve had centuries to master all types of fighting styles and weapons.”
Morgan shrugged. “It will also leave them at a disadvantage. They won’t be prepared for weapons that can kill them.” She gave a nod toward the door, then crouched, knees bent, like at the beginning of a race. “Let’s do this.”
Morgan ignored the restless energy coursing through her. She needed to be calm and focused if she wanted to win.
“If you come out now, I’ll make it quick for you, lassie.” One of the bigger men spoke. He had a gray beard and an honest-to-goodness kilt, but what kept drawing her attention was the hatchet sticking out of his skull. He pulled out a weapon strapped across his back, the sword nearly as tall as her.
Without hesitation, Morgan bolted out the door.
The guy took a step forward, swinging his mighty sword, and vanished from one step to the next.
Only to reappear right in front of her.
Morgan arched backwards, feeling a breeze from the sword passing over her face, the metal thumping heavily into the building. She twisted, bringing up her weapon, and slammed her smaller blade into his side.
The man staggered back, his sword tip dragging on the ground as he stumbled. He appeared startled, then resigned, as his veins began to turn black. Wisps of black smoke rose, and the scent of fire and brimstone swirled between them. “Thank you, little one.”
Then he began to dissolve, fine grains of sand eroding from his form like he was a sandcastle at the mercy of the sea. For some reason, seeing him go saddened her.
“Morgan!”
She whirled at Breanna’s shout, then dove out of the way of an arrow. Breanna was fighting with one of the ghosts, a small man who kind of resembled a dwarf. He was nearly as round as he was tall, his movements were slow and awkward, but he made up for it with massive strength.
Then there was no more time to think as a guy winked into existence a foot away from her. Trusting her instincts, Morgan hit the dirt, only to see an arrow from the second man pass right through the new guy’s chest, aimed right where she’d been.
Then she had no more time to worry when a freakin’ mace came flying toward her head. Morgan rolled to her feet, slashing out with her blade, but the man wielding the mace vanished seconds before impact.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the second man nock another arrow. “Son of a bitch. This is going to hurt.”
Instead of jumping out of the way, Morgan stood still. The air behind her shifted slightly, a coldness that heralded a ghostly visitor. If she jumped out of the way of the arrow, she would impale herself on the spiked end of his mace.
Morgan whirled, and thrust her blade forward, slamming it directly into his chest. He sucked in a startled breath, his eyes widening as he gave a scream of fury and pain.
A second later, the tip of the arrow rammed into her arm, and she gritted her teeth at the shock of pain.
“Yup, that hurt.” She turned toward the archer, not bothering to watch the other one die.
Only to see Breanna dance between them, her movements pure poetry in motion, her blade twisting around her like it was a part of her. Morgan searched for the dwarf she had been fighting, only to see a pile of dust where he’d been standing.
A glance at her arm revealed the fucking arrow still sticking out of it. For some reason she hadn’t expected the arrow to actually turn physical when it touched her. She released one of her blades, then reached up and snapped the wooden shaft, the vibrations of the arrow shooting a bolt of agony down her arm.
Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the rest of the shaft, then ripped it out and tossed it to the ground. Ignoring the blood dribbling down her arm, Morgan grabbed both blades and waded into the fight, looking for an opening.
But the archer was smarter than the others, popping in and out of existence like a weird game of keep-away, before Breanna could even get close. Unfortunately for him, Breanna was fast, and seemed to know where he’d appear next, not giving him time to let another arrow fly.
Breanna gave her a nod, allowing her to take the lead, and Morgan suspected that she had a plan, which was fine by her. She wanted this done. Every beat of her heart made her arm ache like a bitch, a numbing pain that seemed to make the flesh of her arm feel lifeless.
Morgan charged toward the archer, swinging her blades, ignoring the pain and the way her arm was like a dead weight, barely obeyed her command. The archer was young, perhaps a few years younger than herself. He had speed on his side, but he didn’t grasp the concept of strategy. Though he remained out of Breanna’s reach, his attention was more focused on Morgan and achieving his goal.
Morgan stood in the center of the clearing and played bait.
When he popped into existence, his arrow noched to take aim at her, Breanna calmly stepped behind him, taking his head in one smooth stroke. The black blade didn’t react like hers, trying to suck the energy from him. The kid just shattered in a shower of sand and black smoke.
Morgan glanced around the warehouse but couldn’t locate the last ghost.
“We need to take care of your arm.” Breanna sheathed her sword against her back and came toward her.
“One left.”
But she was already shaking her head. “She was here earlier, watching and studying how you fight, but she’s gone now, biding her time.”
Her.
Crap.
Female warriors were often more devious than the males.
She wouldn’t make the coming battle easy.
Something changed in Breanna’s expression, the way her eyes tightened, and Morgan straightened. “What’s wrong?”
Breanna grabbed her wrist and lifted Morgan’s arm, the agony nearly dropping her to her knees, and she lost her grip on her weapons, the metal retreating.
“Look.”
She blinked past the pain until her vision focused again. When she got a look at her arm, she swallowed hard against the need to puke. The wound itself had healed over, but beneath the skin her veins were turning black. “What’s happening?”
“You’re dying.” Breanna sounded pissed. “You’ve been tainted by the underworld. You’re turning into one of them. The last hunter doesn’t even have to lift a finger. She can just watch you die.”
Morgan took a step, then staggered, surprised to find herself so weak. “I’m going to try burning it out of my system.”
But even before she could call on the phoenix or her magic, Breanna was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but that’s not going to help.”
“What will?” Breanna had a hesitant look on her face that Morgan hoped to hell was an idea, because she was flat out of them. “Tell me. I refuse to die and let that bitch win.”
“You’re not going to like it.” Breanna winced. “I’m not even sure you’ll survive.”
Morgan shrugged her good shoulder. “Good enough for me. A chance is all I need.”
Breanna reached back and grabbed the sword hanging from her back.
Bile rose in Morgan’s throat when she realized that she was going to lose her arm. Then she lifted her chin and held out her arm, turning her head away. But instead of feeling the bite of the blade, Breanna slammed the sword into the ground. The air around them warbled, and a blast of cold sent her to her knees.
“Here.” Breanna strode toward her, her tattered dress swirling around her. “You need to touch the pommel.”
The banshee grabbed her good arm and physically hauled her to her feet. Morgan staggered upright, the cold seeming to invade her soul. Ironically, the only thing that didn’t hurt was the blackness bleeding through her system. The debilitating pain faded, leaving her feeling ungainly and unbalanced, as if her body was too heavy.
She reached out, and the instant her fingers came into contact with the metal, the world around her vanished. The place looked like earth, but the color had been sucked out. The only thing with a hint of pigment was Breanna, and she lit the world like a beacon.
The black sword remained in the ground between them, seeming to throb with life as it bridged the two worlds. The air tasted of snow and frost, each breath freezing down her throat.
When she caught a glimpse of herself, Morgan saw that her color was fading, seeping away faster than her body could replace it. “This is the veil?”
“Yes, it’s the last stop before Purgatory, kind of like a staging area. Souls appear in the veil when their life is in danger. Once a person passes over into purgatory, there’s no going back. It’s too late to save them.”
“So the veil is really a place between life and death.”
Breanna glanced at her, seeming to relax when she didn’t find judgment or fear. “Lost souls pass through here before they die.”
Morgan stifled her inappropriate laughter. “Flickering in and out of color—life—like an old horror flick.” Then another thought came to her. “This is where you see who’s going to die.”
“Yes.”
Morgan suddenly realized the truth. “This is why you were banished. You saw someone close to death and rescued them.”
Breanna’s mouth tightened. “There are two groups of banshees—warriors who try to save lives and others who report the deaths and record them. Those who try to save lives are usually banished fairly quickly. We’re supposed to observe the world, not be a part of it.” She glanced away. “We don’t usually survive long alone. The others see us as traitors.”
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