5. Leni

Smile, Leni. You got what you wanted. He’s a murderer.

Before me lies the chilling and irrefutable proof.

The spymaster is not to be trifled with. As in, dare to trifle and have every bone in your hands clobbered to confetti.

He’d ... goaded.

Strut around the broken male like a lion upset the gazelle laid down and rolled over. Get. Up.

I press hot, bruised fingers to my stomach, waiting for the churning to commence, the cottonmouth, the creaky bones and weak knees. But there’s nothing. Only a numbness that spreads through my limbs, disconnecting me from reality.

I drag my gaze from the Annihilator’s prone body to the expanding pool of shimmery pink beneath him and experience none of the usual revulsion, none of the terror.

My actual reaction disturbs me.

Pride.

The same light tingling I get when I’ve charted a foolproof path to checkmate. My skin tingles. My cheeks flush.

What else?His rasped question skitters down my spine. He’d asked me. Me. As if he were my weapon to wield. As if the only reason he’d stopped evading and attacked—destroyed—was because I willed it.

My lungs deflate, my head spins, but I never shift my focus from the sparkling blood floating over the gray floor, filling in cracks and holes. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, mingling with the building’s musk.

To a creature who wasn’t allowed to use scissors until she was fifteen, Cross’s declaration felt as if I suddenly had an atomic bomb at my fingertips. Exhilarating and petrifying.

Until he collapsed. The sound of his body hitting concrete, the thud of fractured bone and shredded muscle echoes in my ears.

What was that?

How bad are his injuries?

Why do you care?

Guilt. Yes. That’s why my feet have turned into cement blocks. Because I entered his name in the Ballasts’ lineup. Because I was desperate to know if he could survive me.

He’ll outlive us all.

A human with immortality. Might as well teach a sheep how to use a chainsaw.

The thump of my heartbeat pounds in my head.

Elbows dig into my back, driving me against the cage’s fence. I’m executing a triple pat on the back while every other creature is trying to make sense of the clusterfuck of the fight.

Murmurs leak into the air, slipping from scratchy throats.

“ ... deserves to bleed.”

“ ... a fucking cheater.”

“ ... disgraced cockroach. Thinks he’s better than us.”

“You there.” The male next to me snatches my shoulder, claws popping holes in my coat. “You’re with them.”

“Sorry, who are you referring to?” I’m sideways, body contorted to avoid his grasp. “Can you specify?”

“Him ...” A confused slash of his features. “The ...” He shakes his head, growls. “You ... I know you killed the Annhiliator.”

“Me?” I peel his fingers off me as delicately as possible. “How could I? Look at me.”

The only true weapon of a lesser creature: playing on other’s assumptions. Helpless, stupid, puny ... bring them on.

“Someone killed him!” The buddy behind him yells, a big line on his forehead.

The room still pulsates with fury, but there’s a vagueness to their rambling now, as if a layer of frost has crawled across a window and all of us are throwing elbows to peek outside.

Questions bounce from one creature to another like a game of leapfrog. What happened? Who did I bet on? Where’s my wallet?

“Do we even know if he’s dead?” I ask, feigning devil’s advocate, guilt rooting me to the spot. If the spymaster behaved as my weapon—then this life is on my hands. “Shouldn’t someone check?”

General murmurs of agreement. Yeahs, and checks, and you do it, followed by, Me? Why don’t you do it?

I’m not getting in there with him.

The mob mentality is magnificent, both terrifying and fascinating. Frenzied creatures transition from foaming mouths to nursing headaches, clutching upset tummies, muttering obscenities, and shooting eye daggers at their drinking buddies.

Did he ...

He couldn’t have ...

Except, he did.

The entire Ballasts has forgotten who he is. Who came in here and obliterated the fan favorite just minutes ago.

I steal a glance at the emcee, whose rifle weaves over the crowd, searching for something he can’t quite identify. The pressure of his finger on the trigger twists my stomach.

Once he finds what he’s looking for, it’s dead.

Yes. The spymaster has done it. He’s made everyone forget.

Sweet Hera, he’s perfect. Everything I wanted. Violent. An enemy of the king. Evasive. With a dash of Kingsguard overprotectiveness, and now this. The ability to disappear.

Finally, my research has paid off. I’ve found the male who will set me free. A male who will have no qualms about defying the king’s wishes.

I need to find him. Now.

“He’s alive!” someone shouts from the ring. The revelation worsens the fog on everyone’s faces. Why are they mad if no one’s dead?

My relief is instant. The weight pressing down on my chest disappears, leaving me with a deep-rooted contentment that permeates every fiber of my being.

I meant what I said: I don’t want anyone hurt.

I refuse to be like Draven. I won’t kill to get what I need.

Entering Cross into the Ballasts was a necessary evil. I needed to see him fight, to determine if he could survive Draven.

I thought he’d toss a punch and it’d be over.

Then, at the market, when he backed away from me, when his threats fell flat and he ran, I panicked. I sprinted for the Ballasts, begged the emcee to strike his name from the roster, to keep him from walking into the ring and getting slaughtered.

He didn’t just survive, he dominated, put on an unrated-for-gore show and then wiped the entire memory from a room of fuming creatures.

He really is perfect.

A shout cleaves through the upheaval. One mind sharper than the rest. “It was the Bratva bastard. I saw him! He’s outside!”

Protect.

The command thunders inside my head, shooting my spine ramrod straight. Urgency acts as a lashing whip, sends my feet tumbling. Chasing a sudden impulse, I race for the door, only to grind to a halt mid-way, fixating on the towering wall drapery. I dig a hand into my sherpa lined pocket.

Best way to play defense? A harsh offense.

I work quickly, fingers nimble, ultra aware there’s a mob forming behind my back, reeking of sweat and alcohol. It’s not exactly protection. Prey don’t protect. This is a diversion, time to run, which is what I do best.

As soon as it’s done, I dive outside, slamming the ridiculously heavy door shut, and finishing the job off by tipping a lump of atrophying muscle in front of it.

It’s sleeting. Clear pebbles ching off the sidewalk and slinking underneath my collar, numbing my nape.

I hear him a block from the market while I’m cycling back to ensure no one’s following me. I’d almost forgotten about them, about my spymaster, but Lev’s deep, direct tone captures me. “Word is the whole south wing went up in smoke.”

I slump for cover in a dim alcove to the side and yank my hood up. I’m not an eavesdropper. Really. I’m an opportunist. And I have a sense I need to hear what he’s saying.

“An engulfing fucking blaze. It turned the sky pitch black.”

“Yeah, and I heard a spaceship beamed him up,” retorts the spymaster. I strain to catch a glimpse of his face, but his hand obscures it, wiping away grime and exhaustion.

Lev scoffs, no time for sarcasm. “This is real.”

“It’s a rumor,” returns Cross, all disdain. “A shitty one. There’s been no mention of a fire. Ever. And if there was, it could’ve started after he died, could’ve been to cover tracks.”

“Then why was it covered up?”

“So what then?” Cross yanks on his hair. “Kadmos died in a tragic accident? What does that mean, other than we’re absolutely fucked?”

Lev’s head lowers in determination as he emphasizes, The flames, not the smoke, the flames were black. Ever heard of that? Because I haven’t. That’s not an accident. It was deliberate and fucking bad enough that it either killed everyone who saw it or scared them enough to never mention it—”

“Sounds made up.” I don’t consciously choose to say it, but it’s out regardless. With it, I peel from my spot. “Who’s ever heard of a black fire?”

Lev whips his head to me, dark hair in a knotty mess, face glistening with icy sweat. “You.” Is that my signature greeting? “You set us up, you—” He’s snarling at me, striding to end me. He swipes and I instinctively duck, a rush of air cutting over my head.

He tried to hit me.

“Lev.” Cross doesn’t shout, he berates with a single word.

The Russian doesn’t take his attention off me, fury and suspicion dripping from his fists and bunched shoulders. “No.”

“Yes. Fan out and—”

Lev snaps, teetering on the ledge between argument and fight. “You can barely stand and she’s ...” He turns to me. Big Threat Imminent lights flash.

Run.

“Enough.” Cross is no longer propped against the wall. Standing mostly in shadow, painted in crimson and black, warmth radiates from him. Different from the cocoon of heat he crafted in the tent, this warmth poses a challenge, a flame creeping closer to a fuse, a heavy blanket prepared to smother.

The back of my neck tingles. Too late to run.

“Don’t,” Lev commands the spymaster. When he looks at me, I don’t see the jokester or the brute, but the male who offered himself in place of Cross inside the Ballasts. “Reconnaissance.” His tongue swipes over his teeth. “Yeah. Sure. Who else is going to do it?”

I watch him leave, half convinced he’ll turn around and smack me.

But in fifteen feet, the sleet becomes so thick and the fog descends so low, his wide shoulders and imposing build blur and fuzz. He vanishes.

And I’m alone.

In the rain.

Cold seeps into my bones, my fingers sting and ... didn’t I come out here for someone? Or something? Did I forget?

For the life of me, I have no idea where I am or what I’m doing. Why I’m standing in an alley in tights when I should be macramé-ing the story of my life, competitive cheese rolling, or mastering origami while I can. Chase every wild idea before Draven figures out I’ve—

It snaps back hard. My brilliant masterplan. Code name: Convince the Blackguard my followers are actually their followers by following them. Code-Code name: Panties in a Twist.

Him.

I’m alone with the spymaster.

I stiffen, caught between waves of dread and intrigue. He left me. He yelled at me. He fought for me.

“Hey.” I’m nervous as I spin on my heels to face him, unsure which male will step from the shadows. “So.” I bump my hands together, awkward. “Some weather we’re having, yeah? It’s 83 in Barbados.”

Small talk. The new sorry-I-almost-got-you-killed-but-since-you’re-alive-I-still-need-that-favor.

The spymaster waits a long time to speak, scraping his boots against gravel and snow to push up the wall. In his palm, a streak of silver glints off the streetlamps.

A dagger. Clutched in his—

No. Daggers. Two. One in each hand.

“Wishing you were somewhere else?” he asks at last. His expression promises bloody retribution and a tortuous death.

“Every minute of every day.” Especially now. “Doubly so when it’s hailing, and a male is bleeding out right in front of me.” I look at my boots. “That was a pretty intense fight.”

“Is that why you drew me here?” he asks coolly. “There are much more fulfilling ways I can provide you with a thrill.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think ...” That you wouldn’t fight, that you had honor, that you’d wait until retaliation was necessary to strike. “This night has been in motion for far longer than you would believe. I had to know if you were ready.”

“Yes. Your fantastic plan.” Bright scarlet red leaks from a cut under his eye, mixing with the rain sliding off on his nose. “If you want to kill me, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

He sounds tired.

“I don’t want anyone dead.” It’s the one truth I’m proud of and it makes me confident, propels me closer to him, into his warmth and shadows. “That’s why I’m here, don’t you get it? So no one has to die. I ...”

“You?” Cross drawls.

“Wait.” I separate my soaked bangs and drooping lashes with a swipe.

Frigid water licks into my mouth, tasting like snow and ash. The dreadful medley of bitter cold rain and soggy ice pelts my skin, stinging and draining into the gaps of my clothing. I’m shuddering, pressed together, tucked tight, a mess of wet and cold and tired.

And he’s ... not.

Long legs stretched in front of him, Cross leans against the wall as he rotates a knife in his grip with disturbing ease. Blood spills from a split bottom lip, a crimson streak under the dimly flickering streetlamps and surrounding fog.

He nearly killed a male, but all I can think as I watch him, black and blue fanning out across his cheek, mottling his eye, is how hot his skin must be for wispy tendrils of steam to rise from his shoulders.

“Should I keep waiting, or have you taken your fill?”

I refuse to check if he’s smiling. “Where’d you get the knives? You didn’t have those before.”

“Didn’t I?” He shrugs, ever casual. “You don’t think I’d allow a creature anywhere near me if I was unarmed? Especially one as ...” He clocks my wet trembling fingers, the water streaming off my nose. “... threatening as you?”

My kind are not fighters, but the sarcasm still shreds.

I jam my hands into my pockets. “You had daggers all this time? Even in the ring? Even when I told you to run, when he hit you first, when you fell, when—”

“Even then.”

The air stills in my lungs. My heart hammers. He’s had weapons all night and never once reached for them.

Sweet Hera, Queen of Gods.

Without real intention, I close the distance between us, moth to twinkling flame.

His entire body goes taut, the gray in his eyes steels, and his boots cinch with a militia-like tut.

The sharp inhale of his breath is unmistakable. Fear. Razor thin, not nearly as afraid as when I cornered him in the tent, but there.

I should probably stop cornering him, stop barging into a killer’s personal space, but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, like the feeling of a male capable of destroying you watching you with a glint of terror in his eyes.

I tilt my face up until raindrops pool in the seam of my mouth, a riot of sensations blitzing through me.

We are so so close, and he smells like blood and rain, and I’m not at all scared. It’s exhilarating. “Is this what you feel like all the time?”

He still hasn’t breathed. “Never.”

Our mouths are inches apart. I can’t help but smile. “You might be too perfect for this, you know. This plan might be too good.” I laugh a little, near giddy. “Should we discuss your favor now?”

“What is—”

Suddenly he crumbles forward, lurching into me. I barely catch him, swaying under his solid weight, shoes sliding over ice.

“Stop,” he hisses at me, half limp, forehead digging into my shoulder.

“Stop what?”

“Stop ... this,” he rasps.

Stop holding him? Yeah right. I’ll be crushed. “Did you stab yourself?” I ask. “Never sway with knives. It’s an accident waiting to happen.” I struggle to push him upright, let go—

He spins us, the tip of his boot knocking my ankles together, throwing me into a wet stone wall. His knee catches my thigh, and we both swear. Broad hands grasp my shoulders.

Cross is panting, muttering something quiet and low, but I can’t focus on anything but the dagger tip he has aimed at my throat.

Bumbling, little bird!Yaya’s voice invades me. If you fly too close to the sun, you will burn.

“Not now,” Cross mutters, voice strained. “Stop!”

“I ... I didn’t say anything.”

“Stop,” he rasps again, voice like jagged glass, elbows slumping to the wall, body buckling against mine.

Before I’m flattened, he throws us around the corner, his shoulder slamming down viciously. His mouth presses against my hair and a rusty curse rips from his throat, followed by, “Stop, please.”

I actually look over my shoulder this time. Like there might be a guy in tights playing the lyre. Nope. “I couldn’t be saying less!”

“Don’t talk,” he snarls. “Fuck.”

My legs are giving out under him. These boots are not meant for ice, cobblestone, or the almost-dead weight of an immortal assassin.

As gently as I can, I guide him to sit, back pressed on the wall. Compressing my coat, I fold down onto the road at his bent knees. He’s vibrating, eyes squeezed closed.

“What’s happening?” I ask quietly.

He opens his eyes, flashing twin dying black stars. “I can’t ... control it.”

Control what? I reach out tentatively, my fingers brushing against his sleeve to comfort him. But instead of leaning into my touch, he grabs me, grip firm, unyielding, eyes locking onto mine with a fierce intensity.

Raw power slithers beneath his control, shimmying through cracks to lick sparks at my skin. It’s ancient and primal. Insidious.

“Are you dying?” I ask, feeling like I’m eight again, alone and helpless. “I really need you to live, alright?”

The spymaster remains silent, convulsing and jolting as if invisible claws are raking across his body. The wound around his eye has barely sutured together, so unlike an immortal’s expected healing.

Panic makes me desperate. And dumb.

I shake him. Hard. “You can’t survive this long and die here with me, got that? You defeated the Keres. You fought in the Apollo Wars, Lycaons tell scary campfire stories about you. You do not die in a dirty, wet alley. Get. It. Together.”

His shaky hand grasps my shoulder, firm and urgent. “I need you ...” he rasps, voice strained with pain. My heart twists. “To not touch me right now.”

He shoves me and I fall backward onto the street.

“Shit! Shit. I’m—” He groans, doubling over and clutching his head as if trying to contain an explosion. His body bends as he fights whatever storm consumes him from the inside out.

It’s hours before he inhales deep enough to call it a breath instead of a gasp.

Or maybe it’s minutes. It’s probably seconds.

My pulse has run a marathon, but the rain hasn’t slowed, the clouds haven’t moved.

“It’s your hair,” he says finally, tipping his head back. His knife clatters next to his shoe. “It’s that fucking hair.”

My hair? I’ve witnessed more descents into madness than the average creature. Nine out of ten begin with hair.

Hair unlocks the crazy.

Fortunately, I have a tried-and-true solution. Device reset via a dose of flagrant offensive reality.

“You are not dying here,” I command darkly. “The Blackguard doesn’t get to die here, alone and quietly. Your death’s going to be spectacular and violent, and it might be sooner than you think because highly trained, very pissed off, morally repugnant males are after you right now.”

The spymaster lets out a half caustic, half amused breath. “Are you threatening me to stay alive so that your men can kill me?”

If that’s what it takes. “What happened to they can try, and dozens too small a number? Where’s I’m a badass who speaks without any eye contact? Huh? Where’s that male? He owes me a favor.”

“He’s getting non-consensually fucked by his friendship bracelets.”

I shove up the thick wet leather of his sleeves to stare at the twin black bands. “You mean these?”

They’re hurting him? How?

“Don’t touch them,” he rumbles.

I hastily yank back, heart beating at mouse narrowly escaping the slap of a trap levels

If those tattoos can bring him to his knees, what would they do to me? “What do they do?”

The spymaster’s eyes peel apart slowly, revealing two unholy black stars “You distract me ...” He’s somber, explaining a question I haven’t asked. “You’re dangerous. You can pretend you’re not, but you’ll be the end of me.”

“I won’t—”

“That fucking coat. Who wears a pink fucking coat. And those eyes?” He shudders, pounds his wrists into the unforgiving ground. “Blue all week.” He grinds those tattoos into the gravel and ice, bloodying the black ink. He forces out a rough breath. “Blue. All fucking week. Following me.”

Okay. Jeez. “Disapproving of blue, got it. We need to go.” He can be mad at my hair and coat later, after he and I ... yeah.

“Do you remember my name?”

Are we having different conversations? I stare at him. “Yes. Of course I do. We need to go.”

He commands, “Say it then.”

I nearly don’t. Frustration clogging my throat, I almost give up on this entire night, this day, this sieve of a plan until his fingers coast along the ends of my bangs, follow the swell of my cheek down and tuck sloppy drenched hair over my ear, where he lingers.

Warm.

He’s so warm, I can feel his touch throughout my body, calming my racing thoughts.

“Please.”

“Cross,” I whisper. “Your name is Cross.”

He makes a noise in his throat—something frustrated and pained, and severs our connection, hand pulling away. “Very good. Now open your eyes.”

I don’t remember closing them, and now I’m afraid if I open them, the warmth will somehow vanish. “Why?”

“Because you should meet someone’s eyes when you ask them for a favor.”

I shoot him a foul look. “You already agreed.”

“Hurry,” he orders. “Before I lose control again.”

Again? “How many times a day do you collapse?”

Not part of the plan.

“You’re rapidly breaking the record,” he mutters with gritted teeth. “Leni, please.”

Yes. Fine. Procrastination over. “It’s simple, really,” I start, absentmindedly strumming my nails down the teeth of my coat’s zipper, gaze diverted to a crushed cigarette butt on the street. “I’d like for you to uh ... take me.”

“Take you,” he echoes dryly.

Okay, Leni. You prepared for this.

Prepared in a very loose, vaguely understood this conversation would occur. Prepared as in I thought I’d be long dead before I had an audience with the spymaster of the Kingsguard and therefore didn’t need to make flashcards. And even in those amorphous theoretical situations, the circumstances were different. Less awful. The spymaster wasn’t drowning in so much blood. Hail wasn’t pummeling down. The acrid scent of melted plastic didn’t taint the air. I wasn’t craving caramel.

Despite all this, the mortification is worse than anticipated as I confess, “I need you to take my virginity.”

He stares at me like I’m insane. Like I told him a story using the end page of every Stephen King book, and it’s utterly demented, his worst yet. Shyamalan’s adapting it.

“One time,” I clarify, quickly. Desperately. “That’s it. Then I won’t just tell you who’s chasing you, I’ll deliver you a personalized dossier of every suspicious creature I see for the rest of my life.”

My words hang in the air, weightless and mocking.

I’ve puzzled the scenario a thousand times. This is the only way. “Please,” I add, because it worked for him. “Please. That’s the favor I need. You never have to see me again.”

“Never?” Icy. No steam, no warmth. His voice, his eyes, the tendon tight in his jaw. Pure ice.

“Unless you too have plans to sunbathe eternally in Majorca? Never.”

His jaw tightens even further, attention shifting to the empty street so dense with fog, we could be surrounded and not know it. His fingers twitch, as if they long to close around my neck.

“Please.” My hands shake as I wrap them over his jean clad knees, leaning close enough to taste copper.

He watches my lips, opens his mouth, meaning to say something, and then gestures dismissively. Does it again. “I didn’t kill him.”

Not a denial. Not an acceptance. “Oh,” I murmur, our foreheads almost touching. “I know. Someone checked. He’s fine.”

“Fine?”

“The Annihilator.” My turn to wave. “He’s alive.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me, as he wets his lips, voice rough and low. “I didn’t kill the king.”

Shock slams into me. “But—”

“He was my family. I’d never hurt him,” he says it like he needs me to know it, like he can’t touch me without telling me.

If the The Plan were a ship, he’d have just punched a hole in the hull. Because if he didn’t kill the king, if he’s still loyal ... I won’t need Draven to find me. One slip of the tongue and the Blackguard will haul me into court by my hair and throw me on the marble at Draven’s feet to honor Kadmos’s last wish.

But only if I tell him why I want him, why I need this. Technically, he doesn’t need to know.

We could just ... I tip my mouth up under his.

He’s trembling. Or it’s possible that I am. I’m not sure if we really touch. We might brush lips, his tongue might wet the split on his bottom lip and accidentally tease mine. It could be only shared shallow breaths, but I can feel his pulse drumming so fast, the rain seems to slow its deluge, seems to hover, air particles expanding, slowing it.

The whole realm’s black except for the pierce of his gaze and the brilliant red spilling from the corner of his mouth, like smudged lipstick hastily left behind.

I hold still, arched into him, tongue snug against my teeth, marveling at the lazy pinpricks of water hissing into steam on my face.

He’s burning me. Waves of dry, callous heat scald my cheeks, bring tears to my eyes.

Abruptly, I realize I want him to kiss me.

It feels wrong.

Incredibly wrong. I can’t stop it. Cross. Kissing me. Just thinking about it causes me to close my eyes.

I never once considered wanting him, desiring him, but the mere concept has my heart pounding, my stomach clenching.

“Cross,” I whisper in a voice unlike my own, dazed and distracted.

A severe crack and a vicious groan send me jolting backwards. I tumble into slush and filth, cold rushing up at me.

Cross’s hand dangles right in front of him, as if he tried to reach for me, catch me, but the horrible slant in his wrist bought him up an inch too short.

A wave of nausea rises in my throat.

The sound was his wrist snapping.

Terror sweeps through me. Run, a constant demand.

No, nothing easy. I sit up, clear my throat. “You’re hurt.”

Cross sighs. “Yes.”

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” The tattoos. The pain.

He briefly closes his eyes, resigned. “It is.”

“And it’s still my fault?” I check as he pushes one handed to his feet, extends the non-wonky hand to me to set me back on two feet like I’m made of cotton candy and helium.

“Yes,” he rumbles darkly, even as he stares at my mouth. “Yes, you are entirely to blame.”

Then with a whispered “Just for a second,” he kisses me.