Assassin's Blood

by Marina Finlayson

  “That’s what all the girls say,” he threw over his shoulder as he led the way to the door.

  I followed, elbows out to protect my beer.

  “How you doing, Sage?” Tony rumbled in his deep voice as I passed him at the door.

  “Never better than with a beer in my hand,” I said, and he nodded. Beer was serious business to trolls.

  Outside, my ears rang at the sudden drop in decibels, though I could still feel the beat reverberating through my body as I leaned up against the front wall of the pub, facing the street. The row of businesses opposite were all tightly shuttered against the night, except for the little Thai restaurant, which was doing its usual roaring trade as delicious curry smells of coconut and spices wafted across the road. A car horn honked further down the street, and over on the highway, the rumble of trucks and the squeal of air brakes could be heard, a deep counterpoint to the music inside.

  Raven leaned against a telegraph pole that was plastered with layer upon layer of handbills advertising bands appearing in the pub, so many that the pole bristled with little metal piercings like a punk rocker. I’d stapled a few of those in my time. Humans were so casual with iron. I rubbed my iron ward—a simple silver ring—reflexively with my thumb. Even someone whose fae blood was as weak as mine needed a ward to cope with all the iron in this mortal world.

  “Did you miss me?” Raven asked, his dark eyes glittering in the light from the lamp overhead.

  “Inconsolably,” I replied with cheerful insincerity. “What did you find out?”

  He shook his head reprovingly. “Sage, Sage. You must learn to take time for pleasure among the business.”

  “In this case, business is pleasure. Nothing would give me more pleasure than hearing you’ve tracked down … the people we’re looking for.” At the last second, I stopped myself from naming the Vipers. There was no one near apart from Tony, but fae had good hearing. There was no need to flaunt our business all over the neighbourhood. The assassins had enough advantages on us already.

  “Then prepare to be pleasured,” he said drily. “I have a meeting arranged for tomorrow.”

  “You do?” I could hardly believe it. “It was that easy?”

  “Easy, no. Simple, yes. It’s all in knowing how things are done.”

  “And how are they done? Where is this meeting?”

  “Right here in Sydney, in the Queen Victoria Building. A little café called Perk You Up.”

  I smothered a laugh, checking on Tony again. He was on the phone now, so I spoke more freely. “The most feared assassins in the Realms operate out of a café called Perk You Up? Do you get a free cappuccino for every ten hits you order?”

  He smiled. “It’s just a meeting place. I don’t know where they operate from. That is a closely guarded secret. But I made contact, and I got a message back tonight that someone would meet me there tomorrow to discuss the specifics of my request.”

  “So, what, to get a meeting with them you had to pretend that you wanted someone assassinated?”

  “Well, of course. They’re not going to sit around and discuss the weather.”

  “But …” The obvious perils of such a course hit me, and I drew a shaky breath. This was so typical of Raven. “What if they actually do the job? Who are you going to order a hit on?”

  “I can think of a number of people whose removal would make the Realms a better place, can’t you?” He glanced down into his glass and swirled the amber liquid so that the melting ice cubes clinked against the sides. “I thought perhaps our new Lord of Summer would be an ideal candidate. What do you think?”

  I nearly choked on a mouthful of beer. “Not sure the king would approve of having his nephew targeted.”

  He shrugged. “Well, this is just a preliminary meeting, where we get to eye each other off and they decide if they want to do business with me. When they name their price, I’ll just decide it’s too high.”

  “And then?”

  He looked up, his eyes full of mischief. “And then we tail them back to their lair.”

  6

  Somehow, plans concocted late at night over a beer or four seemed much more workable than they did in the cold light of day. I walked through from Town Hall Station into the bowels of the Queen Victoria Building, leaning into the gale of homeward-bound office workers streaming the other way towards the trains. It was just after five o’clock on a Thursday night and people were everywhere, enjoying late-night shopping or heading home from a day at work.

  Rowan followed in my wake, clearly uncomfortable at the mass of humanity surrounding us. The noise was intense—the thunder of hundreds of feet on the tiled floor, the whistle and grind of trains behind us. The smell of the trains filled the air, too, all hot, dirty metal, buffeted by the winds of their passage through the tunnels below us.

  Rowan stuck close to my side, leaning in to be heard above the rage of sound. “What if he recognises us?”

  “He who?” I sidestepped a woman with an enormous pram and a toddler in tow. Good luck getting that on the train, lady. It would be standing room only at this hour, and the toddler was already whining to be picked up. Her frazzled expression made me thankful I was only going to spy on an assassin. Toddlers were way scarier.

  “The assassin.”

  “Don’t be so sexist. Who says the assassin won’t be a woman? And why on earth would they recognise us? Who have you been hanging out with lately?”

  “We’ve both been hanging out at Court,” he said in a sharp tone.

  “So has half the Realms. Relax. That’s why I brought you. Me sitting there on my own might look suss. The two of us will just be a couple of tourists chilling together, seeing the sights.”

  The Queen Victoria Building was a gorgeous old building, all golden sandstone and pale green copper domes on the outside, intricate tiles and woodwork beneath soaring ceilings on the inside, renovated and restored to its former glory. Once a marketplace but now the pre-eminent shopping destination in the heart of Sydney, there were always tourists hanging around, taking photos on the grand curving staircases or posing for selfies outside with the huge statue of Queen Victoria herself.

  We took the escalator up from the basement, and the noise levels began to abate. A steady stream of people still headed for the trains, but here the arcade, tiled in old-fashioned patterns, was far wider. On each side, small, up-market shops enticed the passers-by. These were probably some of the most expensive retail spaces in Sydney.

  Soon, we found the café. Every surface was sleek and modern, with black leather booths and marble bench tops. We ordered and paid, then took a table by the door. Our coffees came quickly, and I snapped a quick photo of the artful love heart in the foam on top.

  “What are you doing?” Rowan asked, frowning.

  “Looking like a tourist. See? Isn’t it pretty?” I showed him the photo on my phone. “Totally Instaworthy.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what language you’re speaking,” he grumbled. Clearly, espionage didn’t agree with Rowan. He wasn’t usually this grumpy.

  “Oh, come on, you’re not that old. Don’t pretend you don’t know what Instagram is.”

  “I feel like a sitting duck.”

  “Why? No one’s going to buy a hit on you. Relax.” Maybe a timid deerkin hadn’t been the best choice for this little adventure, but who else could I ask? Willow would have been better, but she was too recognisable with her bright copper curls. I had to assume that the Vipers would keep dossiers on all the Lords and their families.

  And just imagine if I’d brought Lily! If I thought Willow was too noticeable, I could hardly substitute the princess. The thought made me snort. Being helpful was probably against her religion, anyway.

  “I don’t like that it’s here,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “In this café? What’s wrong with it?” The only thing I didn’t like about it was the fact that it had two exits; one to the interior of the QVB, and one to the street. But I’d placed myself so that I cou
ld see both.

  “In Sydney,” he said impatiently. “Don’t you think it’s a bit of coincidence that they arranged to meet in Sydney? It’s like they know who we are.”

  “I think it’s smart. Much less chance of being spied on in the mortal world. You know most fae won’t even come here. They could just as easily have picked Prague. They can gate to anywhere.”

  “That’s what I mean. Why Sydney, out of all the places in the world?”

  I shrugged. “Why not? Maybe their base is here.”

  He lowered his voice, leaning over the table and practically whispering. “Do you think he’s here yet?”

  “Raven? I don’t see him.”

  “No, the assassin.” He caught my glare and sighed. “Fine. He or she, I mean?”

  “Probably. No, don’t look around, you idiot.”

  “I should have worn a Glamour.”

  “No, no magic.” Glamours were hard to spot, but not impossible. “We don’t want to look anything but ordinary.”

  He fiddled nervously with the saltshaker, spilling white grains on the black marble surface of the table.

  I laid a hand on his to stop his fidgeting. “Drink your coffee and try to look like you’re having a good time.”

  He swallowed a sip, managing to look like an extra from a horror movie who just knew that the monster was right around the corner. I sighed and scooted my chair around the table so I could sit next to him and put my arm around him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting comfortable.” I laid my head on his shoulder.

  “Here’s Raven,” he said.

  It was five thirty, and he was right on time. He strode past, further into the café, without acknowledging us, and I heard his deep voice ordering a long black.

  I gave it a few minutes, then picked up my phone, pressing my cheek against Rowan’s, angling the camera for a selfie. In the background of the shot, I caught Raven taking a seat at a table where another man already sat. How had he known this was the guy he’d come to meet? There must have been some prearranged signal between them.

  I snapped the picture, then showed it to Rowan. “Laugh,” I said.

  He gave an unconvincing chuckle, so I punched him in the shoulder. Then I studied the stranger caught in the background of the photo.

  He was about medium height, with mid-brown hair that fell into his eyes. He wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t a head-turner, either. He wore a dark suit, like so many of the men who still passed outside the café, and his tie was a neat, pale grey. There was nothing about him that was more than average, nothing that made him stand out. I couldn’t help feeling a little let down. Somehow, I’d expected an assassin to look … well, less ordinary.

  Although, perhaps that was the point.

  “Is he fae?” Rowan asked, frowning at my phone screen.

  I enlarged the photo, but of course it told us nothing. Just an Average Joe, only bigger and blurrier. He’d been glancing down when I’d snapped the photo, so I couldn’t see his eyes. He had nice eyebrows, thick and arched, under that floppy fringe.

  “He’s probably wearing a Glamour,” I said. Fae just didn’t do ordinary. By their nature they were extraordinary, larger than life, beautiful as a spring morning, even the least of them. No one looked at a fae and said, Well, at least he has nice eyebrows.

  “I suppose he doesn’t want to stand out too much from the crowd,” Rowan said.

  “No, I guess not. Being noticeable wouldn’t be an asset in his line of work.”

  “If that even is an assassin. Maybe he’s just an errand boy.”

  “Maybe. Doesn’t matter, though. We can still follow him.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not going to keep looking at him and give the game away. Just sit tight and enjoy your coffee.”

  Rowan took another sip. “Enjoy my coffee? This is going to give me heartburn.”

  “You’re such a sook, Rowan.”

  He gave me a stern look over the rim of his cup. “This isn’t a game, Sage.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware.” People had died. Nevith had died, right outside our front door, surrounded by enemies, while we slept peacefully inside. “And I’m not playing around here.”

  I put down my cup and picked up the phone again. Would it look too obvious if I took another “selfie”? I desperately wanted to watch the meeting, but it was too risky. I couldn’t do anything to draw the man’s attention. I forced myself to study the photo again instead, committing every mundane detail of his face to memory. Getting this far hadn’t been easy, and I didn’t want to blow our chances through impatience.

  My restraint was rewarded a few moments later when the man himself passed our table, trailing a faint scent of ironbark behind him. The suit was good quality and cut to show off an athletic body. He checked each way before leaving the café for the bustle of the QVB’s tiled cavern, like a man about to cross the road, showing a straight nose and strong jaw in profile.

  I waited a breath, then another, before standing, too. “Let’s go.”

  Without acknowledging Raven or waiting to see if Rowan was coming with me, I strode after the man. He had turned left, heading back the way we’d come, towards Town Hall. Large numbers of people still filled the space, some window-shopping, others striding towards the train station. Little knots and eddies formed as people met up with friends or traffic jams started in the doorways of particularly popular shops. A busker had set up his empty guitar case just near the big centre aisle that crossed over from York Street to George, and a young couple had stopped to listen to his rendition of “Stairway to Heaven”.

  My man moved with surprising speed through the crowds. Without appearing to hurry, he sidestepped around obstacles and made the most of clear paths that formed among all the moving bodies, so that I had to pick up the pace or risk losing him. He might only be average height—just a shade under six feet, by the looks of it—but his legs seemed particularly long.

  I’d hoped he was heading outside, but he suddenly veered towards the escalators down to the basement level. Damn. I hurried to close the gap. If I lost him down there, he could end up anywhere—on a train to another part of the city, or coming up one of the numerous other exits from underground into other streets or different shopping centres.

  A large group of teenagers, wielding bulky backpacks like battering rams, cut between us at the escalators. I watched in a fever of impatience as he stepped smoothly past the people standing in place on the escalator, while I was too hemmed in by backpacks to move. I tried to shove my way through, but all that got me was a chorus of protests from the teens.

  The man looked back as he reached the bottom of the escalator, as if he’d heard the commotion. Cold grey eyes raked across me, and I melted back behind a backpack.

  “Don’t let him get away,” Rowan urged at my shoulder.

  “I’m trying.” I came off the bottom of the escalator almost at a run.

  His head was disappearing into the crowd, being carried further and further off by the inexorable tide of commuters. I managed to shove past the wall of backpacks, only to be brought up short by slow-moving pedestrians dawdling outside the cheaper food shops lining each side of the narrowing passageway, as if a choice of juices was a decision worthy of endless pondering.

  The dirty smell of trains and a rush of hot wind from the tunnels below smacked me in the face as I burst out into a momentary gap in front of the automatic gates of Town Hall Station. Up ahead, my quarry tapped on at the gate, and the barriers slid aside for him. I rushed to follow, but the backpack kids spread out, hogging the gates and generally slowing everyone up.

  “Go around to the exit,” I told Rowan in a fever of impatience, “in case he walks straight through.”

  Rowan nodded and forced his way through the crowd to circle around the outside. The man in front of me couldn’t get his Opal card to work. I sidestepped smartly and shoved in front of a woman who gave me a filthy look,
but I didn’t care. My quarry was already at the top of the stairs leading down to platform three.

  I hurled myself through as soon as the barrier opened. His lead was widening, and I only caught glimpses of him getting further and further ahead as I was buffeted by the crowds. He was at the bottom of the stairs, and there was a train right there, standing at the platform with its doors open. The announcement boomed and echoed, distorted by the tunnels. I caught the word Hornsby before the chimes sounded.

  Pushing and shoving for all I was worth, I tried to catch up, but there were too many bodies between us. Carried along on the human tide, I was only halfway down the stairs when he stepped onto the train and the doors slid closed behind him.

  “God damn it.” I glanced up at the indicator board. All stations to Hornsby via Chatswood. Not that that meant anything. He could be getting off at the next station.

  I turned and fought my way back up the stairs. Had he known he was being followed? He certainly had a thing or two to teach me about evading pursuit—although, perhaps that had been magic at work. A subtle Aversion, maybe, that allowed him more space to move freely than I’d had. I’d been so sure I could track him.

  I squared my shoulders. Now I had to go and tell Raven that I’d failed.

  7

  Worse than failing Raven, I’d failed Nevith.

  Nevith had been a quiet soul, though he used to get talkative over a beer or two down at The Drunken Irishman with friends. He’d challenged me to an arm wrestle, once, that had ended with him nearly wrenching my arm out of its socket. He’d forgotten I wasn’t a full fae and hadn’t stopped apologising for weeks afterwards.

  But his strength had meant nothing when the assassins came, and now he was gone. I lay back on the grass and stared up at the leaves waving overhead. The assassins continued to thrive. No one could make them pay for Nevith’s death if we couldn’t track the bastards down.

  “I’ll thank you not to shred my entire lawn,” Willow said.

  She and Lily were lounging on chairs by the fountain, enjoying a pre-dinner wine. Lily looked up with interest at the acid tone in Willow’s voice. She was like a bloodhound, attuned to the scent of discord. Probably came from living her whole life in the toxic atmosphere of the Summer-dominated Court, where someone else’s argument could become your advantage.