Déjà Vu & Gin Page 3

  She goes utterly still. Not with one flicker do those blue eyes betray what she is thinking. “It was your idea to use the sword, not mine.”

  The color has left her face. I miss it.

  What the fuck is going on with me today?

  “What is in the basin?” I snap.

  “Water.”

  “And it won’t affect the sword?”

  “Not in the slightest.” Her voice is toneless.

  She can’t lie to me, not with that vow in place, but I can’t help hesitating before I lower the steel to the reflective surface. The water clouds instantly. My eyes flick to the witch, but as far as I can tell, she’s doing nothing but breathing.

  I look back at the basin and bite back an oath. An image is coming into rapid focus.

  Freya striding through a familiar castle. Well, more like a garrison than a castle. I called it home for four years, so I know it well. Sessrúmnir. I lost my humanity within its soaring grey walls and gained eternity. For a price.

  The goddess is a tall and imposing woman, not beautiful, but striking. Her white-blond dreads are bound with strips of iron that taper to spikes on the ends. I can still remember exactly how they stung and bit into my skin whenever we sparred. Not so fondly known as the times she kicked my ass to Hel and back.

  I lift my hand unconsciously in salute. The goddess turns her head, seeming to look directly into my eyes. Both the witch and I freeze.

  “Tell me she can’t see us,” I whisper. I like Freya and I want to believe that she likes me, but I really don’t want to push it.

  “Difficult to say,” Anastasia murmurs. “But I think that is sufficient to prove my point.” The image fades away, the steely glint of the goddess’s gaze the last thing to vanish. I take a step away from the basin, frowning.

  The witch must be telling the truth; she saw me steal the Fetters . . . but does she know why? Do I even want the possibility of the truth voiced aloud?

  I think not.

  “I could kill you here and now,” I muse aloud, just to see her reaction. It’s not at all satisfying.

  “If you were going to do it,” she wrinkles her nose, “you would have gutted me the second I opened the door.”

  She’s right. I thought about it. Dismissed it almost immediately.

  For one, Jett is her sister. That bitch is more tenacious than a Hel hound. For a contract, I’ll risk it, but otherwise . . . no, thank you. My goal in coming here was to intimidate Anastasia into letting me out of my contract. I was hoping it would be easy, but clearly I’ve underestimated the power of the family bond.

  I glance over at the woman next to me. That dimpled chin lifts imperiously at my perusal, making me sigh. I’ve broken people before. Breaking Anastasia would take time, persistence and patience, but it’s an option.

  Anyone can be broken.

  Of course, I’d need to have her some place alone, where her magic wouldn’t be an issue and . . .

  Fuck. I shake my head. There’s no way I can take an extended leave of absence right now, I have too much on my plate already.

  I could breech this contract with Anastasia. Which would not only be dishonoring a vow—a dangerous proposition in the world I am now a part of—it would also constitute me hanging up my sword for good. Assassins of the realm have only one law they must follow. One.

  Honor the terms of the contract. Within that contract, all things are possible. I can’t be prosecuted for theft or murder, or any crime under Council law, so long as said crime is committed in the course of fulfilling a contract.

  But break a contract, just one time, and it’s the end of the line.

  Not gonna happen. Not because of her.

  I stare at Anastasia. She stares back.

  “Let’s say I fail to save your sister.”

  “I would suggest that you try very, very hard to avoid such a circumstance, assassin. Unless you want the Firebird Prince on your bad side.” She smiles. “Consider it a test of those legendary skills of yours. A challenge, if you will.”

  I snort. “I don’t care about being challenged, love, I care about the money. You’re endangering my career here. All without paying me a farthing.” I can’t help admiring her for that, though, despite the predicament it leaves me in. I can’t remember the last time someone pulled one over on me. Not even Freya managed that.

  “Sounds like an assassin, only concerned with coin.” The dismissal in her voice amuses me. Only those who have never had to worry about money despise the pursuit of it.

  “Of course. Cross my palm with enough silver and I’d take the risk with a smile on my face.” I’m smiling right now. My mood always improves when I make up my mind. Apparently, I’ve made up my mind about this. Barmy as it is, I’ll be attempting to honor two opposing contracts. If I succeed, it’ll add to the legend. If I don’t . . . I shrug. “I am part gypsy, you know.”

  “Must be where you get your morals.”

  “Now, now. That’s racist. Not to mention insulting.” I give her a wink. “I don’t have any fucking morals.”

  To my surprise, she laughs. It does something to her. Suddenly that icy exterior is alive with color, sparkling blue eyes, pink cheeks and curving ruby red lips. Bloody hell.

  She catches me staring and instantly the mask slams back into place. Impenetrable and cold.

  But she’s under there. The real Anastasia Gosse. And damned if I don’t want to see her again.

  Fuck. I need to get out of here, but I can’t leave her trussed up like a Christmas goose for her sisters to find. Besides, I want that rope back.

  “You aren’t going to harm me in any way when I release you, are you, Anastasia?”

  Her lips press together until the soft pink turns white, but one sullen word slips out. “No.”

  “Promise?” I tease, just to see her squirm.

  “Yes.” She gives me a hard look, just to let me know she’s not amused. “This changes nothing concerning our agreement. You will honor our contract or the Council, and the prince, will know what you have done.”

  I sheathe the sword, chuckling as I untie her. “Balls of solid brass, that’s you. Who would’ve thought?”

  “An assassin of the realm should realize appearances can be deceiving.”

  The touch of bitterness in her words gives me pause. “True enough. But in my experience, that’s rare. Usually you get exactly what you see.” I shrug. “If you know how to look.”

  “And what do you see when you look at me?” She expects a careless answer, but I don’t give her one.

  I give her the truth.

  “A woman so scared of breaking the rules she can barely breathe. But who is also too scared not to break them.” I tilt my head, taking in her suddenly wary expression. “I’m not the only one between a rock and a hard place, am I, Anastasia?”

  Her nostrils flare. Waving a hand at the hallway without a word, she lets me know I’m dismissed. She doesn’t say another word until I’m walking over the threshold once again, my back to her.

  “There are rules none of us should break, Tyr Kanerva.”

  I turn, my heart thudding in my chest. “How do you know that name?”

  With a deliberate smile, she shuts the door in my face.

  2

  That fucking bastard.

  I resist the urge to kick the door, instead taking a deep breath as I rub the lingering ache from my wrists. I force myself to calmly scroll back through our conversation, cataloguing every twist and turn. By the time I head to the kitchen, I’m more in control.

  As Jett would say, I kicked his ass and then some. Figuratively speaking, of course. I do dislike getting dirty. Verbal sparring, however, never gets old. It’s quite enjoyable with someone that can hold their own.

  The assassin can hold his own, but in the end . . .

  The look on his face when I shut the door.

  Riposte.

  Not only was it satisfying, it served the purpose of giving him something new to worry about. Since I had
to give up how I discovered his unsolicited theft, it was a necessary move. Assassins are a tricky breed, and going this route to protect my sister has its risks, but French court prepares one rather well for things of this nature.

  I am clearly out of practice, though. It stung, letting him think I’m still hung up on Viktor. The more physical sting at my throat reminds me the assassin had the audacity to cut me. I look in the mirror next to Carly’s bruin mural. The tiny wound is already closing. With a sniff, I pass under the archway into the kitchen, satisfaction curving my lips.

  I touched the ring on purpose. It is Viktor’s ring, but I don’t use it to scry him. Well, yes, I do, but only to get a vague sense of where he is before I scry the palace. The Vasilisa family has amassed quite a collection of magical items over the years; the Fetters of Fenrir is only one of them. Tyr isn’t the only one with an interest in one of those items. My mother has been watching one in particular for centuries.

  Smiling tightly, I pick up my most prized possession off the kitchen counter. My iPod. I am feeling calmer, but I need something more to truly even me out. Jett relaxes by killing things. For Seph, it’s whiskey. Carly gets her high from paint fumes. I have an affinity for art as well, but my true drug is music.

  I start breathing deeply as Pink begins to scream.

  It started with Mozart. Back in my day, pop stars wore wigs, too, but you were lucky to hear them live once in your lifetime. I was very, very lucky. I saw Wolfgang perform twice, once at a private Christmas dinner when we were both children, and once many years later, when he came to Versailles seeking employment just before I left court.

  I move around the kitchen, lost in memories of France. My sisters think I miss it too much and that’s why I’m so distant and stiff, but they don’t really understand. Yes, I miss the beauty and the grace, the superfluous attention to detail—though sometimes it drove me quite mad. I don’t often think of my mother as wise, but she was when she picked that particular time and place for me. Being immersed in rules and etiquette and boundaries was exactly what I needed. The strict constraint held me together at a time when the merest thought of my sisters threatened to tear me apart. From the age of seven to nearly twenty-one, I was ensconced at Versailles or close by.

  Over a decade of lies, deceit and the subtle, deadly game that is court.

  Madame de Pompadour took me under her wing almost at once. I’m not sure if my mother was behind that or not, nor am I sure how much of the truth Madame knew, but she was kind. From her I learned many things, most particularly the art of survival. All the while, Louis the XV faded and Louis the Auguste rose. Of course, I was long gone before the bloody sun set on the French monarchy. I traded one backbiting court for another. The ring on my finger seems to scorch my skin and I twist it irritably.

  I shall never take it off, no matter how much it pains me. Pain is a necessary penance for some mistakes.

  It reminds me not to make more.

  Persephone. I glance at the calendar on the wall. Yule is approaching and it fills me with dread. All witches carry some portion of what mortals call ‘the sight.’ It goes with our magic, which is so dependent on the give and flow of energy between all beings. When that energy is out of tune, we feel it.

  Or in my case, hear it. Like a record skipping, stuck on one groove, over and over.

  Don’t tell, don’t interfere. You must let it be. Don’t tell.

  I’m an obedient daughter. Except for Viktor and blowing up a castle, I’ve never put a toe out of line. In the grander scheme of things, I’m positively the Goody Two-shoes everyone believes me to be. Even now, I’m not really breaking Mom’s rules.

  I’m not going to tell Seph what’s coming—not that I know much more than she does.

  I’m not going to interfere.

  It’s not really interfering to blackmail an assassin of the realm to watch my baby sister’s back. Technically, it will be the assassin interfering, not moi. I catch myself twisting my fingers in my skirt and force myself to stop.

  I switch from Pink to Rammstein. There is nothing like death metal in guttural German to scare away the guilt peeking over my shoulder.

  Abruptly, I decide to go all-out for dinner, starting with dessert. Baking is something else that relaxes me. I am in need of relaxation after the assassin’s unannounced visit, though I bet I’m not the only one. He did seem rather put out. I smile grimly as I open the refrigerator.

  A conflict of interest. Such a delicate way to put it. I slam the butter on the counter, satisfied at the fates that had me spying on the ball that winter day. It was seeing Tyr and his odd behavior coupled with the theft that gave me the idea to hire him. It took me a long while to set up the meet, and while I am sure I gave nothing away, it was inevitable that he’d find out.

  He is the best. Yes, there are a handful of others that would come close: Glydwr, Rasputin, even that up-and-comer Dan Cooper. But if you want the crème de la crème, for the last hundred years or so, that’s Tyr.

  I wrinkle my nose and pull the eggs from the fridge.

  He’s a legend. Everyone knows he was human once. Almost all assassins are. It makes sense; precious few FTCs are ever desperate enough to pledge themselves to Freya.

  That was all I had when I started researching him: human, assassin and a vaguely British accent. I got more, not much more, but enough to keep him in line and guessing for a while.

  I still haven’t a clue what drove Tyr to Freya, though, and that frustrates me. I force myself to shake off the curiosity.

  What do I care for the assassin’s past? He’s a tool. In more ways than one.

  One ear bud falls out as I reach for a mixing bowl. “Bon sang.”

  Before I can put it back in and continue “Ich Will,” an eerie sound tickles my ears. The wind is starting to howl. I don’t remember hearing any storm warnings yet, though it is November. With a frown, I cock my head, taking a step closer to the window in the dining room. The trees are barely moving, but the sound comes again, louder this time.

  The fine hairs on the backs of my arms stand straight up. It’s not the wind I’m hearing. Werewolves. In town.

  For a second, I’m frozen, considering the possibilities. Then I glance at the clock above the kitchen table. We’re all adults and no one has a set schedule, but there are a few things I can count on most days. Seph will be at the bar until late, Jett is also rarely in before midnight, but . . .

  Carly. It’s her WoW day. She’s always home by four thirty on WoW days, cheerful and hungry. It’s one of the reasons I was making cream puffs. They’re her favorite. The clock reads twenty minutes to five.

  I run for the hallway, sliding on the tile. My hip slams painfully into the doorframe. Throwing the front door wide, I stare out across the lawn. Our yard, like nine out of ten on the Duluth hillside, has a deep slope. It’s already half dark and the bottom of that slope is in shadow, but I can see the eyes glinting up at me, like wicked jewels in the night. So many.

  Fear lays cold and clammy hands on my neck. Not for me, but for my sister. I take a step from the house, lifting my arms. Before I can start my rhyme, teeth flash and the wolves leap over our hedge. They race through the neighbor’s yard and vanish into the trees like grey smoke. They’re quicksilver fast and even if I gave chase, I haven’t my mom’s spells for shifting. Taking a deep breath, I try to slow my thundering pulse. Whatever Luna and Owen are playing at, it’s over now. Shivering in the lake wind, I turn back to the house and the open door.

  That’s when I see it.

  The yellow scarf waving jauntily at me from the withered grass. The one Carly had wrapped around her shoulders when she left earlier today.

  Oh gods. No.

  The sunshine color is streaked with blood.

  I’m shaking and I can’t stop.

  Thomas is watching me warily from the other side of the parlor. I must look mad. I’m standing over the scrying basin, where I’ve been for hours and hours, ever since I got ahold of Styx. I don’t ev
en remember what I told him; I just remember those gold eyes going flat and still. He’s gone now.

  So is Seph. She and Jack. I don’t know how that happened either. She took charge and I just . . . didn’t. I couldn’t. Carly is gone. Jett is gone.

  All my sisters, gone.

  It’s my worst nightmare all over again. Images and voices swirl, not in the still water of the basin, but in my own head.

  “We have to keep playing hide and seek, sweetheart. Hide and seek from Daddy.” Mom, pale and drawn but trying to hold onto a smile.

  “I want to hide with Seph.” My own voice, so high and childish, it breaks my heart. I close my eyes, my lashes wet and sticky. “She gets scared of the dark.” I bow my little head, my curls tangling with those of the squirming baby in my arms.

  “No, Ana. Everyone has to hide in different places. To make it harder. We want the game to last a very long time.”

  “I don’t! I don’t like this game, Mama.”

  My sisters vanishing one by one in the night. Until it was just me. All alone.

  I lied to Mom. Seph wasn’t the one scared of the dark, even back then.

  It was me.

  I hear the footsteps behind me, stealthy as they are, but when the blade enters my side, I don’t feel it. Nothing registers until Thomas screams. The horrific sound shatters my numbness. Cold steel biting into my rib, raking bone. I gasp, flinging out a hand.

  By the light of the moon . . .

  Luna crashes into the wall, looking startled but triumphant. She bares her teeth in a feral smile, then ignores me to lunge at Thomas.

  I want to help. Really I do. But I can’t move. Something insidious is creeping through my veins, something dark and cold.

  I slide to the floor, so slowly, falling face-first onto the carpet. It’s my favorite one, blue with cream and red roses. My eyes close and the blackness comes as Thomas’s cries grow fainter under the ripping, wet noise of teeth shredding flesh.

  3

  This witch is a damn fly in my ointment.