Chapter 18

The Desolate, Oldtown

The assassin, known as Wraith, sat on a makeshift cot in one of the many apartments she had scattered around Oldtown. This one was buried deep in the catacombs. It was a miserable place, more cave than room. It was safer than most. She had set up many bolt holes just like this one over the years.

She figured she had a day, maybe two, before she’d have to move on.

Now that she was alone, she allowed her mask to slip, revealing strikingly exotic features. Deep lavender eyes, Silver-white skin, her was hair a deep shade of ebony so dark it appeared to absorb light. She appeared to be a teen in certain lights, mid-twenties in others. In reality, she was an asrai-halfling with the talent to make herself any appear any age and any species. Unlike others of her species, she had no vanity. The uncommon beauty of her eldritch features was one more weapon to use, along with the other tools of her trade. She’d had so many names she’d lost the memory of her real one. She cared little what others called her. As far as she was concerned, naming a being was an attempt to own them. And over the years, many had been desperate to own her, from her very first caretaker, who had stolen her and her sister from a long-forgotten home to a host of others. Master had seen her potential and took her off the streets when she was twelve years old. Master had refined her into a killer without peer. Her skills were his legacy, with one exception, they were the only thing that mattered to her.

After hundreds of successful contracts, she had many enemies. Enemies that would pay good coin to see her lifeless body thrown into a renderer’s vat down in the shambles. It was dangerous beyond belief to shelter at any place for long. Assassins did not retire in her world. They ran until they made a mistake, then they died.

She’d gotten herself into a mess. The stupid bitch got in the way of the star that was meant as a miss, a botched assassination. No was supposed to be harmed. The job was to sow mistrust, not death. Now that mistake was going to draw Lachlan Quinn to Oldtown. He was sure to come after a call from his precious Amazons.

Over the years, the assassin had spent a good deal of time brooding about Lachlan Quinn. She’d fought him three times; had beaten him twice and lost once. That one loss was enough for a lifetime of regrets.

“Mother Goddess, please damn the stupid bitch. I hope she suffers,” she snarled in the darkness.

A thought stuck. Master had always counseled her look at both sides when faced with a dilemma. Could this be a bit of serendipity? Why not? He was just a human, no matter how much the troll women trained him. She had beaten him twice before. Why not end him? If she were successful, The Dökkálfar Sidhe would reward her every whim. They would force the Brotherhood to return her son.

The door to her room burst open under the assault of two massive trolls.

“Our Master would like a word, assassin.”

Even then, she could have escaped. Mere brawn was no challenge to someone of her skills. But she had a new purpose. She nodded agreeably, grabbed her pack and followed the two huge beings out the door and into the rat warren of tunnels that led out of the Desolate.

Too late. She felt the slave torc snap around her neck.