Page 3 of A Sword of Shadow and Deceit

“Is this a fucking joke?” I demand, my gaze shooting up to Regis who watches me with a grin on his face as he drinks from his mug. “If it is, it’s not amusing.” That kind of money is damn near impossible to come by even with years of back-alley debts and blood contracts. The bastard takes his time, finishing his unnecessarily long gulp before setting the metal cup back onto the surface of the table with a clank.

He leans forward. “No joke,” he says, excitement permeating his tone. “Four million denza. It’s the largest contract Ophelia’s ever seen in her lifetime.” Considering she’s been the head of the Guild for the last twenty-plus years, I’m shocked, but it is a considerable amount of money. The things I could do with that kind of money. The freedom it could buy. Old desire fights its way back to the surface. It’s by far more money than I’ve ever seen offered, even for a contract with multiple targets.

“Is it one target?” I demand as that thought slams into me. I look back to the scrap of parchment even as I ask the question. I scan the rest of the information, but unlike the previous jobs, there is no name or image attached to the paper. No target name or count. Though I’ve primarily taken on singular jobs, there have been occasions when I’ve been tasked with the eradication of a collection of people rather than individuals. Those are usually the higher compensation jobs. This one must have multiple targets. I can’t imagine that it wouldn’t. Not for that fucking much. “There has to be more information on something like this. Where’s the rest?”

Regis’ grin slips from his face as I fold the paper in half and lean over to the singular candle set on our table. I let the edge of the yellowed square catch fire, dropping it into a metal plate next to the candle where the ashes of men’s cigars and smokes remain. The fire spreads, ripping through the ink and parchment until it's disintegrated into nothing but ash and dust. Only a memory in the minds of the recipient, the messenger, and the sender.

“Yeah,” Regis replies, reaching back as he cups the back of his neck. “That’s the only issue. What you saw written there”—he gestures to the remaining embers—“is all the information we have.”

I narrow my gaze on him and wait.

He sighs. “The client won’t say the target name until we agree to take on the job.”

“That’s not how it works,” I remind him.

He nods. “I know—Ophelia knows—but … the compensation, Kiera—Shit, even with the Underworld’s cut, you’ll be able to pay back your debt.” Regis leans towards me. “You can’t deny that it’s tempting.”

It’s incredibly tempting. That’s the problem. Ten years I’ve waited for this type of job, this opportunity. Most assassination jobs take anywhere from weeks to months to see through appropriately. It’s risky business and being too quick to take one up isn’t always safe. Not having all of the information initially almost certainly means there’s a catch. I’m not so naive to think that the compensation means anything else.

“It’s dangerous, is what it is,” I reply. “I need to know at least how many targets I’ve got to hit. I can’t prepare adequately without that.”

Regis grits his teeth but doesn’t disagree. “Ophelia is working on finding that out. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t want to say no until you had the chance to make your own decision.”

Shit. I turn away from him and stare out across the tavern. Ophelia is well within her rights as my owner to just order me to take the job. It isn’t like I have the luxury of denying her. As brimstone is one of the few—if not the only thing of this world—that can counteract Divinity, the brimstone-infused contract mark within my body ensures that I have no other recourse than to do as she commands if I ever want it removed. Not only does it keep the majority of my power contained and my Divinity hidden, it acts as a tracking spell that allows her to always know my location.

Unchained though I am, I’m still indebted at the end of the day, bound by a blood contract that ensures my complete obedience. Though I might be a skillful and wildly successful blood servant that’s made her a pretty fucking denza in the last decade, that doesn’t erase the fact that if she wanted me to take this contract, there’d be no question. The indebted have no choice.

I might not be treated like one, and as Regis said, I certainly damn well don’t act like one, but still, I wake every day with the knowledge that I could be called to her side and bound to her will with nothing more than an order. I glance down at my wrists, covered by my sleeves. Though invisible, the mark of the blood contract remains in my bones and blood and makes me feel as though I’m carrying around invisible shackles wherever I go.

This hit could be the thing that erases it. This job could set me free.

Her consideration and the illusion of choices she’s given me have kept me by Ophelia’s side. The very fact that I’m given the choice makes me want to take it. I doubt many other owners would have been so willing to offer me the chance at true freedom or to even keep my own earnings.

Another thought comes to mind, part of the earlier information she’d written. MGA. That acronym only stands for one thing. Mortal Gods Academy. “Wait—it’s at one of the Academies?” I look back to Regis.

He nods. On one hand, that knowledge narrows down the type of target I’ll be expected to kill—and it explains why I’m the only one who can take on the job. “Then it’s either a God or a Mortal God,” I say absently, considering.

“In all likeliness,” Regis agrees.

I suck in a breath. “I’m sure she’s already tried to get the information from the client, right?”

He nods. “She’s still trying, but they’re being obstinate. The extended contract means that you’ll have to set up a false identity, infiltrate the actual Academy grounds, and lie low for a while to get close to your target before you get the rest of the job information.”

Damn it. The fact that Ophelia had nothing else written means that regardless of her attempts, whoever it is, they still haven’t caved. I grit my teeth.

“You can take some time to think about it,” Regis offers, “but the client wants the job started by the harvest season.”

Of course, I think, because that’s when the Academy will be back in session. It’s the only time of year that they open their doors to invite new servants into its inner walls. It only makes sense—if I’m to infiltrate that damnable Mortal God haven then I’ll need to do so at the start of the next semester.

I don’t like it. Not at fucking all.

Yet, the thought of four fucking million denza can’t leave my mind. It’ll pay off my debt. All of it, and there will still be enough to live on. I wouldn’t have to take on another job for as long as I live. Shit, if I wanted, I’d be able to afford something small in one of the God Cities, not that I would—it’d be dangerous for me to settle down in an area teeming with Divine Beings—but the idea that I could remains an ever-present beacon of hope.

I drain the last of my mug and set down a few denza as payment, the coins clinking together as they land on the scarred table’s surface, before standing up. Despite Regis’ late arrival, I rode throughout the day to get here on time and my bones are weary from the travel. A good night's sleep might help me make my final decision.

“I’ll meet you in the morning,” I say, “and give my decision then.”

Regis stares back at me as I tug the top of my hood down further, covering my face as I make my way out of the corner. He doesn’t press and merely gives his consent with a nod.

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