by Melanie Card
She smiled and sat back on her heels. “And that’s because I plan on getting you drunk and taking advantage of you.”
He laughed and took a long swig from his cup. “No, really, I should—”
“No.” She skimmed her hands up his thighs to his waist and leaned in, brushing her nose against his. “Really.”
He flushed. The strength of her advance was risky, but she no longer had time to play it slow. Now was her only opportunity.
“Celia.” His voice wavered on an uneven breath. “I...”
She ran her hands up his chest, along his neck, and cupped his jaw between her palms. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine Ward was the innocent, honest man she’d believed. Beneath her fingers, she could feel his noble heritage, the chiseled lines of his cheeks and jaw. His betrayal hurt more than she thought possible, and she pressed her lips to his before she could change her mind.
He froze, and his lips trembled under hers. It was too fast, too soon, and she eased back. But then he caught the back of her head with his hand and deepened the kiss with a sudden, intense need, sending a shock of pleasure through her.
She gasped, caught off guard. She shouldn’t have been. When Ward decided to do something, he committed to it fully. She’d seen it time and again.
Her assassin’s heart sent cold commands, telling her how to capture his emotions, but she shut it away. The seduction was no longer a game, and she didn’t want to play it now that she was here. She wanted it to be real, wanted to be with this handsome, gentle man.
He set his cup on the floor and brushed his fingers through her hair, pulling more wisps free of her braid. With a renewed kiss, he parted his lips and she met his tongue with hers. His breath was warm and tasted like the merlot, sweet and heady. Heat pulsed through her with every quickening beat of her heart. This would be the last time she’d have a physical connection with a man. She hadn’t had many encounters, and now they seemed too few, her life too short. She shouldn’t have even had this opportunity, but somehow the Goddess had given her this last gift.
She grabbed the bottom of his shirt. He bit his lip, but raised his arms, and she eased the cloth over his head. With a feathery touch she ran her fingers down his chest to the band of his pants, making him groan. He cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her again. This time it was slow and deliberate, drawing a dizzying heat from within her, burning away everything but his lips, his lean, muscled chest, and the need to have both closer, pressed against her.
His right hand found the laces on her dress and he slipped the bow loose. He drew the ties free, each tug a spark, firing her anticipation, yearning for him to touch her flesh again with his Goddess-gifted hands. She trembled at the thought and at the tender passion in his kisses. His lips swept up her neck, and along the side of her face, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine.
He pressed his forehead to hers, his hand still. She ached with need, desperate for him to rip away the cloth between his hands and her flesh. Heat radiated from his palm through the fabric, spreading over her skin, setting every nerve on fire.
“Celia.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
He was so still, like a bird about to take flight.
All his passion, his desire, throbbed beneath that stillness, captured, struggling to break free. She could hear it in his quick breath, feel it in his pulse.
“I...”
He clasped her shoulders and sucked in a slow breath. His passion stilled even more.
No. This was not supposed to happen. Her thoughts whirled and panic bled icy across her desire.
He swallowed hard and leaned back.
Her breath caught in her throat. Please, no. He couldn’t betray her this way, too. It was her last chance. Wouldn’t it serve his purpose to strengthen the connection between them? She was the one in control—it was her who manipulated him.
“Celia...” He clambered out of the chair, caught his foot on one of the legs, and teetered, struggled to keep his balance, then staggered past her, racing for the door, his shirt forgotten on the chair.
“Ward, plea—” She bit her lip. She would not beg.
He froze and gripped the edge of the doorway without looking back at her. “I...” His knuckles turned white. “I... Goddess.”
She held her breath, waiting. If he was out to manipulate her, nothing would have stopped him. A week ago nothing would have stopped her. Now... now she wasn’t so sure.
“There are laws,” he said, his voice husky.
“What?” Her heart skipped a beat.
“I can’t. There are laws.”
He glanced over his shoulder, a tortured look in his eyes that made her gasp, then turned his back on her. On her! This was her last chance, and he rejected her.
She leapt to her feet, fury burning away all other emotions. No one turned their back on her. She was the Dominus’ daughter. The whole situation was out of control. She had only herself to blame, and that hurt more than anything. But she could still make Ward pay for it, too.
“Ward—”
“You’re dead.”
The words slammed into her, a physical blow. Her legs trembled and she ground her teeth, determined to keep standing.
“I’m so sorry.”
He walked out of the room, leaving her numb. Even the fury had vanished.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ward raced down the hall and didn’t stop until he reached his sleeping chamber. His breath kept catching in his throat. Oh, Goddess, how he wanted her—the uncomfortableness of his pants was proof of that—but she had wanted him, too. He was sure of it. She had kissed him without reserve, and he could see the sincerity in her eyes and feel it in the quickening of her pulse under her skin when he’d touched her.
It was wrong. So very, very wrong. She was dead. Even if she didn’t look it and he couldn’t explain why. Dead. And so beautiful and she wanted him. Never in his life had a woman like Celia given him a second glance without wanting something in return. Maybe that was it. She wanted something. No. It had felt honest. Real. Her desire seemed as hot as his.
Now he was being a fool. She was dead and her situation was dangerous. He needed to solve her murder and help her find justice so he could avoid the fate of an Oath-breaker. Was the fate of a necrophiliac less damning than that of an Oath-breaker?
He pushed that thought aside. He was not a necrophiliac. A chill raced across his bare chest and he realized he’d left his shirt in the study with Celia. Maybe the chill was for the best. And, really, it wasn’t that cold in the cavern. Even if he did have his shirt, he would think twice about putting it on and risk jarring his sore arm. He grabbed his medical supplies, and by the time he was at the chamber with Solartti’s body, he’d almost convinced himself it was the pain of putting the shirt back on and not his discomfort of facing Celia that stopped him from retrieving it.
After getting a sample of Solartti’s blood, Ward returned to his room. He paced the tiny chamber, trying to work up the courage to get his shirt. He was sure Celia was mad at him. Heck, he was mad at himself. If she wasn’t mad, he didn’t know if he had the will to refuse her a second time. If he went back to the study and she was still there, what would he say? What could he say?
No. She wouldn’t be there. The Goddess couldn’t possibly be so cruel.
He peered out into the dim hall. No sign of Celia. He listened and couldn’t hear her, either. It was as safe as it was going to get. He crept back to the study, refusing to glance into her sleeping chamber to see if she was there, hoping that if he didn’t notice her, she wouldn’t notice him.
The study was empty, and Ward released the breath he’d been holding. The open jug of wine sat on the desk beside Celia’s cup. On the floor, by the only chair clear of papers, lay his shirt. He navigated the obstacle course to the desk and stooped to pick up his cup. It was three-quarters full. She had topped it up and he hadn’t had the chance to drink it. He drained the rich liquid in one gulp, not bothering to take th
e time to appreciate the wine’s complexities. Then he set the cup on the desk, grabbed the bottle, and picked his shirt off the floor. He took a step toward the door, but stopped and headed back to the desk for the journal. The test of Solartti’s blood needed sunlight to activate it, but he didn’t want to go to Celia right now and propose an outing. He also wasn’t going to get much sleep, so he might as well stare at the journal and try not to think of her soft skin and warm lips and gentle fingers and—
He took a quick swig of wine and pushed all thoughts of Celia to the back of his mind. Striding back to his room, he focused on one goal—getting to the room—and didn’t think of anything else until he got there. He sat on the stone pallet and took another long swig from the bottle.
After he’d caught his breath, he pressed his palm to the back wall, bringing the witch-stone to life, and opened the journal to the first page. He concentrated on the page, making his mind ponder only the problem of the journal. There had to be some answers in it. Why else would it be kept in a secret safe?
Last night, he’d thought it was written in Gordelian, but some of the characters didn’t fit and the spelling was inconsistent. Of course, that didn’t mean a whole lot since consistent spelling had yet to reach many of the languages in the principalities. However, if he assumed it was a middle dialect of Gordelian, and like the only other middle dialect he was familiar with, there were some symbols weaned out of the written language, he’d at least have a starting point.
The memory of Celia running her hands down his chest sent heat through him, making his face and neck burn. He pushed the thought away, drawing on a strength of will he didn’t know he possessed.
If the journal was written in a middle dialect of Gordelian, the first paragraph should read: The age of darkness came... or started... could it be heralded?... with the birth of the shadow walker.
The light from the witch-stone went out. Ward leaned over, pressed his palm against it, and turned back to the journal. Whether he was reading the rest right or not, the words ‘shadow walker’ were the same from Nicco’s notes. He’d expected something, but not the key to Nicco’s research, the answers written in some journal like the answers to the tests he used to take at school. Things like that didn’t happen, and yet here it was, as plain as could be.
The age of darkness came with the birth of the shadow walker, a creature created by the wise through incantation and potion, through light and darkness, with a joining of all at the moment of... Contraluxis?
The witch-stone went dark again.
Ward shifted so his back pressed against the witch-stone panel. When the light returned, he scanned the rest of the page. He was starting to get used to the strange characters and now, as if he were reading a regular text, he could skim it, picking up the most significant details.
According to the entry, the shadow walker was created as a means of cleansing a corrupt aristocracy. It could become incorporeal at will—or the better explanation, it was really a ghost who could become corporeal. A creature that didn’t eat or sleep and could walk through walls.
It didn’t surprise Ward the Master would keep such a tale, particularly if there was a grain of truth to it. He could imagine the power a Master of the Assassins’ Guild would have if such a creature were at his beck and call.
But at what cost? Something that powerful, kept on this side of the veil for an indefinite time, would create an imbalance of epic proportions. He didn’t need Grandfather to tell him that. It could be an imbalance large enough to destroy an entire civilization, like the Ancients themselves. All that remained of the mysterious people were a scattering of strange structures, the Holy City of Veknormai, and some tales. And that didn’t take into consideration the poor soul turned into the creature. An eternity of torture, never crossing the veil to the Goddess to find peace and not whole enough to live a normal life, could drive it mad. The very creature that created the imbalance could have ended up being the means of setting it right, taking soul after soul until the balance was corrected or the creature was destroyed.
He flipped the page. This was a different entry. At the top was the date, the ninth year of the reign of Vaalyn the first, more than ten generations ago. This entry discussed the preparation of the one chosen to become the shadow walker with equal centinnes of the... he couldn’t read the next word... over three full courses of the moon to end on the night of Contraluxis when the Heart of Veknormai bloomed in the Tomb of Souls and the chosen one drank of the Nectar. The astrologist’s sign outside of Three Ships Café had advertised the Contraluxis to be in... it would be two days now. The Heart of Veknormai wouldn’t bloom again for another hundred and fifty years, when a lunar eclipse coincided with the alignment of the Goddess star and the Light Son’s two hunting-dog stars.
He shivered. This was like reading some spell from Grandfather’s spell books. Centinne was a necromancer term indicating a measured dose, and if that was how this shadow walker was created, it now made sense that a list of rare necromantic herbs was linked to the Ancients.
And why Karysa might be in Brawenal.
The next pages were surprising entries about failed searches, the fall of Dominuses of the Gentilica, the rise of new ones, and their searches until the tale at the beginning of the journal was believed to be just that, a tale.
Celia had lied. The journal didn’t belong to the Master of the Assassins’ Guild. His lips tingled at the memory of hers pressed against his, warm and soft. The look in her eyes no longer seemed so sincere. What else had she lied to him about? He flipped through the pages. All the entries were written in the same hand, even though the journal spanned generations. Then he reached entries dated a few years ago. The tone changed from disbelief to curiosity, revealing how an Innecroestri called Karysa had arrived with news about a scholar and his research on the Ancients, and the author—the Dominus, Celia’s father—realized the possible connection to the shadow walker.
Which now sat in Celia’s study, spread across her desk, the floor, the bookshelf, and chairs.
He turned back to the journal. Her father, having learned the details of Nicco’s research, sent Celia to kill him and destroy the evidence before the Master found out about it. The shadow walker was an advantage that would raise the Gentilica beyond the Guild, making it more powerful and he—the Dominus—would never have to compromise again.
Ward looked at the dark ceiling, staring at the swirls of smoke caught in the obsidian. The wine wasn’t sitting well in his stomach and his room seemed cold. Where did Celia’s loyalty lie? With her father? The Master? Or somewhere else? Celia had admitted she’d tried to figure out Nicco’s research, and he had believed that. It sounded reasonable, but what if that was only half of the story? If she knew about the tale, she could be trying to become the shadow walker. That would make her unstoppable. The best. The perfect assassin.
And it would please her father.
Another shiver raced up his spine, and he pulled his cloak over his legs. He’d been so gullible, even more gullible than when she’d batted her eyelashes at him, begging for his help to solve her murder. She could change herself, appear to be someone else. Did he see who she really was, or had everything been a manipulation, nothing more? She probably hadn’t even been murdered. She’d never shown him the note warning her of her assassination, and he could only assume the warehouse they’d sneaked into had held assassination assignments.
Now that he thought about it, it seemed ridiculous that the Assassins’ Guild would even keep a written record about their work. If she knew about the shadow walker and the potion, she could have easily gone to a necromancer and found out about the dosage. Her death could have been a mistake. She could have taken too much and died too soon. She had said she never took zephnyr oil. That meant she was safe to take the concoction—more or less—and it wouldn’t have prevented Ward from waking her, like it did with Solartti. It might also explain why his Jam de’U had lasted so long. For all he knew, Innecroestris used the herbs for the
ir false resurrections.
No. He shook his head, shocked at where his thoughts had taken him. Celia didn’t know about the shadow walker or the herbs. She was murdered for the information, not because she was trying to become some creature.
And if that was the case, if he tested her blood like Solartti’s, he wouldn’t find any sign of the herb. Then he would know for certain. He could control his imagination long enough for a simple test. The unease in his stomach didn’t calm.
He would have to wait for the test.
“I hope you’ve slept, necromancer.” Celia stepped into his room, a rucksack slung over her shoulder. “We’re going to Veknormai.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. Unless you find staring at incomprehensible scratches on a page more exciting?” Her words were brisk, as if she didn’t want him to come along but for some reason had thought better of not asking him.
He glanced at the journal lying open on his lap. Did she know how to read it?
If she had ibria in her, he’d know.
He closed the journal and stood. “No. Going to Veknormai is fine. A little fresh air might be good.” His mouth went dry and his pulse roared in his ears. “Since we’re going, I’ll finish testing Solartti’s blood.”
She nodded and headed out of the room.
“I also thought I should test yours.”
“What for?” she asked, spinning to face him.
He shrugged, walking past her toward the stairs. He needed to stay calm and remember he could be wrong, that Celia might not be a cold-blooded murderer trying to become the perfect killer. Goddess, he’d almost slept with her.
“There are other herbs, poisons, that I can test for. Maybe we’ll be able to discover how you were murdered, too.”
“I think I would’ve noticed if I’d been slipped something.”
“I’m sure you would.” He forced himself to look back at her. “But just humor me. In the very least, we can rule those kinds of poisons out.”
She sighed. “Fine. As long as you don’t get in my way.”
