Assassin's Heart

by Sarah Ahiers

  From down the hall, a door creaked open and a man in his leathers stepped out of the room, stretching his arms above his head.

  Les and I froze. He scratched the back of his head, his short blond hair messy from sleep, and glanced our way.

  He did a double take. Tension filled the space between us as he warred between running, attacking, or calling for help.

  Les swore quietly beside me, dropping his hand to his cutter.

  The spell broke.

  The Da Via clipper took off, running down the hall as fast as he could. His footfalls made heavy thumps on the thickly carpeted floor.

  Les and I sprang after him. The clipper had a head start on us and should have been able to escape. Yet somehow Les and I caught him easily. I tackled him, crashing into his back and forcing him onto the carpet. I sank my stiletto into his thigh and ripped it out, splashing the carpet with blood. He screamed, and I pressed the stiletto to the base of his skull.

  “None of that now,” I hissed.

  He breathed heavily, his rising and falling body enough to lift me, but I didn’t feel winded at all. I glanced at Les, who stood over us.

  “Out of breath?” I asked Les.

  He shook his head. “I feel amazing, like I could run for miles. And I can sense the sun’s set.”

  “Me too,” I said. Another gift from Safraella?

  Below me, the Da Via clipper turned his head to look at me. His leg leaked blood at a steady rate. “I know you.”

  “If you don’t shut up, you’re going to get to know the point of my knife.”

  He looked at Les, then at me. He blinked. “You’re dead. Both of you. I sank my knife into your back.”

  I examined him closer. I hadn’t recognized him without his mask, but his height and build was about right. As was his recently broken nose. “Nik,” I spat. “I see you found your antidote.”

  “How are you here?” He squirmed under me, his eyes wide. “How can you be here?”

  I jerked him to his feet. He wouldn’t put weight on his injured leg, which bled heavily, and I was too short to keep a good hold of him. Les took my place and twisted Nik’s arms behind him.

  “We’re here,” I said, “because Safraella sent us.”

  He stared at my mask with wide, terrified eyes and didn’t even try to struggle in Les’s grip.

  “Your Family has displeased Her,” I continued. “She knows about Daedara, and She does not take kindly to treachery.”

  Nik swallowed. “I had nothing to do with that decision.”

  “Are you not a Da Via? Did you not use a priest of Daedara to cross the dead plains? You had a choice, and you sided with your Family over your god.”

  “Please,” he choked, looking between the two of us. “Please . . .”

  I held my finger to where my lips would have been on my mask. “Hush now. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take me to my uncle, to Marcello Saldana. If he lives, we’ll let you go to spend the rest of your life begging for Safraella’s forgiveness. If he’s dead, you’ll die. Either way, I’d hurry before you bleed out.”

  I tapped his bloody leg with my stiletto, and he flinched.

  “This way.” He nodded down the hall.

  Les marched him forward and Nik led us along the first hall, then another, until we reached a door that looked very much like all the other doors we’d passed.

  “Through there,” he said. “He’s not dead. Estella wanted to deal with him tonight. He’s not . . . in peak shape, though.”

  Les twisted Nik’s arms until he grunted in pain.

  I opened the door. It led to stone stairs, heading into darkness.

  “My Family will find you,” Nik said. I listened for voices or anything to tell me there was a person somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. “The sun’s set, and if they’re not up already, they soon will be. Even with Safraella on your side, you won’t be able to stand up to all of us.”

  “Shut up.” Les kneed him in his stab wound. Nik gasped, and his face paled.

  I led the way down the stairs. Les pushed Nik before him, not caring if he stumbled or banged his leg.

  Gone were the lush carpets and lavish wall hangings. The walls and floor were cold stone, damp from moisture and smelling of mold. There were four cells, reminiscent of the jail in Yvain, and the first on the right held my uncle.

  “Master,” Les breathed. He shoved Nik away from him. Nik stumbled and fell to the ground, crying out and cradling his injured leg.

  Les pulled on the door to the cell. When it didn’t give, he began to dig through his pouches for his lock picks.

  Marcello sat on the floor in the corner of his cell, his head resting against his chest. His clothing was covered with filth, and even in the dim lantern light I could see the cuts that adorned his face and flesh and the blood and bruises painting his skin.

  Marcello’s eyes opened, and he blinked uncertainly before he lifted his head.

  “Uncle,” I called, and he focused on me. “We’ve come to save you.”

  He turned to Les, then slowly pulled himself to his unsteady feet.

  Les popped the lock and rushed in to Marcello. Les tried to put my uncle’s arms over his shoulder, but Marcello swatted him away before he grasped Les tightly in an embrace.

  “Oh, my boy,” Marcello mumbled as he patted Les’s back and then examined his mask. “They’d told me they’d killed you. Both of you,” he added as he pulled away. His lips were cracked, and his hair was tangled and matted.

  “We did kill them!” Nik shouted from where he sat on the floor, using his leathers to tightly bind his thigh. “It wasn’t even hard.”

  “You shut your fool mouth before I shove a knife down your throat,” Les spat at him.

  Marcello looked at me, questions racing through his eyes. I nodded.

  “But how?” he asked.

  “Have you forgotten that She is a god of resurrection as well?”

  Marcello rubbed his face, wrinkled hands coated in dried and flaking blood.

  “You’re damn fools, both of you,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have come for me.”

  “But we did. I wasn’t going to let them end us all.”

  “I’ve never seen such stupid, ignorant pride,” he berated me. Les stepped between us and pushed his mask up.

  “Master, shut up,” he snapped.

  Marcello glared at him, but Les put up a hand. “You don’t have a say in it. Lea is the head of the Family, our Family. I side with her in this and all things from here on. Don’t make me choose between you two, because all the love I have in my heart for you won’t make me choose you. If you have a problem with that, you’ll have to speak to Safraella on your own time, but right now we are saving you, saving the boy, and then getting out of here before any more Da Vias stumble upon us.”

  From the top of the stairs, the door creaked open.

  Nik laughed. “Too late, Saldanas. Too late.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  forty-two

  THE THREE OF US RUSHED OUT OF THE CELL. FROM THE top of the steps a shadow tumbled down the stairs.

  “Hello?” a voice called. The voice of a child, maybe no more than eleven or twelve. “Uncle Nik? Are you down here?”

  “Raise the Family, boy!” Nik shouted. Les swore and swung toward him, his boot lashing out and connecting with Nik’s temple. Nik slumped over, unconscious.

  The boy’s shadow vanished as he fled from the dungeon entrance, yelling as loud as he could.

  “Well.” Marcello brushed his hands on his pants. “That’s done it.”

  “Let’s move!” I said. We ran up the stairs and out of the dungeon.

  The hallway was still blessedly empty, but I could hear the voices of Da Vias as the boy raised the alarm. I passed my sword to Marcello. We were in for a fight now. But if
we could reach Emile quickly, we could flee the house and escape into the night, into the dead plains if we had to. Les and I could keep the ghosts away. I hoped . . .

  We turned the corner. Two Da Via clippers raced at us, noiseless as they pulled out weapons, their faces hidden behind their masks.

  Les swung left and I swung right, each of us focusing on a clipper, our communication silent yet completely understood.

  I lunged at my adversary. He brought his sword up to block me. I dropped to my knees and stabbed him in the gut with my stiletto. He grunted. I hooked his ankle, pulling him off his feet so he crashed to his back.

  Les swung his cutter at his adversary’s mask. The Da Via pulled away. Les followed with a quick elbow to the face. The Da Via’s bone mask cracked. A final swing with his cutter and the second Da Via lay on the ground beside the first.

  Another entered the hallway. I jumped to my feet, ready to meet her. Marcello rushed between Les and me.

  Once, for my birthday, Rafeo had taken me to see a show of traveling fire dancers. The women and men swung on ribbons and ropes that burned with flames. They ducked and weaved and spun through the air as it rained fire around them. None of them were burned.

  Marcello fought like the fire dancers. All grace and silent movement as he danced around the clipper who wanted to kill him.

  A moment later the Da Via was dead and Marcello turned to face us, his chest heaving.

  “Master . . . ,” Les said.

  “What?” he snapped. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m feeble.”

  We ran down the hall once more, Marcello’s breath wheezing in and out. I felt fresh. It had to be the resurrection, my stamina. Les’s stamina. Perhaps She had given us this so we could do what needed to be done.

  A figure stepped from a room, a tall cylindrical hat on his head, staff clutched in his grip. The priest of Daedara.

  “Stop!” he commanded. He held the staff before him, and the crystal at the top flared white. Marcello covered his eyes and cried out, forced to step back from the light.

  I felt nothing. The light was bright, I could see it in Marcello’s reaction, but it didn’t burn my eyes, didn’t push me away. I stepped up to the priest and yanked the staff from his hands.

  The priest stared at me, so shocked he didn’t even fight me for his staff.

  “But . . . ,” he blubbered. “But I am the vessel for His holy light. . . .”

  I snapped the staff over my knee and dropped the pieces to the ground. “You trespass onto Safraella’s grounds. Your god has no power over me. Leave before you die.”

  The priest swallowed, his eyes wild and white, then he turned and fled swiftly down the hall.

  “You could have killed him,” Marcello said.

  “He is a priest of his own god, worshipping in his own way. Maybe I’m more favored than him and maybe not, but if he flees, perhaps he will warn other priests to stay away from Lovero. We belong to Safraella alone.”

  Three more Da Vias entered the hall. Had this not been a life-or-death situation, I would have rolled my eyes. They seemed to keep popping up.

  The Da Vias charged and we took defensive stances. Three on three was manageable, especially with our skills. Still, the Da Vias were not easy. These three put the first ones to shame. They were older, well established in their abilities.

  I darted left, dodging the daggers of my assailant. She was a lot taller than me, and I could practically hear her glee as she kept me on the defensive, pushing me against the wall.

  To the right Les’s assailant scored him across the back. But he carried the bag with the firebomb and extra materials, which shredded, protecting him. Two jars of acid fell out of his bag and thumped onto the thick carpet.

  My attacker thrust at me. I used my lack of height to my advantage and dropped to the ground. I stabbed my stiletto into the meat of her thigh, then yanked it out. She gasped and her leg sprayed blood. I’d aimed for her artery and hit true.

  She stumbled backward, pressing against her leg, then crumpled to the ground.

  I snatched up a jar of acid. My uncle’s assailant had pushed him against the wall, and I threw the jar as hard as I could.

  It struck the Da Via in the back and shattered, the acid spraying over him and the carpet below. It hissed, eating into his leathers. He began to scream, sharp, panicked cries as he tried to rip off his leathers.

  Marcello stabbed him in the throat, and his cries faded into wet burbles and moans.

  Les finished off his assailant with a slash from his cutter, and we paused as Marcello caught his breath.

  Les stared down at the dead Da Via with the acid-pocked leathers, which were smoking noiselessly. He slipped off his mangled pack. “Someday we should make some acid bombs.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that suggestion.

  We headed down the hall quickly. When we finally reached Matteo’s bedroom, we slid inside, closing the door behind us.

  Footsteps thundered outside the hall. More Da Vias. We were out of time.

  “What are we doing?” Marcello coughed loudly.

  I rushed to the nursery door, just off the bedroom. “Retrieving the rest of our family.”

  Marcello looked down at Matteo, dead on the ground. “Who is this? He has the appearance of a Saldana.”

  I opened the nursery door. “He’s my brother.”

  “You killed your brother?”

  “No,” Les answered. “I did.”

  The nursery was just as dark as I’d left it. Emile lay on his bed, blinking with sleepy eyes, knife in hand.

  I scurried over to him. “Time to go.”

  “Who is that?” Marcello asked.

  “Emile Saldana,” Les said. “Rafeo’s son.”

  I pushed Emile toward Marcello and Les. Then I strode to the crib where Allegra slept. I gathered her into my arms, taking a blanket as well.

  “Lea, what are you doing?” Les asked.

  “We’re taking her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she has Saldana blood in her too. She’s family.”

  I handed her to Les, who held her still as she woke and began to fidget. I twisted the blanket around my leathers, tying it in the front as I’d seen Silva, our nursemaid, do when Emile was younger. I took Allegra from Les, and she cried until I tucked her into the blanket sling across my chest.

  “You’re going to fight in that?” Marcello pointed at me. “With an infant strapped across your chest?”

  “If I have to.” I grabbed Emile’s hand in my left, leaving my right hand free for my stiletto. “Let’s go.”

  In Matteo’s bedroom, Les opened the door and peeked into the hallway. He opened it fully and gestured for us to follow him.

  The hallway was deserted. I said a silent blessing of thanks to Safraella. Les scooped Emile up as we hurried down the hall, watching for more Da Vias.

  One more corner. Then it was straight across the great room to the door and freedom.

  We rushed into the great room and stopped.

  In front of us stood more than twenty Da Vias, armed and waiting for us. In the center stood a women in her sixties.

  Beside her stood Val.

  I tucked Emile behind the three of us. The Da Vias blocked the exit to the house. We’d have to get through them to escape, but it didn’t matter how good a clipper Marcello was, or how much divine energy coursed through Les and me, we couldn’t handle so many Da Vias. Time for my backup plan.

  “Marcello,” the woman in the center said. She had a rich voice and gray hair that tumbled in waves around her shoulders. She wore no mask. Estella Da Via. “So quick to leave our hospitality, husband of mine.”

  He lifted his sword. “I’ve had better hospitality from sewer rats. And I see the years haven’t been kind to you, Estella.”

  She glared at him, and a few of the Da Vias shifted in response.

  “Let us pass,” I said. “And no more of your blood need be spilled.”

  A few of the Da
Vias laughed, but some of them looked to Estella.

  “Lea?” Val asked, shocked. In the group of clippers, Blood Spatter and Grape Leaves turned to each other. Claudia, without her mask, pushed her way from the rear to stand beside Val.

  “Val,” I responded.

  “I saw you die.” He looked to Claudia and then to me. “How are you here? How did you survive?”

  “These are secrets you would know if you hadn’t turned your back on your god.”

  None of them laughed this time. Most of them shifted uncomfortably or glanced to Estella.

  “Was it easy?” I asked. “Forsaking Her, who had given you so much?”

  “So much?” Estella sneered. “So little, you mean. No children. Disrespected by the Saldanas and the Maiettas. Shamed among the Families. These are not gifts She gave us.”

  “Gave you, you mean,” Marcello interrupted. “How much arrogance did it take to use your personal shame to convince your Family to turn away from Safraella?”

  “Do you so quickly forget about Terzo’s death? How you murdered him? My brother was loved.”

  “You murdered Terzo,” Marcello countered. “You brought about his death when you set him upon Savio. You and your damned pride are to blame!”

  She flicked her wrist, dismissing his words. “Savio was nothing. Terzo said he begged for mercy, like a common man.”

  Marcello moved to stride forward and only Les’s arm blocking him held him in place. “And so instead you kill Dante and Bianca? Their children? All for what? To prove your point? To prove that your anger has festered inside you until it’s all that’s left?”

  She shrugged. “A secondary benefit. But it was Dante’s influence on the king that put my plan into motion.”

  “Marking your kills,” I said. She faced me. “That’s what this was about? You were afraid the king would make you mark your kills?”

  “The Da Vias helped put Costanzo Sapienza on the throne, and this is how he repays us? Forcing us to spend our gold on the dead?”

  “Oh, of course,” I scoffed. “It must be extra hard, giving a coin to Safraella when you’d turned your back on Her! You killed my Family to keep your little secret safe, to keep it hidden that you’d turned to Daedara and were clipping people falsely. What about all those people who paid you? What about all those people who found the bodies of their friends and families at the cleaners and at least could take comfort that you had delivered them into Safraella’s arms?”