Page 118 of Threaded

Darkness arched out through the cold air and wrapped itself around the assassin’s neck, grabbing him mid-jump and slamming him back with a violent yank. The assassin landed hard on the rooftop, his breath heaving in audible chokes and gasps of pain.

Mariah didn’t bother glancing at Andrian to offer him thanks. She only stalked forward, her eyes glued and narrowed on the writhing figure in front of her.

She knew Andrian didn’t expect any gratitude, and with what she was about to do, she would not give it to him.

The assassin, clothed in all black, still lay sprawled on the ground, desperately trying to catch the breath that was choked and slammed out of him. Mariah had suspected he was male, and as she approached, her suspicion was confirmed. He was tall and lean, his body obviously honed for stealth and shadows rather than hand to hand combat.

It was the body of acoward.

His gray eyes met Mariah’s and widened slightly as she neared, flipping himself onto his stomach in a flash of movement. He was about to push himself up and reach for his own blades, his gaze hardening as he watched Mariah’s approach.

There was a sudden glint of silver, a rustle in the air, and before the assassin could even touch the hilt of his own dagger, a dragon-winged blade was burrowed deep in his stomach, Mariah’s now-empty hand still outstretched.

The assassin went back down with a gurgle, the sound so much like the one Cedoric had made. He lay there, his lifeblood draining from the wound, his breath rattling in choking gasps.

Mariah kept walking until she stood beside his prone body, her eyes darting once to Drystan and Quentin in silent command before dropping into a crouch beside the dying man, dropping Drystan’s blade onto the rough rooftop with a clatter. Her Armature settled around her, Quentin’s blade touching the hollow of the man’s throat as Drystan made quick work of disarming him. Andrian lingered at Mariah’s back, watching with an abject curiosity that tickled her scalp.

She ignored him, focusing her attention on the assassin. When she spoke, her voice was a silent, deadly murmur laced with the raw power commanding her body and flowing through her veins, her fingernails sparking with silver and gold.

“Who sent you.”

Not a question.

A command from a queen.

The assassin coughed and gagged. “Your Grace … I’m sorry … It w-was … nothing personal,” he choked out, spitting up blood the color of garnets. “I didn’t realize you were my target … did not-not realize what you looked like. I was only given … your description.”

Mariah flashed out a hand to grab the hilt of her grandfather’s dagger, still buried in the man’s gut.

And she twisted.

The assassin’s scream of pain cut through the air, just as Ryenne’s had moments before as she’d held her dying Armature in her arms.

“Who sent you.”

The assassin’s gray eyes met Mariah’s with a look of pure, undiluted terror. Mariah saw and smelled the stain that crept across the front of his dark leathers. Whatever he saw staring back at him behind her forest green eyes had him soiling himself, and she couldn’t find it in herself to be bothered by it.

In fact, it made her almost gleeful.

His choking words started again.

“I … never knew. They were … a-always anonymous. P-paid in advance, used different messengers each time. I-I’m sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t know, didn’t know …” his voice trailed off as desperate, pained sobs wracked his body.

“Today, you killed a member of Queen Ryenne’s Armature and injured a member of mine. And that doesn’t include your admission that I, your queen apparent, was your true target. Those are crimes punishable by death.” She paused, and watched as terror continued to seep out of the assassin’s pores and into the air around her, the smell of his fear whispering to a deep, primal instinct buried deep in her bones.

It was an instinct that called to the darkness she’d let in. An instinct that craved—thirsted—for blood.

“I shall exact your punishment now. I would ask Qhohena to take mercy upon your soul, but you don’t deserve that peace. Instead, I call upon Zadione, the Mistress of Death, to carry you into the depths of Enfara for the rest of eternity.”

In one smooth movement, Mariah ripped the dragon-winged dagger from the assassin’s stomach and sliced it across his throat, his final cries and pleas dying on his tongue and fading into the crisp afternoon air.

And with that one, simple move, Mariah felt a piece of her soul stain a touch darker forever.

Without darkness, we can never experience the light …

CHAPTER51

Blood still clung to Mariah’s skin, the coppery taste taking up residence in her mouth, her nose, the very essence of her being.

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