A Sword of Shadow and Deceit

A Sword of Shadow and Deceit

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Kiera

It is a simple enough practice to distinguish a God from a human. Though they descended from the realm of the Divine to rule over the forsaken land of mortals, they’ve never lost their godly appearance. The Divine is a light that dwells within them, illuminating their features and making them appear somehow otherworldly. Beautiful. Dangerous.

It’s easy to disguise if they choose to—a bit of brimstone on their person will do the trick if they’re brave enough to keep something so dangerous to them so close, but otherwise, it’s like staring at an ever-so-slightly distorted reflection of a human. The mirrored mirage looks human and moves like a human, but in essence, it isn’t. There is always something foreign about the Gods’ appearance that warns the human psyche that they are not what we are. They are predators masquerading as their prey. It’s sickening. A predator should simply be a predator. I’d respect them more if they didn’t pretend to be compassionate or even … simply what they’re not. Mortal.

Despite their hopes and imitations, their Divinity still makes it all too easy to differentiate them from the humans that surround them.

The only times I’ve ever truly had an issue with differentiating a Divine Being from the non-Divine is when they’re a Mortal God.

Mortal Gods are not common in the countryside, though. If they choose to leave the God Cities at all then they have connections, but usually they only do so at the behest of their Masters. The precious dogs of the Divine Beings, happily ignoring the singular half of themselves that makes them not Gods at all, but Mortal Gods, if it means they live in the lap of luxury and freedom. I’ve thankfully only ever come across one in my life, and it’s an experience I am all too happy to avoid repeating.

My ability to differentiate the Divine from the ordinary is a silly little game I’ve played for years to hone my skills. Ophelia used it as a teaching method to instruct her apprentices how to pick out targets from a crowd and follow them. Now, however, I find myself playing it from the shadowed corner of the Black Hat Tavern as a method to keep myself from disintegrating out of sheer boredom into the uncomfortable wooden chair I’ve been stationed in for the last two hours.

Patience is a virtue I do not possess. Ironic, considering my profession.

The game does little for me now but pass the time. Out here in the countryside, there are few Gods to pick out in the crowd of people who have gathered to get out of the downpour or to drink and forget their woes. Most Divine Beings prefer their God Cities to the mortal villages outside of their gilded castles. A few, on occasion, make their way out here—probably out of boredom or curiosity. Most are Lower Gods, Gods of less powerful origins, but still Divine nonetheless.

I scan the room once more and find two in the vicinity. Like telling a donkey from a horse, Ophelia had once said. Though both may be farm animals, one is clearly superior to the other. Taller. Broader. More aesthetically pleasing to the eye. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Gods are the horses and humans are the donkeys in her analogy.

Uncanny, that’s what I think of the Divine Beings who disguise themselves. Disturbing. Though they come in all heights and sizes and colors—like humans—the primary difference that distinguishes them from their mortal counterparts is their beauty. The effect of their Divinity. They shine internally. Their skin never ages. Their eyes are never dulled by disease or flaw. Their hair never loses its luster. They are as they have always been since the dawn of time—perfection personified.

At least on the outside.

It’s wrong. Against nature.

I pinpoint the two Lower Gods in the room and, indeed, they’re attempting to hide their Divinity. Though they’ve managed to shield it from the commoners here, their unblemished skin and clear eyes are a dead giveaway for me. It’s no surprise to find that when entering these types of places—unless they’re preceded by a posse of their godly acquaintances—most Divine Beings choose invisibility over audaciousness. It’s easier for Gods to pass through these parts when they mask themselves, easier for everyone.

Still, I always spot them, and if they were my targets, they’d be dead in an instant for revealing themselves so recklessly. Lucky for them, I’ve got no current orders to attack and even if I detest their existence, I don’t plan to give myself more work than I have to.

Another pass through the room with my gaze finds no more Divine Beings and I settle back against the spine of my seat with crossed arms and an irritated hmph. An easy game that is quickly over is no fun at all. I don’t know why I even bothered.

From my darkened corner in the Black Hat Tavern, I watch the room beneath the hood of my cloak. Outside, rain pours down over the side of the awning and every once in a while, a new arrival will come in, stomping their muddied boots at the front as they shake off the thunderstorm from their heads.

My breathing stabilizes until I’m sure anyone passing by would merely assume I have fallen asleep here, resting between the table and wall. That is, if they can even see me. The long silvery strands of my hair have been carefully braided back and tucked beneath my hood. The cloak that covers the rest of me is large enough to envelop my slender frame, hiding the majority of my curves and stature. Thankfully, it must also hide my gender. Otherwise, I’d have already had to deal with a few of the drunken tavern customers by now.

I count the seconds until my mind begins to drift once more, and just when I’m about to give up for the night and go up to the rented room I’ve got waiting for me—and the bed calling my name—the chair across from mine skids across the floor as it’s pulled from beneath the table.

My eyes shoot up and I curse. “Fuck—I didn’t even hear you walk up,” I mutter. It’s irritating how he manages it every time, especially after all of my training.

Regis grins at my scowl, the corners of his mouth tipping up with amusement. His sand-colored hair is pulled back away from his face and tied off at the base of his skull with a thin leather band, but a few strands have snuck free and sway on the sides of his slightly squared face. Regis reaches up, tucking one of the straight locks behind his ear absently, only for it to slip free once more as he tilts his head at me. “I know,” he says with his usual smugness. “You should look into that—bad habit for one in your line of work.”

My scowl deepens as he plops down into his seat. “No one else can manage it but you and Ophelia,” I point out. “I don’t think that’s half bad for a decade of service.”

“She’d be the first to tell you to do better,” he replies, arching a brow at me. He’s right. Ophelia’s a firm taskmaster. Regis lifts a hand for one of the barmaids to stop by. It doesn’t take long—he’s a handsome man and he knows just how to use it to be noticed when he wants to be. Once he’s assured that a maid will be along, he drops his hand and turns to me. “Have I kept you waiting long?”

“I’m practically wasting away with age,” I deadpan, earning another grin from him. “Obviously this new job isn’t all that important if you weren’t in any rush to bring me the details of it.”

“On the contrary,” he replies coolly, “I think you’ll find this new job is everything you’ve been hoping for.”

I scowl. “Unless it pays my debt, then I doubt it.”

He scoffs. “You act like you hate the Guild.”

I pick at the edge of the table where splinters of wood have come off the grain. “Hard not to hate something you feel imprisoned by.” I say it without much heat. The fact is—the Underworld is both a haven and a noose around my neck. If love and hate are each a side of the same coin, the Guild and Ophelia are the coin itself.

Regis shakes his head. “Even if you have a blood contract brand, you’re the most well-treated servant I’ve ever met,” he says.

As if lured by his words, my hand immediately reaches back to the place on my neck that often burns when I use my Divinity. It’s smooth to the touch, save for the sliver of a scar where the brimstone remains that Ophelia embedded within me when she took me on as an apprentice and created the contract brand.

“You’re practically a Guild servant in name only,” Regis continues. “If anything, I think Ophelia is looking to you as a potential heir to the Guild.”

I snort at that. “The only reason I’m treated so well is because I’ve proved myself and I’m more valuable this way. Ophelia is an investor and I’m her product.” Just like him—except with far fewer options. “Besides, she has a son,” I remind him.

“Carcel?” Regis rolls his eyes. “He’s not nearly as good as you or I. He’s definitely not Guild Master material.”

A ruddy-faced barmaid approaches, interrupting any comment from me. “What can I get for you fine gentlemen?” she asks.

I move further back into my cloak, pulling it across my chest. When I was younger, I’d found it insulting to be mistaken for a man. Now, though, I recognize that it’s more helpful than anything else, and besides, I am dressed like one. Quirk of the job. It’s easier to go around killing people in trousers than dress skirts.

As if he can sense my thoughts, Regis shoots me a bemused glance before he turns his pearly whites on her and orders for us. He sticks up two fingers. “Two ales, if you please, my lady.”

The barmaid blushes a little at the appeasing lady comment. I don’t even bother to resist the eye roll that overtakes me. “Is that all you’d like?” she asks, reaching back and tucking a stray strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear. The innuendo is not lost on Regis.

“For now,” he hedges, his grin never ceasing.

She nods and scampers away, and once more, I’m alone with the womanizer. “Was that really necessary?” I ask.

He turns big, round eyes on me and blinks in pseudo-innocence. “Whatever could you mean, dear Kiera?”

I cough into my fist, adding a clear insult to the fake noise. “Lecher.”

Regis laughs and shakes his head. “Jealous?” he taunts. “Because I could satisfy her, but you … well, you’re not exactly equipped, good sir.”

With a bored look, I lift one hand out from my cloak and stick my middle finger straight to the sky, earning yet another laugh from him. “You can take your equipment and fuck right off, Regis,” I comment dryly.

“Oh, but if I do that, then how will you ever get any information on the next job Ophelia has lined up for you?” he replies. “I promise you, it pays handsomely.”

I arch a brow. “Ophelia knows good and well who’s the more professional of us. If I miss out on a job, she’ll know that it was never a result of my incompetence.”

He releases a mock gasp and leans back. “Are you insinuating that I am incompetent?” he asks.

I blink back at him. “If you think I’m insinuating versus saying it outright, then I suppose the description fits better than I anticipated.”

Regis shakes his head as the barmaid returns with two pints of ale. She slaps mine down haphazardly and the foam at the top spills over the rim, dripping down the semi-rusted metal exterior. Regis’ drink, however, is gently placed before him as she bends over in front of him. She sucks in a quick breath, drawing it in so sharply that her breasts push tight against the neckline of her already low-cut dress. “If there’s anything else I can get you, do let me know.” She puts emphasis on ‘anything.’

Regis smiles kindly. “Of course, darling,” he replies. “I’d never leave a lady such as yourself wondering. Perhaps if you’re not working later—” He doesn’t even need to finish.

“I get off around midnight,” she says quickly.

With a groan, I lift the mug of ale to my lips and drink. I gulp back mouthful after mouthful, half convinced that I’ll be done with it by the time the barmaid twitters away from my companion. Regis turns and watches her go—or rather, he watches her ass sway back and forth as she walks away.

Had I called him a lecher? I’d been wrong; he’s a downright pig. Unfortunately, though, he’s a pig with connections and a damn good throwing arm. That and the fact that he’s been the only other assassin even remotely close in age to me when we’d grown up together, is really the only reason I call him my friend.

“Disgusting,” I mutter, setting my ale back down.

Regis shrugs and turns back to his own mug. “You have to take your pleasures where you can get them in this life, Kiera,” he replies. “We could all die tomorrow.”

“My pleasures are found in work and making money,” I snap. “Now, stop messing around and give me the information I came here for.”

With a pathetic little huff, Regis sets his mug down and finally reaches into his worn leather satchel. He withdraws a small slip of yellowed paper barely the length of my longest finger and places it before me on the edge of the dirty table. Eyeing him with suspicion, I pick it up and unravel it to read the contents.

The paper is short and the lines even shorter to fit into the space. In Ophelia’s messy scrawl are the basics of my next job.

God City of Riviere. MGA. Extended contract. Target: Unknown.

The lack of a target name or identification should be an immediate warning, but just as I read it and scan below to check the compensation for the job, my mouth drops open. When I read the number written under the payment, my eyes bulge.

“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.

Four million denza. It’s a lot of fucking money. More than I’ve ever seen or heard of at once. The largest contract I’ve ever taken was a million. It’d been for ten targets. I can’t possibly think that the client wants me to kill an entire battalion. No, it must be a high-ranking individual. The risk is high but so is the reward.

My head spins with the possibilities as I make my way through the tavern to the staircase leading up to the inn. Under the creaking old wood of the steps, I let my mind wander to those possibilities.

Freedom has never been so close.

Will I regret it if I don’t say yes? Or will I be choosing my own death?

end of excerpt