Shaedes of Gray: A Shaede Assassin Novel (11 page)

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Authors: Amanda Bonilla

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BOOK: Shaedes of Gray: A Shaede Assassin Novel
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One corner of his lip twitched. A good sign.
“I’m Raif,” he said.
“Darian.” I used a tone to match his in its coolness. I decided he would respect aloofness more than he would a chummy greeting. I was right.
“So, you’re what all the fuss is about?” The question didn’t ring with Anya’s condescension. Rather, humor, or at the very least, amusement. I really wanted to know what he meant by his comment, but I wasn’t so stupid as to actually ask. “I’m told you are an assassin and your targets have only been humans. Is that right?”
Hmm. That got my attention. Apparently, my skills weren’t going to be used to take out Joe Schmoe down the street. A challenge. Exciting.
“That’s right,” I said, wanting to finish with
So what
? But since I wasn’t interested in tasting the sole of Raif’s boot, I swallowed those two tiny words.
The cold smile crept back onto his lips. “This’ll be fun.” His blue eyes glowed bright for a fleeting moment. “You’ve got a lot to learn. I hope you’re ready.”
And with a movement faster than any I’d ever seen, even from Xander, Raif drew his sword and struck.
I spent the better part of five minutes in retreat. Raif pressed forward, and I parried his blows without striking a single offensive maneuver. His relentless pursuit had my back bent more than once as I tried unsuccessfully to throw off the weight of his sword. I fought with two hands wrapped around the hilt of my saber, while Raif needed only one.
He twisted and turned, dissipating into a breath of dark air. “You are a poor excuse for a warrior!” he shouted. “You aren’t worthy of the name Shaede!” I ducked and jumped back as he swung his sword and followed with a fist. “You are slow, clumsy, and untrained! You are weak and pathetic; I wouldn’t honor you with a warrior’s death!”
I stumbled and rolled, coughed and labored, and never once had the presence of mind to make my body insubstantial. He had me against the ropes time and again. My mind raced to stay even a half pace ahead. In midswing, he paused, and lowered his sword.
“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want any chance of success in your mission,” he chided, taking an easy step back. His eyebrow quirked and he said, “I thought you were a fighter.”
“So?” I said, through gasps of air.
“So . . . fight.”
My temper surged and I rushed him. I pushed myself beyond my limits, thrusting the saber at his face and then swiping low at his knees. He deflected my attacks easily, but I wasn’t moving backward any longer. Confident and strong, my second wind came faster than I expected. I mimicked his movements, learning as we went. I shifted from shadow to my solid form with fluidity, seeming to travel through time itself, popping in and out of thin air. I met him blow for blow and once almost knocked him off his feet. Refusing to quit, I pushed myself until I thought I’d break under the pressure.
Only when Raif stopped and lowered his blade did I know we were done for the night. “Not bad,” he said with the barest touch of humor. “But not good either.” He sheathed his weapon and left me standing alone in the dark with orders to return in two nights’ time. There were no heartfelt words of congratulations, no offerings of a job well done. Not a whisper of who—or what—I was intended to kill.
I felt like I’d been run over by a bus, trampled by an elephant, and dragged behind a jet boat going Mach 10 over rocky river rapids. Until this point, I’d been self-trained in the art of assassination. I had no experience in combat. Common sense and my preternatural skills were what made me good at my job. Raif had thrown all of my arrogant misconceptions of myself on the floor and stomped them—hard. He’d worked me up one side and down the other.
Tyler showed up at my apartment just as I was dressing my wounds. I’d have to seriously reconsider my open-door policy with him. Since our impassioned kisses, he’d grown bolder, or at least more confident in his off-work-hours status with me. And Tyler was very stubborn.
I used my dining room table as a makeshift triage station. I’d already disposed of the torn spandex shirt I’d been wearing and tossed the pants as well. Perching on top of the table in a tank top and underwear was not a good way to get Ty to calm his libido.
His eyes looked like they were about to jump out of his head—like a cartoon character’s after he’s seen a pretty girl. But it only lasted a second once he noticed the bowl of bloody water and my sliced skin.
“Hell, Darian! What happened?”
Ass-tired and scored like a marinating steak, I wasn’t sure I wanted to exert the effort to recount the details of my Ultimate Fighter training session. “It’s no big deal. I’m fine; I’ll heal. Our boy from the other night has arranged for me to receive some job training à la a medieval warrior. I guess I’m not up to snuff.”
I grabbed the soaking rag and wrung the pink-tinged water from it. That’s as far as I got. Tyler didn’t waste a second to wrangle it from my grasp. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even look me in the eye. With gentle swipes, he tended each and every wound, rinsing the rag and starting all over. When he was done, he dried the excess moisture from my sliced skin and covered each cut with gauze, taping it in place. It took a half hour at least to dress the deeper cuts, and another fifteen minutes or so for him to check the various scratches that would be gone before I woke in the morning. I didn’t protest or argue; just simply let him do what he had in mind to do.
“Where did you get the gauze?” He laughed gently.
“Drugstore,” I murmured. “You should have seen the guy’s face when I walked up to the counter.”
As he worked, my eyes slipped shut. It had to have been somewhere around five in the morning, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so physically spent. My head dipped forward a couple of times, and I snapped to attention, determined not to fall asleep on top of my dining room table. When Tyler finished, I felt his cool arm wrap around my shoulders. With his free hand, he pushed gently above my sternum. I fell back against him like a feather landing on a puddle, and he scooped me up in his embrace and carried me to my bed.
“This doesn’t change anything, Ty,” I murmured as he set me down. “So don’t get any ideas.”
My eyes didn’t open again, but I felt a depression in the bed as Tyler lay down at my side. He wrapped his arm around my waist, careful not to touch the bandaged areas. For a moment I felt unsure, like I didn’t know Tyler at all. His breath tickled the skin near my ear, and I relaxed against him. Cool and fragrant, his presence lulled me with all the things I liked about him. Taking my hand in his, he caressed the silver ring he’d given me years ago. “Everything’s changed, Darian,” he whispered. “You just don’t realize it yet.”
 
The next day brought with it a debilitating stiffness. Thank God Raif had granted me two full days of rest. Muscles I didn’t even know I had ached. I could only hope he suffered a little in turn, but that was a pipe dream. I smiled indulgently as I imagined what it would be like to lay him flat out on his back and stomp my boot into his throat.
A seldom-heard buzz startled me. I realized it had come from my doorbell. I sighed, wondering why Tyler would think now, after everything he’d said and done, was the time to show respect for my privacy. I stomped to the intercom and pounded down on the button with a closed fist.
“Hit the bricks, Ty,” I said into the speaker. “I don’t have the patience to deal with the
us
issue right now.”
“Um,” said a tiny voice on the other end. “I have a delivery for Darian . . .” He paused, and I could hear the shuffling of papers. “Sorry, no last name. I have a delivery for someone named Darian.”
I sighed heavily and wondered what it sounded like on the other end. “Come on up,” I grumbled.
After a couple of minutes, the grinding gears of the elevator lifted the delivery boy to my apartment. He didn’t move to open the life gate, so I opened it for him. Taking two timid steps, he positioned himself at the edge of the entrance. The six-foot-by-four-inch case he carried was supported by both hands and held aloft, like he was holding out a steak for a cougar.
“A-are you Darian?” he said.
“That’s me. What have you got there?”
“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, like I’d accused him of something. “I didn’t look.”
I laughed, hoping the sound would put him at ease, but I noticed his shoulders slowly creeping toward his ears. “I’m sure you didn’t peek,” I said, wishing I knew some motherly phrases to calm the poor kid down. “I guess I’ll just go ahead and take it.”
I reached out, making sure to keep my movements as slow and human as possible. The exchange went smoothly. As I reached to shut the lift gate and send him on his way, he remembered I needed to sign for the package. I took the clipboard and scribbled my name. He was pushing buttons on the wall as I slid the clipboard through the wooden slats of the gate. Apparently, he couldn’t leave fast enough. I laughed as he sank below my floor and out of sight. My charms didn’t work on everyone.
I carried the long rectangular box to my table. Three silver latches and a handle adorned the shiny mahogany container. I stood in front of the case, realizing it had been more years than I could count since I’d received a mysterious package of any kind, be it present, payoff, or threat. Could’ve been a bomb, though I doubted anyone would use a box so big. It might’ve contained a dozen long-stemmed roses. It was definitely too big for a necklace or pair of earrings, and certainly not Tyler’s MO. An AK-47, maybe? Only one way to find out. I threw caution aside and flipped the latches in succession before lifting the lid.
Wow.
Resting inside the black-velvet-lined case was an ancient katana. The preferred weapon of the long-extinct samurai, as deadly a weapon as there ever was. It could slice a body in half with surgical precision. I estimated the blade at two and a half feet in length before the tang disappeared into a hilt wrapped in old, oiled wood and black fabric. It bore an impressive forging pattern, the darker gray rolling like the ocean’s waves along the brighter and much lighter steel below it. I traced my fingers along the symbols engraved in the metal, obviously the signature of its maker. A note, written in flourishing script, had been placed inside the case.
Edo 1681—made by Yasutsuna. It is called Bright Death.
 
This was no bouquet of flowers or twenty-dollar box of chocolates. From the look and condition of the blade, I estimated its worth somewhere in the range of tens of thousands of dollars. I took the sword from the case with reverence. A weapon worthy of its name, I was sure. Warriors of the ancient world often named their swords, a practice as out-of-date as sword use itself. I hadn’t even been a living human in the year 1681. My immortal existence began somewhere closer to 1910, but the ancient weapon connected me to all those who lived and fought before I had been made into what I am now.
My cell rang, interrupting the awe of the moment, and I dug it out of my pocket to read PRIVATE NUMBER on the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Did the box arrive?” Xander’s smooth, smug voice said on the other end.
“How did you get my number?”
“That saber of yours is an unfit weapon.” Then he asked, “Do you like the katana?”
Leave it to His High and Mightiness to totally ignore me. “Exactly what do you want in return for this . . . token?” I’m not stupid; nothing in this world comes without a price.
Xander’s answering laughter said,
Aren’t you quaint?
“I don’t want anything at all. If you’re going to work for me, you’d best have the right tool for the job. Enjoy.”
Before I could get a word in, he hung up. I stared at the sword, gleaming blue in the light of my kitchen. I wanted to keep it. It was the most magnificent sword I’d ever seen. I just hoped that by doing so, I wasn’t biting myself in the ass.
I don’t know why, but aside from feeling very manipulated, the katana made me feel very, very purchased.
Chapter 8
 
W
hen I showed up at the warehouse, Raif examined the katana with jealous eyes. I couldn’t help but show it off. I pulled it from the scabbard, savoring the ringing tone as the blade slid free. A wicked smile curved my lips as I pictured my teacher flat on his ass and me standing over him with the shining steel hovering over his heart.
“How did you come by that blade?” His almost accusatory tone belied his envy.
“Xander gave it to me,” I said, giving it a few practice swings.
Raif turned, and with a swing that took two hands to maneuver, struck my back with the flat of his own sword, knocking me face-first to the floor. I cried out—the blow stung like hell. I pushed my palms into the cold concrete and tried to propel myself upward, but my progress was stayed by the sole of Raif’s heavy boot.
“
Who
gave you the katana?” he asked in a tone colder than Death itself.
Several quips leapt to the tip of my tongue. But I thought better of putting my voice behind the words when I pondered the painful consequences. “The High King Alexander gifted me with the blade,” I said, glaring at the concrete inches below my eyes. I hated humbling myself to anyone. Raif demanded respect, and I had no choice but to oblige or else learn respect the hard way. Considering his not-so-gentle tactics thus far, I didn’t think I’d like the hard way.

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