Déjà Vu & Gin Page 13

  “Where’d you go this morning?” I break the silence, sheathing my own sword. It slides home with a hiss, smoking slightly.

  “I needed a walk,” she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “How long were you watching?”

  “Not long.” She swallows. “It was actually kind of . . .” She waves a hand, her voice going soft and husky. “I’ve never seen you fight before.”

  I grin. “And I’ve never seen you in a dress like that before. Do you fancy it?”

  She blinks. “Why?”

  I step closer, lowering my voice. “Because it’s in imminent danger of being ripped from your body.”

  She smiles but it’s a wobbly one. My own smile falters. Oh love, not now. Not yet. “Maybe later. I need to talk to you. Upstairs. Please.”

  She holds out her hand and I take it reluctantly, because I already know what’s coming…

  And what I have to do.

  “Do you believe in fate?” she says, as soon as the door shuts behind us.

  I stare at her. “Fate?”

  “Yes.” The desperate, hopeful way she looks at me twists my heart. My ice queen, so determined to take a chance.

  “I think some things can’t be changed,” I say slowly. “No matter how much we wish otherwise.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t accept that. I’m tired of pretending, Tyr. I want y—” She throws out an arm and something falls from her hand. A cascade of stones spill over the hardwood floor, cutting off whatever she was going to say next.

  I raise my eyebrows, even though my insides are shaking, thankful for the reprieve. “I see you found your refund.”

  She blushes, going to her knees to sweep the stones back into the pouch, before handing them back to me. “I’ve been carrying them around since you returned them. Why did you pick these anyway? You must know you couldn’t sell them for much.”

  She’s babbling, like she always does when she’s nervous and pretending not to be. Fighting a smile, I reach out a hand to help her back to her feet. “I didn’t want them to sell, Anastasia. My mother loved these things.”

  She looks up, startled, her fingers tightening on mine. I’ve never mentioned my mother to her. I guess maybe it’s time. For a lot of things.

  “My mother died when I was very young.” I take a deep breath. “She was hanged. I was there when it happened.”

  Her eyes go wide and instantly fill with tears, the sight of them hammering at my resolve. Anastasia isn’t the crying type. She looks delicate and fragile, but she’s nothing of the sort. I’ve seen her break down exactly once, right after she found out Persephone was dead.

  “Don’t.” My voice breaks and I clear my throat. “Not for me.”

  “That’s why you accepted Freya’s offer,” she whispers.

  “Yes.”

  “Did it help?” she wonders aloud, sinking onto the bed.

  I shrug. “I became who I wanted to be. Strong. Fast. Deadly. Removed from my own past. Distanced.”

  “You and my sister are very much alike,” she muses, watching me pace with narrowed eyes.

  “I suppose we are.”

  “You like her.”

  I glance over, startled. “I guess I do. Now. Not so much back then.” I laugh. “We were pitted against each other so much neither of us could stand to look at the other when the day was done. I’m pretty sure she loathed me, and as for me . . .”

  “What?”

  “I thought she had it too easy. Magic. I savored every time I beat her, and I beat her often. Less often toward the end.”

  Her eyes narrow despite my voice being as casual as I can make it. Clever witch. She pounces immediately. “You know why Jett left, don’t you?”

  I sit on the unmade bed next to her, reaching for her hand and turning it over to trace the fine lines on her palm. For the thousandth time, I wish I had magic of my own. Only this time I want it to see what the future holds for her. “You don’t want to hear this story, love. You think you understand what I do, what I have done, but you have no clue.” I raise my gaze to hers. “Assassins of the realm must be prepared to take any job. Any, no matter how distasteful. You don’t get to have morals and be one of us. It’s not allowed.”

  Anastasia swallows but lifts her chin. “I know that. I’m a witch, not some fainting flower. And since when do you care what I think of you?”

  She’s so good at those sneaky little thrusts.

  “Indeed.” I pause a second, unconsciously tightening my grip until she gasps. I rub the sting away as best I can before dropping her hand to look out the window, considering my next words with care. “Well, don’t blame me if you can’t sleep tonight.

  “Freya’s tests were always clever, but this one was diabolically vague. She liked to test our mettle in every way possible.” I give her a sidelong look. “Moral fiber of any sort was considered a disadvantage. What Freya wanted was cold, calculating skill. The dispassion required to do whatever is commanded. That day, we knew we were looking for a prize, but we were not told what, where or when. Just that the prize was in the village and we would know it when we saw it.”

  I hadn’t, though. Not at first glance.

  Nothing of interest in the crooked alleyway. Just a beggar child in rags, squatting motionless in front of a door, her dark eyes meeting mine before skittering away. Dirty hands that haven’t quite lost their baby plumpness are clutching a bit of cloth that might be a doll. The air tastes of dust and soot and aging refuse. The village at the foot of Sessrúmnir’s mountain is often used for our lessons. A pretty little place in most ways, but even the most picturesque villages hide nasty underbellies. I start to turn away. Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement at the other end of the alley. It’s the witch.

  “Jett and I were the first ones to reach the goal.” But neither of us had known the nature of the test until Freya’s bodiless voice echoed down the twisting walls above us.

  Kill the child.

  Anastasia is staring at me, her eyes wide, the mussed sheet gathered into her nervously twisting hands as I explain what the goddess wanted.

  “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t hesitate.” She flinches, but I continue ruthlessly. “Only your sister got there first.”

  Jett standing in front of the girl, her battered, school-issued sword at guard.

  “What happened?” Anastasia is barely breathing, her lips pale.

  “We fought. She beat me.” Which is true enough, though it wasn’t quite that simple. Jett and I had sparred dozens of times by that point, maybe hundreds. And like I told Anastasia, usually I ended up the victor.

  Not that day.

  My sword flies from my numbed fingers, lost somewhere amid the soiled piles around us. I crouch, instantly shifting to a stance more appropriate for hand to hand, but it does no good. Her magic leaps for my throat, taking my air, even as Jett slams me bodily into the cold, slimy wall.

  “If you don’t finish her, the next in line will,” I manage to grind out before she lets me go with a curse. I spit out blood, rubbing the back of my hand over split and stinging lips. “You can’t fight them all, you little idiot. If the goddess means her to die, she dies.”

  The witch’s magic forces me to my knees. Jett’s blade finds my throat even as her eyes stay locked on the child huddling on the stoop, apparently too terrified even to run. She reaches out a hand, but the girl won’t take it.

  “I’ll make her come,” she whispers. “I’ll get her away from here.”

  “Try it,” I suggest. When the witch tries to grab a handful of what passes for the child’s clothes, Jett gasps, almost dropping her sword. I tense, but she recovers too quickly, the blade firmly in hand as she gives me a panicked look.

  “Why?”

  “I told you. Freya said to kill her. That’s the job. Not to rescue her, not to save her. Kill her.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You don’t belong here,” I mutter. “You never have. Run, w
itch. While you still can.”

  Jett’s eyes flick from me to the child and back again. For a moment, I wonder if she’s going to kill me. My hands tense against the cobblestones, preparing to leap. Metal bites into my skin, seeking blood, but before I can react further, it vanishes.

  I get to my feet with an oath, searching among the refuse for my sword. When I find it, I glance back down the alley, but there is no sign of Jett. She probably won’t get far. Freya doesn’t strike me as the forgiving sort.

  “So that’s what made her leave.” Anastasia’s voice is hollow.

  “Yes.” I get up from the bed. “Jett left that day and never came back. Freya went after her, but for some reason”—one I have never understood—“she didn’t kill your sister.”

  “And what . . .” She licks her lips and I wonder if she’s going to be able to get out the words. I should know better; my ice queen is no coward. “What did you do, Tyr?”

  I turn to face the child kneeling in the dirt behind me. She lifts her head as I approach, tangled dark hair covered in dust, pink cheeks streaked with dust and tears.

  “Vinsamlegast herra. Vinsamlegast!”

  I raise my blade.

  “I did what I had to do to win.” My tone is gentle, but Anastasia recoils, just like I knew she would. Blue eyes dilate in shock and horror. “I told you before, I’m an assassin of the realm. I’m not the good guy, or the hero . . . or the prince.” My lips twist as I look down at her. “I’m nobody’s fucking fairy tale.”

  “I wasn’t looking for a fairy tale,” she whispers.

  “Oh yes, you were. And that’s not me, Anastasia. It never will be. I think you need to ask yourself what you can live with before you start talking about fate.” I reach out and run a fingertip over one of those silky platinum curls.

  She swallows. Opens her mouth. Shuts it again. I reach over and let the moonstones fall from the pouch onto her pillow. “You hold onto these while you’re thinking it over.”

  I step back slowly, her gaze like a weight on my soul. As I reach for the sliding glass door, I look over my shoulder, forcing a smile. “Do let me know if you require my services again.”

  Her lips twitch, but she looks like she’s going to cry.

  Nothing I can do about that. I did warn her.

  24

  He’s right. I don’t sleep. All night. In the morning, I feel the need for my ‘armor’ for the first time in ages. I dress in my watered blue silk. It’s the dress I was wearing the first day Tyr showed up at my door. It feels heavy and uncomfortable, but I’m not taking it off. I need the weight today. I need to remind myself of what happens when I take risks. The ring on my finger burns more than ever, mocking me.

  How could he? The refrain keeps playing over and over in my head. I know Tyr has blood on his hands. I know what he is. Or maybe, like he said, I only thought I did.

  I go through the motions, putting on coffee instead of tea for the first time in ages. After two nights with no rest, I tell myself I need the extra caffeine. Not that the smell of tea would reduce me to tears.

  I should cook, but I’m not hungry. My iPod sits in front of me, but there isn’t a song on the cursed thing that will numb this pain, so I sit at the table and stare into nothing.

  Jett stomps down the stairs a while later, popping her head into the kitchen to tell me she’s going over to check on the little witch she rescued. I nod absently and she ducks out.

  Seconds later, she’s back again, yanking out the chair opposite me with a screech that makes me jump. She plops down into it, folding her ink-covered arms across her black Bad Reputation shirt, looking irritated.

  “What’d the fucker do? Spit it out.”

  Dully, I repeat the story Tyr told me the night before. She is quiet throughout, her eyes searching my face, narrowing when I come to the end.

  “That’s it?”

  “I quite think it’s enough, don’t you?”

  “Hmm,” she says, her tone considering, “enough to serve a purpose, I suppose.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She purses her lips, looking away for the first time. After a moment, she seems to come to a decision. “Because Tyr didn’t tell you everything.”

  I straighten, my skirts tangling against the chair legs, making me yank at them impatiently. “What do you mean?”

  “The people in that town were already dead, Ana. All of them.”

  I gape at her. “What do you mean ‘dead’? Like that zombie show Seph watches?”

  She gives a low laugh. “Not exactly The Walking Dead territory, but close enough. Everyone in that village was someone who’d pledged themselves to Freya in life. When they died and went to Valhalla, she asked some of them to serve her again, in the afterlife.”

  I frown, working this out. “So, what was the point if everyone knew they were killing people that weren’t truly alive?”

  Jett shakes her head. “No one knew, Ana. I didn’t figure it out until long after I’d left. I ran into another assassin at a pub in London. We got to comparing notes about school days, like you do, and realized we’d both killed the same crazy shopkeeper. I actually confirmed it with Jack a while back.”

  I blink at this. Jack and Jett still have an uneasy relationship at best.

  She sighs, as if reading my mind. “He wasn’t going to admit anything, but Seph got on him and he finally told me the truth. I should have figured it out myself. I mean, Freya’s got a reputation as a heartless bitch, and it’s not undeserved, but she loves her people. I should’ve known she’d never let her students use them for target practice. But Tyr . . . I’m sure he knew.”

  “Why?”

  She shakes her head, a faint smile on her lips. “He may be an asshole, but he’s damn quick, your assassin. Even without magic, he’s better at reading people than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “Yes, he is. So he knew the whole setup was a farce.”

  Jett nods, tugging at a tuft of spiky, dark hair. “I’m sure of it. Back then, we all thought he was just a ruthless fuck, but once Jack told me . . . I knew. That was his secret to being the best.”

  “Why do you think he would keep that part of the story from me?”

  “You tell me.” She raises an eyebrow, but of course it’s obvious to both of us.

  The son of a bitch knew that story would be a fine way to drive a wedge between us. To bring back the distance I was trying so desperately to close. My heart sinks. “He’s not mine, Jett.”

  “Is that so? Seems I’ve been seeing him around here a lot.”

  “He’s working something that’s keeping him in Duluth.”

  “Really? Who for? Cerunnos is dead. You no longer want to kill Jack Frost.” She snorts. “And gods know no one needs to protect Seph anymore. What exactly is the assassin got holding him here?”

  I shake my head, but Jett smiles tightly. “I’ll let you in on another secret, big sister. I don’t think he wanted to win in the alley that day. He still had the edge back then. He should have beat me.”

  I give her a startled look. “You think he threw the fight?”

  “Not intentionally, no,” she says slowly. “I doubt Tyr even realizes it himself. But I think that even though he knew it was all fake, even though he knew it was a setup, I think he was having a damn hard time working up to it.”

  I frown, opening my mouth, but she’s not done.

  “Freya is a fan of symbols. For a long time I thought that little girl represented you, Carly and Seph—my sisters, our lost childhood together. That it was her way of trying to make me sever my past. But later, I changed my mind. I think the test was aimed more at Tyr than me.”

  “Why? You said yourself, the child was female. It seems clear—”

  “Yes,” she interrupts. “It was a girl. But she was also obviously a gypsy. And the doll she held was a horse. A pony.” She shakes her head, looking puzzled. “None of us were ever into horses.”

  When Jett leaves, I sit t
here for a long time, trying to work everything out in my head. Now that I know the whole truth, I feel like Tyr was maybe trying to tell me something, but I can’t figure out what. A knock at the door finally rouses me from my brooding.

  It’s Stephen. The king has a sheepish smile on his face as he tells me he wants me to let him into Jett’s room.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I have a surprise for her.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I bet he does. “All right, but if you piss her off, it’s your funeral.”

  He smiles and jogs up the stairs. I shake my head but decide to leave Stephen to it while I clean up the kitchen, my mind wandering to Jett’s take on Tyr’s continued presence in Duluth. If he’s really staying here just for me, why would he tell me a story to push me away?

  And men say women are complicated.

  Minutes later, Stephen walks by the kitchen carrying Jett’s fur rug and a fierce expression. I raise my eyebrows and keep cleaning, determined to ignore whatever the hell the bruin is doing upstairs. At some point Jett gets home. She gives me a nod before heading to the stairs. I grab my iPod and turn up Kaleo, humming along and shaking my ass to “No Good.”

  Once the kitchen is sparkling, I find I’ve actually worked up an appetite. Flicking my fingers at a bottle of Grand Marnier on the top shelf, I let it float to the countertop while I grab the oranges from the fruit bowl. Crepes Suzette sounds perfect. Sweet, full of alcohol and easy, just what I need to chase away thoughts of a certain gypsy assassin. I’m glad Jett told me the truth about Tyr’s story, but now I’m even more confused.

  I mean, it doesn’t really change anything. His point is still valid. Tyr’s an assassin. He does bad fucking things for a living. Maybe he’s even killed living, breathing children. How do I know?

  Butter is sizzling in the pan. I watch it, biting my lip.

  That’s not true. I do know.

  He hasn’t.

  The Tyr that I know doesn’t slit children’s throats. He just doesn’t. It may be a fine line, but it is a line.

  I mean, I eat souls. Doesn’t make me evil.

  With a tight smile, I add a generous splash of the Grand Marnier to the pan.