This woman reminded her not of Kell, or even of Holland, but of the stolen black stone from months ago. That strange pull, a heavy beat.
With a flick of the wrist, a second knife appeared in the stranger’s left hand, hilt tethered to the cord’s other end. A swift tug, and the first knife freed itself from the wood and went flying back into the fingers of her right. Graceful as a bird gliding into formation.
Lila was almost impressed. “Who are you supposed to be?” she asked.
“I am the messenger,” said the woman, even though Lila knew a trained killer when she saw one. “And you?”
Lila drew two of her own knives. “I am the thief.”
“You cannot go in.”
Lila put her back to the door, Kell’s power like a dying pulse against her spine. Hold on, she thought desperately and then aloud, “Try and stop me.”
“What is your name?” asked the woman.
“What’s it to you?”
She smiled, then, a murderous grin. “My king will want to know who I’ve—”
But Lila didn’t wait for her to finish.
Her first knife flew through the air, and as the woman’s hand moved to deflect it, Lila struck with the second. She was halfway to meeting flesh when the corded blade came at her and she had to dodge, diving out of the way. She spun, ready to slash again, only to find herself parrying another scorpion strike. The cord between the knives was elastic, and the woman wielded the blades the way Jinnar did wind, Alucard water, or Kisimyr earth, the weapons wrapped in will so that when they flew, they had both the force of momentum and the elegance of magic.
And on top of it all, the woman moved with a disturbing grace, the fluid gestures of a dancer.
A dancer with two very sharp blades.
Lila ducked, the first blade biting through the air beside her face. Several strands of dark hair floated to the floor. The weapons blurred with speed, drawing her attention in different directions. It was all Lila could do to dodge the glinting bits of silver.
She’d been in her fair share of knife fights. Had started most of them herself. She knew the trick was to find the guard and get behind it, to force a moment of defense, an opening for attack, but this wasn’t hand-to-hand combat.
How was she supposed to fight a woman whose knives didn’t even stay in her hands?
The answer, of course, was simple: the same way she fought anyone else.
Quick and dirty.
After all, the point wasn’t to look good. It was to stay alive.
The woman’s blades lashed out like vipers, striking forward with sudden, terrifying speed. But there was a weakness: they couldn’t change course. Once a blade flew, it flew straight. And that was why a knife in the hand was better than one thrown.
Lila feinted right, and when the first blade came, she darted the other way. The second followed, charting another path, and Lila dodged again, carving a third line while the blades were both trapped in their routes.
“Got you,” she snarled, lunging for the woman.
And then, to her horror, the blades changed course. They veered midair, and plunged, Lila taking frantic flight as both weapons buried themselves in the floor where she’d been crouched a second earlier.
Of course. A metal worker.
Blood ran down Lila’s arm and dripped from her fingers. She’d been fast, but not quite fast enough.
Another flick of a wrist, and the knives flew back into the other woman’s hands. “Names are important,” she said, twirling the cord. “Mine is Ojka, and I have orders to keep you out.”
Beyond the doors, Kell let out a scream of frustration, a sob of pain.
“My name is Lila Bard,” she answered, drawing her favorite knife, “and I don’t give a damn.”
Ojka smiled, and attacked.
When the next strike came, Lila aimed not at flesh, or blade, but the cord between. Her knife’s edge came down on the stretched fabric and bit in—
But Ojka was too fast. The metal barely grazed the cord before it snapped back toward the fighter’s fingers.
“No,” growled Lila, catching the material with her bare hand. Surprise flashed across Ojka’s face, and Lila let out a small, triumphant sound, right before pain lanced up her leg as a third blade—short and viciously sharp—buried itself in her calf.
Lila gasped, staggered.
Blood speckled the pale floor as Lila pulled the knife free and straightened.
Beyond that door, Kell screamed.
Beyond this world, Rhy died.
Lila didn’t have time for this.
She dragged her knives together and they sparked, caught fire. The air seared around her, and this time when Ojka threw her blade, the burning edges of Lila’s own met the length of cord, and the fire caught. It wicked along the tether, and Ojka hissed as she pulled herself back. Halfway to her hand, the cord snapped, and the knife faltered, missing its return to her fingers. A dancer, off cue. The assassin’s face burned with anger as she closed the distance to her opponent, now armed with only a single blade.
Despite that, Ojka still moved with the terrifying grace of a predator, and Lila was so focused on the knife in the woman’s hand that she forgot the room was filled with other weapons for a magician to use.
Lila dodged a flash of metal and tried to leap back, but a low stool caught her behind the knees and she stumbled, balance lost. The fire in her hands went out, and the red-haired woman was on her before she hit the floor, blade already arcing down toward her chest.
Lila’s arms came up to block the knife as it slashed down, their hilts crashing together in the air above her face. A wicked smile flashed across Ojka’s lips as the weapon in her hand suddenly extended, metal thinning into a spike of steel that drove toward Lila’s eyes—
Her head snapped sideways as metal struck glass and the sound of a sharp crack reverberated through her skull. The knife, having skidded off her false eye, made a deep scratch across the marble floor. A droplet of blood ran down her cheek where the blade had sliced skin, a single crimson tear.
Lila blinked, dismayed.
The bitch had tried to drive a knife through her eye.
Fortunately, she’d picked the wrong one.
Ojka stared down, caught in an instant of confusion.
And an instant was all Lila needed.
Her own knife, still raised, now slashed sideways, drawing a crimson smile across the woman’s throat.
Ojka’s mouth opened and closed in a mimicry of the parted skin at her neck as blood spilled down her front. She fell to the floor beside Lila, fingers wrapped around the wound, but it was wide and deep—a killing blow.
The woman twitched and stilled, and Lila shuffled backward out of the spreading pool of blood, pain still singing through her wounded calf, her ringing head.
She got to her feet, cupping one hand against her shattered eye.
Her lost second blade jutted from a sconce, and she pried it free, trailing a line of blood in her wake as she stumbled over to the door. It had gone quiet beyond. She tried the handle, but found it locked.
There was probably a spell, but Lila didn’t know it, and she was too tired to summon air or wood or anything else, so instead she simply summoned the last of her strength and kicked the door in.
VII
Kell stared up at the ceiling, the world so far above, and getting farther with every breath.
And then he heard a voice—Lila’s voice—and it was like a hook, wrenching him back to the surface.
He gasped and tried to sit up. Failed. Tried again. Pain shuddered through him as he got to one knee. Somewhere far away, he heard the crack of a boot on wood. A lock breaking. He made it to his feet as the door swung open, and there she was, a shadow traced in light, and then his vision slid away and she became a blur, rushing toward him.