Chapter One
It was the most important night of my life.
A month ago, I'd been hired for a job that would assure me of a place in Racul history. Granted, if everything went as planned, the kingdom's history books wouldn't record my name, not my real name. But in my line of work, an alias was necessary for survival and for keeping me out of a Talon jail cell. And with the notoriety I'd receive from this job, my alias would be whispered with respect and, even more importantly, I'd be propelled into the gold league. As in, I'd charge a lot of gold for what I did, and people would line up to give it to me.
Not that the money I made tonight was anything to turn your nose up at. Along with career-boosting potential, this job came with serious risks that required a large monetary incentive. And I had definitely been incentivized by the substantial advance I'd been given for all the groundwork I had to do. Most of which wasn't done on the ground.
For the weeks that followed my acceptance of that advance, I'd spent most of my time watching my target—learning his routine, his habits, and even what he ate for breakfast (let's just say he's a carnivore). And that wasn't all. In addition to him, I had to research all the people around him and learn their routines—where they would be and when. Especially his guards. This man had a lot of guards.
It sounds like a lot of tedious work, but I was used to it, albeit on a smaller scale. Half my life was spent watching other people live their lives, even when I wasn't on a job. Being an assassin doesn't make it easy to form lasting relationships.
That wasn't a complaint.
As dark as it sounds, I loved my work. I took pride in quick, clean kills that left the Talons, those illustrious officers of the law, scratching their heads and chasing their tails. And if I pulled this off, the entire Talon Force wouldn't merely be flummoxed, they'd be howling in fury—some of them literally. That is, if they were even allowed to investigate. My target had his own army and an elite team of knights formed entirely of Dragons. I couldn't imagine them inviting the Talons to take a look around the crime scene.
“Fuck the Dragons,” I whispered as I scaled the roof of what was technically a garden shed.
Since this shed held tools for the royal gardeners and stood at the far end of the King's private garden, it was nicer than my first home. It also happened to be directly in line with the balcony outside the royal bedchambers.
Now, when I say that the building whose roof I was perched upon was in line with that prestigious stone viewing platform, I don't mean that it was close. Nothing was close to the royal chambers. That would have been a huge fuck up by His Majesty's Guard. And since the King's Guard was made up exclusively of Dragons, that sort of fuck up did not happen. On second thought, an assassin was currently within viewing distance of the King's bedroom, and that should never happen. So, I guess they did fuck up.
Or I was just that good.
I took my binoculars out of one of my many pockets in my assassin's vest and focused them on the windows to either side of the balcony. Unlike other balconies gracing homes in the crown city of Mhavenna, the King's didn't have glass doors leading to them or even a window that looked directly upon the outdoor space. What was likely a security precaution was actually a fault that I'd use to my benefit. Sure, no one could see in, but no one could see out either. The windows were dark; the King was asleep.
I tucked my binoculars away and removed my launcher. After sliding the steel shaft into the barrel, I aimed at a spot between the posts of the balustrade and fired. The rod went flying, trailing a black cord behind it, the whir of its passage barely audible. My aim, as always, was perfect, and it sailed right between the stone posts. As soon as it hit the wall, the prongs deployed so that when I pulled the rod back to me, they hooked over the posts. I gave an experimental tug, then secured the line to the U ring I'd installed in the shed roof the night before. With sure movements ingrained in my muscles, I hooked the sliders to the cord, fastened the cuffs around my wrists, and silently crawled off the edge of the roof.
Using their forward-only function, I moved the sliders along the cord, each shove taking me a little further along the line before locking into place. For the untrained, it would have taken over an hour to cross those forty feet, but I made it in less than three minutes. Even if there had been a patrol that came through the King's garden, and even if that patrol had looked up—two things the royal knights never did (damn sloppy)—I would have crossed the distance before they spotted me.
Once I reached the terrace, I freed my wrists and crawled over the railing to land on the soles of my soft leather boots, quiet as a cat. Despite the windows to either side of the balcony remaining dark, I dropped to my belly and slithered to the solid doors. Pressing my ear to the crack between the double doors, I heard the soft sounds of even breathing and smiled. I carefully rose into a crouch and pulled the lock-picking tools out of my vest.
A few seconds later, I was opening one of the balcony doors and slipping around it. I shut it just as quickly and quietly, blocking out the moonlight to give me more shadows to hide in, then stood pressed against the wall while my eyes adjusted. I was only a human, after all. I didn't have the night vision of the other races of Racul.
When the bed came into focus, the dark mound of the sleeping king atop it, I removed my weapon. As it was with all my tools, the metal of the slim tube was blackened without gloss. It was a simple device, one that many assassins preferred for its precision, speed, and silent execution. Execution being the keyword. The problem was, it was a weapon that required proximity to your target. The barrel had to be pressed against the victim's head—anywhere on the head, but I tried to go for the base, somewhere under the chin or at the top of the spine in back—and then the pointed rod within the tube could be released. Death was instantaneous, even for an immortal Dragon. Immortal, they may be, but not invulnerable.
Did I care that killing King Tarocvar Verres would throw the entire Kingdom of Racul into chaos? That although there was some satisfaction in taking the life of one of those elitist assholes—the head elitist asshole—another Dragon would inevitably take his place. Did it bother me that this man had done some good for the kingdom and his replacement might fuck things up?
Nah. I'm an asshole too.
I crept up to the enormous bed, heading for the side he was closest to—the left. My left. The King slept on his side, curled up like a baby. Not that his position made him any less intimidating. Even asleep, the Dragon King exuded power that sent shivers down my spine. I'd studied him long enough to know his body nearly as intimately as a lover, had spent many nights watching him bathe, dress, and fuck.
I could bring an image of the King's body to mind in a second—a very detailed image of bulging muscles and golden-brown skin. Of long hair as black as midnight that gleamed crimson in the light, glittering teal eyes so bright that they seemed to glow, and a jaw that could crush rocks. But I'd never been this close to him. So close that I could smell the spice of his skin and see the cleft in his chin—a little dent, as if he had indeed tried to crush rocks with it. Damn, he was handsome. Fucking breathtaking. What a shame.
Just as I leaned forward to set the weapon beneath the royal cleft chin, those stunning eyes shot open and focused on me. The King knocked away my weapon before locking his strong hand around my throat.
A deep rumble vibrated through the air between us. “Hello, little mouse. Have you come to play?”