Orro’s vision filled with smoke.
Everything around him billowed on an unfelt breeze as the color drained from his surroundings. He held his breath as he fell. The silken curtains and fluffy pillows where he and George lounged disappeared, and he sank through the ground.
His right wrist was a beacon of light in this monochromatic reality, grays and whites sweeping across his vision. There were no hard lines in this silent place. The doors and corners of the room shifted as if they were barely more than vapor.
George, however, was a pillar of writhing light, glowing with pinks and reds that shone through this dire dimension. Orro fell through the floor, lighter even than the air contained within his lungs.
One heartbeat.
Two.
His vision darkened as the floor’s breadth flew past him.
He was a specter. He was nothing. This spiritual plane allowed him to travel through solid objects as if they were naught more than mist and he a stone.
Three.
Color returned, and he gasped.
His surroundings swirled dangerously, and he resisted the urge to vomit.. His feet landed harder than he intended, startling the room’s four occupants. With unsteady fingers, he pulled his half-mask up over his face and let out the breath he’d been holding.
Two women screamed while two masculine dwarves began to curse at Orro’s sudden appearance. They covered their nether regions with long beards of white and red. The room wouldn’t stop spiraling around Orro, and he stumbled to the side. His gloved fingers found purchase on a cedarwood pillar, and he clenched it like the lifeline that it was.
That had been too close. He still felt hollow.
Orro, exiled assassin of the Grassblade clans, had just dipped his toes into the spiritual plane and survived.
He really, really, did not wish to try that again. It was drastically different from the first few times he had activated the bracelet’s taboo enchantment. Cade had warned him not to overuse it lest he lose his grip on this reality, but he had once again overshot his confidence by several leagues.
“Curse you, ya damn peeper! Get out or pay up!” One of the dwarves bellowed from the expansive bed across from him.
The assassin looked up, half expecting George to descend out of the ceiling in much the same fashion he had.
No one came. It was as solid as the bedpost he now clutched until his knuckles turned white. He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, though even with his eyes clenched shut, he could not excise the image that had burned itself in his mind.
He had looked down in the brief second before he rematerialized. He had glanced down and witnessed the hue he had exuded in that place between life and death.
It had been the same shade as his sword. Orange as radiant as the dawn.
Orro’s vision finally settled, and he took in the four very naked, very busy, Court patrons. With a raised hand in an awkward farewell, he exited the room, careful to avoid making any noise as he closed the door.
Quick glances confirmed that no one was in the hallway. Orro’s mental map of this place intuited that he was still too far from George’s office. The original plan was to escape whichever courtesan had arrived to attend to him while he was in the pot chamber. The bracelet would’ve made his location impossible to pin down. He would’ve been a wraith in this labyrinth.
But now…
“Damn it all,” Orro hissed softly.
He rushed through the velvet-lined hallway, the patterns of the bark accented in the soft red glowflakes that were embedded into the striations of the wood. The corridor bent and curved slightly as if this was some hollowed-out branch of a gargantuan tree.
Knowing how this place was constructed, that might very well be the case, though he felt no shifts beneath his feet indicating the passage of wind outside.
His black padded boots halted right at the edge of the hall’s intersection, and he ducked into the shadows a breath before six armed guards flashed past. Two of them raced down the hallway he was in, though neither peered into the corner where he hid.
His left hand held the Orb of Nonlight, carefully absorbing any illumination sent into this already shadowed crevasse.
The remaining four guards used unfamiliar hand signals to communicate. He watched them, but he didn’t need to decipher their symbols to see the panic in their gaits and eyes. The warriors dispersed, careful to remain as quiet as possible.
It made sense. No one would want their pleasure interrupted by the stomping of boots and the bark of orders. That worked in his favor. It meant none of the patrons would likely intervene unless he went out of his way to alert them.
Good.
When all of the Court’s guards disappeared around various corners, he emerged from the darkness and sped down the connecting hallway. His feet danced across the stairs.
The plan had been for him to use his bracelet to enter George’s office where Cade suspected Rayka was being held. That was no longer an option.
Even though the worst of the disorientation had cleared, the hollowness that place had sewn into him remained. He would need to wait to use it again, lest he be yanked from this reality altogether.
“I understand,” a feminine voice spoke up from the bottom of the stairs. It was the same attendant from earlier. “I will alert the others of the riot outside. None shall be permitted entry, especially now that Bernard himself is out there with his entire gang. And the guards already know of our unwanted guests. Yes. Thank you, my Lady,”
Orro’s mind raced at the sight of her, and he convinced himself it was solely because she posed a threat to his mission. He quickly scanned the staircase and leapt without stopping.
His fingers found purchase on a thin groove of the bark near where the ceiling connected with the wall of the ornately carved corridor. He pulled himself up, his dark cloak breaking up the silhouette of his form. Orro’s feet pressed against the corner of the walls, using the counterpressure to augment his grip.
The attendant slowly ascended the stairs beneath him. He watched her hips and how each new step caused her long hair to shift like the grass in spring. Orro’s grip slipped slightly, and he pressed harder with his feet. The wooden surface creaked under his strength, and the woman halted for a breath.
Her head tilted to the side, and the assassin was convinced his lapse in focus would be the end of him. But she never looked his way. Never looked up where he hid like a spider in her web.
She retreated out of sight and he fell silently to the floor.
Orro shook his head of the subtle invasion of lust that had just came over him. Not only did he have eyes for just one woman in this place, he was running out of time. He knew it like he knew that Cade was likely already below the arena and close to acquiring the Remnant.
His cloak billowed behind him. The assassin was little more than a shadow cast by a flickering candle as he sprinted toward the long hallway that preceded George’s private chambers.
He turned into the corridor without hesitation.
The intertwining dragons etched into the walls blurred around him as he rushed toward the door. He slowed for a heartbeat and tried the golden handle affixed to the center of the twin doors. They didn’t budge.
He cursed, glancing over his shoulder to ensure none had spotted him. He was alone, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long before George sent her goons here. Though their interaction had been brief, one thing had been clear from the moment she’d entered his room.
George was at least gold-ranked, if not higher. Power swam off of her like a goblet overflowing with wine. He needed to get Rayka out of here before George could find him.
He tried the handle again. Nothing.
With a snarl, he kicked the door. He was sent flying backward as a ward sparked to life at his attack. He flipped with the jarring momentum, landing on his feet and hands. He stood up and fought to keep his mind clear. Footsteps nearly as soft as his own echoed lightly off the stairway.
He was out of time.
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Orro rushed toward the door and prayed that this wouldn’t kill him. He jumped, his left hand slamming against his right wrist when he was just a hair’s breadth from the warded door.
The world returned to grays and whites as he became a specter yet again. His momentum carried him through the doors as if they were little more than smoke. They glowed dimly with reds and greens, but he paid them no heed.
One heartbeat.
Two.
The assassin didn’t have time to fully take in his new surroundings as the third and final heartbeat pulsed inside his aching chest, and he was yanked from that ethereal place. He fell to his knees as he landed awkwardly, bile coating every inch of his throat and tongue. His breathing came in ragged gulps as he splayed his fingers through the rich wool carpet beneath him.
A gagged moan split the silence ahead of him, and he tried to look up. The office swirled and wavered in his vision. Reds and golds all spun together into a nauseating mix of details.
Orro leaned back onto his crouched heels and waited as the room took shape before him. Another moan escaped from somewhere, but he couldn’t place where.
This was so much worse than all the times before.
Gods above and below, he could see why the Lifekeepers had locked this device up rather than offer it to one of their elites.
A few details came into focus. There was a white tarp covered with red splotches. A chair. Legs. Boots. Ropes. His vision slowly climbed upward. A strange mahogany desk with thin carvings sprawled across it was set into the center of this wide space. Doors lined the back wall.
A massive enchanted window let in the morning sunlight while likely excluding the outside from peering in. Smoke wafted in from one of the open panes, ash laced with blood entering his nostrils even through his mask.
The room stopped spinning.
Orro tried to stand up, but he caught sight of that white tarp and the person that sat gagged and bloodied atop it. The figure’s blonde hair was dyed red, and blood caked the sides of her face.
Rayka.
Fury deeper than any he had felt before blazed to life in his chest, and the last shreds of Orro’s disorientation burned away.
Rayka moaned a third time, her eyes wide and desperate as she shook her head. She was trying to say something, but the dirty rag clamped between her teeth made understanding her impossible.
Orro got to his feet, surging through the dizziness like a wyvern emerging from the gates of hell.
He took one step.
Two.
His legs wobbled and he caught himself on the lip of the mahogany desk. Something about its shape was odd, but he couldn’t place why. The wood was soft and warm beneath his hands, and he shoved off of it in disgust. He looked down at his hands and saw maroon paint coating his gloved palm.
Orro glanced back at the desk and finally noticed what had troubled him about it. The top of it was a single slab of wood, but beneath was no mere design. Two people were crouched on all fours, their bodies painted to look like furniture.
The one he had grazed shifted ever so slightly, and wild, hollow, eyes peered up at him. The elf held the assassin’s gaze before he returned to his original posture.
Rayka screamed.
Orro spun around in time to see her gesturing frantically with her chin toward the front doors. He spun again but was too late to stop the blow that connected with his face. He was sent flying off to the side of the office where the windows were.
The assassin’s back slammed against the windowpane, and he felt a similar ward crackle into place at the impact. He bounced off of it with a grunt of agony and landed hard against the carpeted floor.
“My, my, aren’t you a cocky one?” George’s husky voice said from the main entrance, the door cracked behind her. “Getting into my chambers so soon after meeting me. If we hadn’t already had our little tryst, I might’ve guessed that you didn’t enjoy my company.”
Her posture was relaxed, her hands resting playfully against her curved hips. She smiled seductively at Orro. The assassin’s mind spun.
Who had hit him?
“Where is it?” another feminine voice inquired, though this one was as cold as winter and a dozen times more lethal.
He peered up from where he lay, expecting to see one of Hugh’s lackeys. He knew the man had wrangled another Grassblade assassin into his employ—that other dark elf besides Selena he had spotted during the labyrinth trial. But this elf didn’t have the purple skin or violet eyes of the dark elves.
No.
She had pale white skin, black tattoos, and locs spilling across her lean chest and armor. Icicles danced across her fingers. Orro’s blood went cold.
It was the woman who’d fought off Helga.
Perfect, Orro thought as he tried to rise, only to be kicked in the ribs and sent flying yet again by the winter elf.
“Where is it, human?” The winter elf demanded as she toyed with an icicle dagger in her hand.
“Enough of this barbarism, Cin,” George interrupted with an even tone. “You’re going to ruin my carpet. I was fine with the tarp, but if you bloody this Moonglade heirloom, I am going to make you wish you’d never been born.”
The leader of the Night Ladies floated through the room on bare feet as she spoke. Her blue silken robes barely hid her figure as she sauntered up to her human desk, and a single manicured finger traced a line across Rayka’s face as she passed.
This wasn’t going according to plan.
Where are they? Orro thought furiously.
Nora and the others were supposed to have begun their side of the mission by now. Did it not work? Were they captured or killed?
George leaned into her high-backed chair and put a foot on top of one of the humans she had propping up her desk. It filled Orro with disgust, and he spat blood onto the carpeted floor.
Her eyes widened in fury. A gold and red haze swirled around her hands. George’s irises shifted from a piercing blue to a vibrant pink. A vibrant mist raced toward the assassin before he could recoil or even draw in a breath.
His muscles relaxed.
A heady fog swam through his mind, leaving him in a drunken daze. It hit him, then, that George was so beautiful. No, more than that—she was the sun, and he was merely a few clumps of dirt who had the privilege to behold her. The smile she gave him was the epitome of divine grace. Life herself could not hold a candle to the being before him.
“We’re going to ask you some questions, Orro dear,” George said, her voice echoing slightly as her enchanted mist continued to swirl around him.
He nodded, consumed as he was by her magic.
The winter elf spoke up. “Why did you betray Hugh, and where did you hide the item you stole from him?”
Orro met Cin’s cold gaze and tilted his head to the side.
“Answer her,” George said sweetly, and Orro obliged.
“We never betrayed him,” Orro explained in a flat tone. “He was going to kill all of us. We were scapegoats in the heist against Scorn, and the item was never hidden. It was destroyed.”
“That’s impossible…” he heard the winter elf mutter under her breath. “Then that means…”
“Where is Cade Stormhollow?” George asked.
Orro was vaguely aware of other bodies moving nearby, but in his drunken fog, they didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but this vision of perfection before him. Gold and red flecked his vision as he struggled to answer his queen.
But deep within him, his common sense screamed for him to snap out of it. To bite his tongue. To sew his mouth shut if that was what it took to protect his friend.
“He—he—” Orro sputtered, the inner turmoil almost too much to bear.
“Where is he, Mr. Yanson?” George repeated with just the faintest edge of impatience lacing her question.
She leaned forward, and he caught a glimpse of the skin beneath the hem of her robes. He wanted to die and moan and dance.
“He is in—” Orro began in a whisper, only for his voice to die out.
He chastised his reluctant tongue, cursing himself in every language he knew as his body refused to obey his mistress’s commands.
“This is taking too long,” Cin said as she sharpened an icicle dagger next to Rayka’s ear. “I say we do it the old-fashioned way. Traitors like him know no other language than pain.”
Orro ignored her, even if something about what she had said bothered some deeply buried part of him.
“Patience, my dear Cin,” George responded with a captivating smile others might have called vicious. “I don’t know how the Daughters do things under Decay’s tutelage, but interrogations go so much better when the person is willing to speak. We shall have our fun with this little assassin of ours after we’ve got what we both need.”
The red haze tinged with gold flooded Orro’s body until it was all he could see.
“No…” Orro muttered.
It was so hard to think. To see anything besides the woman before him.
“Is he even under your control, human?” Cin asked.
“Of course. Observe,” George said with a soothing tone. She pointed a finger at the girl tied to the chair. Orro followed her gesture with earnest attention.
“Go and kill her.”
Orro stood.
He growled in frustration as his limbs rebelled against his queen’s perfectly reasonable request. His legs and arms wobbled and jerked around awkwardly. He stumbled toward the beaten and bruised girl on the white tarp, unsheathing his sword as he did.
But something about this just wasn’t right.
He stood before the girl, and a faint twinge of recognition snapped through his brain as he scanned her face. He knew her, somehow, but he couldn’t place why. He held his orange blade high above his head. She was crying. The girl was crying. But when he looked into her eyes, it was not fear he saw.
It was pity.
“Kill her, Mr. Yanson,” the divine temptress commanded with such authority that he felt her voice thrum through every inch of his body.
His victim’s stormy blue eyes captivated him.
He knew those eyes.
Though wet with tears and partially hidden beneath large bruises, those stunning blue eyes were so familiar. George’s red haze thickened across his vision. His grip on the sword tightened.
“Kill her, damn it.”
Orro stood there, stuck between his desire to obey his queen’s command and that incessant thought shouted from some deep recess within his soul. The thought grew louder.
“Oh, for the love of Decay,” Cin shouted from somewhere to the right.
“Kill the girl, you stupid boy!” George screamed.
“No.” The word escaped from Orro’s lips before he knew what was happening.
“No?” George asked incredulously.
“No,” Orro repeated, surprising even himself.
That small voice inside his head grew into a roar so fierce it could’ve parted the heavens with its ferocity. He returned his gaze to the girl before him.
Rayka.
He remembered her smile. How she liked to tease him and yet never pushed him too far. How she always went out of her way to include him. How she laughed. The way her blonde hair got knotted every time she put it in the black cowl he’d bought her, and yet she still wore it with pride.
This was his Rayka, and he could never hurt her.
“I own you, boy!” George shouted, her beauty and allure vanishing before his eyes even as the red and gold haze swept over every pore in his body. “Why won’t you kill her?”
He met those stormy blue eyes. “Because I love her.”
Fast as lightning, Orro shifted his stance and adjusted the sword in his hand. Before the witch could enchant him again, he threw the sword and impaled George through her own chair.
What's the REAL reason Orro broke free from George's mind control?
