“I have done everything in my power to keep her from you,” Mabb wept against his shoulder. “So many times I have sent her on assignments knowing in my heart the task would be the death of her, and still she lives to take you from me. To take the throne from me.”
It was not true, but Garret would not tell her so. Those assignments had gone to more qualified Assassins, and it was the Guild Master who had done it. Not out of malice for his Queene or from any pressing by Garret, but because the Assassins were his charge. It was his duty to keep them from harm, and he would not send an Assassin on a mission if he knew them to be unprepared for it. On Garret’s end, he had kept Ayla woefully unqualified for the most dangerous assignments, but what he had failed to teach her she had learned on her own from watching the other students. That was, perhaps, her only flaw. She was a bit too intelligent. It was another quality he tried to tamp down in her. No sense in letting a common half-breed think above her natural capacity.
“Mabb, I will never be able to take the throne from you. You would have to die first, and that is something I would prevent with every last part of myself. I merely desire some of the happiness that has eluded me. Remember how Mother and Father were, how they loved each other?” Another lie. Their parents had barely spoken to each other. But in the centuries since their death, Mabb had romanticized the Sidhe Court. It helped that the rending of the veil had destroyed any evidence of the bitter feud between the former Queene and King. Without anyone to correct her, Mabb had lost herself in the love story she had constructed for their parents, the grand tales she told of events at Court that had never happened. Her subjects were just as desperate as she, and if they could not have happiness in the present, they were content to rewrite history.
She sniffled against his sleeve and gripped his arm, pulling it tighter around her. “Yes, I do. And I wish you all the happiness in the world. But you know me to be a selfish creature. I want to keep you for my own happiness.”
“You will never lose me.” That was a sad truth. No matter how he might try to escape her control, only death would free Garret from his sister. He cursed the immortality of the Fae. “I will always be here for you.”
“I will let you have your silly half-breed.” Mabb sat up, wiping her eyes. “But not tonight.”
“Why not?” Garret demanded, then forced a more neutral tone. If he angered her it would undo all the painstaking work he had just done. “You understand I am eager to tell her the joyous news.”
Turned to stone once again, Mabb glided across the room to the writing desk. She withdrew a sheet of parchment, sealed by her own hand and addressed to Ayla. “She has an assignment.”
“Then I shall deliver it to her.” He turned to go, eager to see what fresh torment his sister had laid upon his student—no, he thought, my mate, and that cheered him some—and how he might manage to avoid it.
“Deliver it to her, and then return to me.” Mabb settled onto her bed, though she had only just risen from it. “And send in my healers. This argument has taken a grave toll on me. I so detest this family strife.”
“I will return to you,” he promised warily. “But I will take Ayla as my mate tonight. I have waited long enough.”
Mabb laughed at this, a sound like crystals singing. “You assume she will have you.”
“She will.” Of that, he was more than certain. He hadn’t spent the past five years grooming her to be his only to allow her to refuse him.
He tucked the assignment into his robes and left his sister to play the part of the invalid. In the antechamber he dispensed curt orders for Mabb’s healers and ladies-in-waiting, then fled the stifling order of the Palace altogether. No space in the Underground was big enough for him now that his heart soared with joy for the victory he had won. By morning, Ayla would be his mate, declared before the council and consummated in his bed. The anticipation spurred his steps faster on his way to the Assassins’ Guild.
Six
T hough Ayla did not get much sleep, what she did manage was deep, and she felt rested enough when she rose from her narrow bunk. It was far too late in the day for a trip to Sanctuary. If she went now, she would miss the chance to report before the Guild Master and pay for it later. She bathed in the cistern and scrubbed the blood and grime from her pants and vest. Sanctuary could wait, but her report could not.
Or her conversation with Garret. She’d decided on her course of action regarding her failure in the Darkworld, without the guidance of prayer. She would tell him the truth, or at least the brand she found it easiest to sell to him. She had been weak, foolish and not intending harm. He might rage a bit, but in the end he would forgive her and smooth things over both with the Guild Master and the Queene. It was not the most honorable way, asking Garret to excuse foibles she was certain she did not have, but perhaps her lie was for the best. It afforded her a fresh start. The promise she’d broken to the Guild and to herself would mend in time, through her actions and personal discipline.
This was the thought she intentionally circled through her mind as she headed to the Great Hall.
The Great Hall of the Assassins’ Guild was crowded for this afternoon’s assembly. Beneath the high-reaching cement columns that used to arch over the heads of Human travelers hurrying to their trains, Faeries, Elves, Orcs and Dwarves milled in their own clusters. Some sat on the rows of benches in the center of the room, waiting for their turn to report. Others were Guild Members and courtiers who had nothing to report but liked to listen to the grisly recounts to be “in the know.” The best gossip came from the Guilds, or so Ayla had heard. Mabb had increased the number of assignments in the past days to combat the growing threat of the Darkworld forces infiltrating the Lightworld. There were rumors already of Darkworld Assassins stealing across the border and striking lone sentries. Retaliatory strikes were called for, though the Assassins often grumbled that the cycle would never cease. Ayla did not listen to such criticisms. Her place was to follow the Queene’s orders, not question them.
Pushing through the larger-than-usual throng, Ayla caught sight of Garret’s dark head. He spoke with another mentor, and appeared to be in high spirits. The Faery smiled and bowed to Garret, and he clapped him on the back with a wide grin. Ayla wondered what could have caused such joy in her mentor, then she spied the folded parchment in his hand and the Queene’s seal upon it.
An assignment! Ayla’s heart swelled. From Garret’s apparent elation, it was an important one, as well. And why shouldn’t he be pleased that his student finally received her due? The mentor who had been speaking with Garret noticed Ayla. He motioned toward her, catching Garret’s attention. When he turned and spied her there, his smile grew even larger, if possible. “Ayla, I have wonderful news.”
As he approached and the mentor withdrew, Ayla’s mind wandered back to the reason she’d sought him out in the first place, and her heart sank. For a moment she wondered if she should take the new assignment and confess after, but no, she would then have to recant her report to the Guild Master and her credibility would be lessened. Before he could speak again, she blurted, “I did not fulfill my last assignment.”
“What?” Garret grasped her arms, his face twisted in shock and anger. He collected himself and glanced over at a group of Faeries that stood near them, then guided her firmly to an alcove at the back of the hall. Though Ayla noticed no one watching their retreat, Garret kept a distracted eye on the assembly. “Ayla, you told me—”
“I know what I told you!” She lowered her voice, ashamed at herself for having raised it to her mentor. “There was another creature who got to him first. A Death Angel. I fled.”
Garret sighed heavily, smoothing his antennae back. “Ayla, I have trained you far better than that. Were you wounded? Are you certain it was a Death Angel?”
She thought of the bruises marring her shoulder and thanked the Gods for the darkness of the alcove. “No, I was not wounded. And I know what I saw. It was a Death Angel.”
Garret’s face
paled, white as Ayla imagined the moon would be. “Gods. Then the stories are true?”
She could do little more than nod in answer. This was a turn she did not imagine events to take. It had never occurred to her she might be the first Lightworlder to catch a glimpse of such a creature and live.
“You’ll have to report this at once.” Garret’s face lit up, then fell again. “You didn’t kill it?”
“I…I did something to him. I do not believe I killed him outright.” Her guilty mind assailed her with the image of the Darkling lying on the ledge where she’d left him. “But he will not survive.”
“I will take this information to Cedric privately. Do not make a report today.” Garret reached for her, running his hands down her arms affectionately. “It would have been better if you were injured. But I do not think Cedric will rule that you’ve broken the geis, given the circumstances.”
As he turned to leave her, she called after him. “You said you had news?”
“Yes.” He tapped the parchment against his palm, seemingly unaware of it even being there. “But first I must speak with Cedric. Go to Sanctuary, use the time to calm yourself, then come to my home tonight. We will discuss it there.”
With that, he strode away from her, leaving her disappointed and alone.
Seven
T he true foulness of the Darkworld had never seemed so raw to Malachi as it did when he left the Bio-mech’s workshop. When Keller swung open the thick, metal door and stepped down into the nearly waist-deep sewage, Malachi’s mortal throat had closed on a gag.
“Listen, I know it doesn’t seem real sanitary, but that’s the price I pay for such roomy digs. Get your ass down here before something comes along and swallows me whole.” Keller reached his hand up, and Malachi had little to do but accept it.
“Is that a danger?” The water was slightly less than cold as he eased into it. Cold would have been somehow better, cleaner. Something brushed Malachi’s leg, and he repressed a shudder.
Keller studied him with interest, his grizzled face working toward a smile. “With you around? Never. You’re my insurance policy. Not a lot of Darklings are gonna mess with a guy who’s traveling next to the Angel of Death.”
“I am not the Angel of Death. I am merely—was merely—his servant.” The man had begun to slog ahead of him, and Malachi struggled to keep up. It was a difficult thing to walk through water. His muscles ached after only a few steps. “I am pleased to provide you protection. You have been kind to me. I know Humans enjoy hearing that their actions are approved of.”
“Yeah, we’re real suckers for heartfelt expressions of gratitude.” They had come to a fork in the tunnels. Keller flipped the light on his strange hat off and held a finger to his lips. “Okay, we’ve gotta go quiet through this part. I think we’ll have less trouble down that way.” He gestured to where the tunnel branched to the left. Water lay deep, and there seemed no end to it.
The other tunnel sloped upward quickly. Malachi could make out dry ground only a few feet from them. “Why not that way? You wear a contraption to keep you dry. I have nothing. I would prefer to take the drier path.”
“For one, this is not a contraption. These are waders. They just look strange because I won them off a Rock Troll who wasn’t all that good at cards. Two, that way looks easier, but trust me, it’s not.” Keller scratched the plate behind his ear with his metal fingers, the sparks fizzing out before they reached the water. “Easier in the Darkworld means more dangerous. There’ll be a tax, for one thing.”
“A tax?” Malachi had traversed these tunnels usually invisible to the denizens of the Darkworld. He had never been charged a tax. Then, the creatures he had been visible to may not have been brave enough to charge him.
“Yeah, a tax. For going the easy route. Hell, even some of the not-so-easy routes are taxed. If it’s a mortal, they usually want money or smokes. If it’s a Bio-mech, like me, they want scrap metal or spare body parts.” Keller held up his mechanical arm. “But God help you if you meet up with an Elf or a Succubus. What they want…” He punctuated his sentence with a shudder.
“Elf?” Malachi had not paid much attention to the species of the Darkworld he’d not had to collect. “I have never heard of Elf.”
“Elves. Outcast Fae. They were dark-sided long before they wound up down here. Nasty blue skin and yellow eyes.” Keller made a face. “They don’t like anyone. Barely get along with each other.”
“This world is…” Malachi struggled for the word in the Human language. The gift of tongues continued to slowly wear away. “Strange.”
“Strange to you? Imagine if you lived up there, where I’m from originally.” Keller gestured to the ceiling of the tunnel. “And it’s not like you haven’t been here for a while.”
“Too long.” When had time become an issue to him? They slogged on, the water growing deeper, almost to the top of the Bio-mech’s wading contraption. The tunnel around them changed shape, growing wider, and they followed it until Malachi saw a high ledge of dry ground beside their heads. “What is this place?”
“A subway?” Keller shrugged and leaned against the wall, reaching into his waders for the cigarettes he seemed to rely on more than food or drink. “I guess trains used to run under here before they cluttered up the Aboveground. That was before I was born. Are you doing a history on the Humans or what?”
“You are Human,” Malachi snapped back. “And I am merely trying to acclimate myself to this existence.”
“Correction, pal. I was Human. Now I can’t show my face up there.” The blue smoke from the Bio-mech’s cigarette spiraled through a dim shaft of light from an overhead vent, and Keller’s gaze followed it. “I could wear a hat. Gloves. Fuck them, they’d still get me.” He chuckled, a bitter sound. “Did you ever have to go up there?”
“No.” Only now it occurred to Malachi to question that. “I suppose we should have.”
“Uh, yeah. There are quite a few more mortals up there than down here.” He took another long draw off his cigarette. “Did any of you go up there?”
“No.” Another “why” he would not have worried about before.
“Don’t you think that’s kind of…” Keller gestured with his metal hand. “Unfair?”
Malachi shook his head, and the movement felt strangely natural. “I do not decide what is fair or unfair. I merely carried out the will of God.”
“And His will is to abandon those poor bastards up there?” The Bio-mech took another long draw off his cigarette. “Good thing I came down here, then.”
“That is not what I meant. You have twisted my words.” Malachi’s hands fisted at his sides, hands that would never have thought of committing senseless violence before. But this mortal and his confusing questions sent sparks of doubt through his brain. His immortality may have been ripped from him, but he would not allow this perversion of God’s work to take his last certainty from him.
“It’s a logical argument, though, right? I mean, if you guys aren’t up there doing what you do, who is? Does God have some other Angels making the rounds?”
“No. Only Death Angels collect souls.” So, why did no Death Angel go above, where the bulk of the mortals in existence lived? What happened to those souls?
Keller looked pleased with himself. Pleased at having infuriated him? “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Malachi slogged away, his confusion and rage giving fuel to his sore legs.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Keller called after him.
Malachi did not look back. “Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t. See, if you go that way—”
“I will become lost without you? I will fall prey to some creature lurking in the depths?” He struggled through the water, which inhibited his movements like a length of rope around his thighs.
“Kind of,” Keller called, but his voice held a troubling lack of concern. “But by all means, prove me wrong.”
Malachi took two more steps, though tentati
vely. Humans had a way of speaking words that were entirely different from the meaning they wished to convey. Another few steps, and his confidence returned. Nothing loomed in the shadows ahead, nothing brushed past his legs below the surface. It was not so treacherous as the Human warned.
And then the ground slipped from under his feet, and Malachi’s world reduced to water. His eyes shut under their own power, stranding him in darkness. The filth clogged his nose, rushed into his ears. He could not breathe, nor could he hear above the rhythm of his flailing limbs as they cut though the water. Forcing open his eyes he spied silver-green orbs rising to the surface that seemed impossibly far above him. The air from his lungs, stolen by the water and carried away.
I will die here. The panic clawed in his chest. His lungs cried out for breath, watery or not, to ease the burning ache in them. He opened his mouth, choking in surprise when something clutched at the uncomfortable collar of his shirt, then at his neck, catching hair and some feathers bent from the currents. His head broke the surface and he gagged, coughing a geyser of filthy water from his lungs.
“Easy, easy,” Keller repeated, grasping him under an arm with his metal one. The Human used his organic limb to pull them through the water, until Malachi got his footing and leaned against him for support. “I told you not to go that way.”
“Yes, you are very wise.” Why did he feel foolish? It was not as though the Human had given him explicit reasons why he should not have gone that way. If he had said, “Please, do not go that way or you will slip beneath the water and drown,” certainly that would have been a more effective warning. He opened his mouth to tell him so when the Bio-mech pointed to steps rising from the water at the level of their heads.
“We’re going up those,” Keller said, holding his arms out from his sides as he sloshed through the water. “They go all the way up to the top, so good news, you won’t have to fly me up there.”
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