Page 2 of This Monster of Mine

We. Of course, it was suddenly his duty to remedy everything. “That’s whyyoushouldn’t have touched her, you useless fuck!”

Hands fisted, he glowered down at the girl. Her eyes fluttered, consciousness coming in bursts. She had to vanish. She knew too much. But what of his lovely aide? Once the body was found, she would suspect the fool. An unwanted distraction when he had such plans for their future. Throwing her off their trail would—his head snapped up, heartbeat settling back into a placid rhythm.

He smiled. “Drop your shield.”

The other man had the gall to eye him warily before complying. The lightning dissipated with a crack, smoke lingering in the aftermath.

He gathered up the tablecloth. At least they’d spare the silk. “Throw her off the balcony.”

The fool’s jaw dropped. “But that’ll draw even more attention.”

“Precisely. Is it a murder? Suicide? A lovers’ spat gone wrong? Everyone will have a theory. They’ll write us a story.”

“That girl of yours might not buy it.” The man scratched a grizzled cheek. “Is she really that special? She’s pretty if you go for the frail type, but—”

“She’ll buy it,” he said curtly. She always did. Spotting the relief dawning on the man’s face, he snaked out a hand and gripped the now-bruisedflesh of his neck again. “But pull a stunt like this again, and it’ll be you I’m flinging off.”

The fool nodded, eyes watering at the grip. Releasing his throat, he ignored the brief flash of anger across the man’s face. Resentment was the defining characteristic of their alliance. A master and his brainless but powerful dog. They needed each other and resented that knowledge.

The girl twitched as the fool stalked to her. Gripping what was left of her hair, he pulled her toward the balcony, shaking her by the scalp when she struggled. Ceramic slivers clinked as her body carved a path through the broken vase. He watched the man hesitate and sighed.

“There’ll be plenty like her once things get underway, so just throw her off—”

“You’re disgusting.”

He paused at the rasp of sound. Propped against the balcony’s railing, the girl’s eyes defiantly bore into his. He saw in them the knowledge that she was going to die, hatred of him and the fool—all predictable—but the sentiment curving her lips gave him pause. Derision.

“You think you’re clever,” she croaked. “But someone will notice. They’ll wonder why I died.”

He crouched as close to her as he could stomach. Truly, the smell coming off her was horrendous—burnt flesh, sweat, and the copper tang of blood that always soured his stomach.

“People may wonder,” he conceded, inhaling shallowly. “A few might even put it together. But there’s still nothing they can do.”

“The Elsar will damn you for this.” Her voice held pure loathing.

He straightened. “We pray to the same gods, my dear. And given your condition, I’d say they find me more to their liking. But”—he paused consideringly—“we can make certain of that.”

The fool perked up. “You mean—”

A pity. He’d actually tried to spare her this. “We’ve enough time for a little fun. Let’s see if the Elsar make an appearance.”

The other man’s eyes gleamed, one hand already on the hilt of his dagger.

He tilted his head to the girl in farewell as the fool began. Moonlight struck metal. Blood arced over the balcony’s stone tiles—he’d have to have them scoured. Her eyes never left his, terror and rage blotting out all light as she pleaded with the gods and the Saints for salvation. Screaming in desperation, then agony.

He shook his head. Really, she should thank him. By next morning, an unremarkable northern girl would be the talk of Edessa. He was giving her a death so spectacular it would live on in legend.

“The Sidran Tower Girl,” he mused, and smiled as she fell into the shattered moonlight. “Oh yes. That’ll stick.”

CHAPTER ONE

Most days, all Sarai saw was blood.

She found it in the crimson wine being tipped into Chieftain Marus’s cup, in the setting sun painting Arsamea’s snowdrifts scarlet. It lurked in the mahogany countertop where a dozen cups perched for her to polish. And tonight, she wasn’t the only one seeing it.

The red-eyed specter of Lord Death seemed to hover in Arsamea’s only tavern, turning the villagers’ smiles a little too wide and their laughs too forced. Everyone except Chieftain Marus, of course. At the head of the table, he slapped his pelt-covered thighs, guffawing uproariously. She stepped out of his line of sight. The more he drank, the harder he hit.

“Last toast of the night!” He thrust his goblet high, spilling half its contents.

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