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  A ferry had just left, and another was pulling in, creating choppy waves in the black waters. The lights of the Overseas Passenger Terminal and the Museum of Contemporary Art reflected in wide bands of rippled orange and gold on the restless harbour. Everywhere was movement and action: people walking along the waterfront; people dining al fresco in the restaurants there; the deep blast of a ferry’s horn; music drifting from somewhere further along where another busker strummed his guitar.

  Raven’s hair lifted in the breeze, reminding me to tend my flame as I took up a position to his left, hard up against the railings and out of the way. The wind was cool, as it often was on the harbour, and tasted of salt. I was tempted to cup my hand over the top of the glass jar to make sure the precious flame wasn’t troubled by the breeze, but I was afraid of stifling it altogether.

  A crowd of people had just come off the ferry, and a small knot of them hurried towards us. Raven had his back to them, looking out over the dark water, apparently taking in the view. A man wearing jeans and a dark hoodie broke from the crowd at the last moment and came to stand at Raven’s side. Cradling my candle bowl, I moved closer.

  It was the same man as before. Now that I had the opportunity to have a good look at him, I could see the faint signs of the Glamour he wore, a pulsing in the air around his face that only someone with fae blood could have picked up.

  He rested his forearms on the railing and gazed out over the harbour, not looking at Raven. “You have the money?”

  Raven nodded. A backpack rested on the ground at his feet. He nudged it towards the stranger. “It’s all there.”

  In a smooth, efficient motion, the assassin bent down and hefted the backpack, slipping his arms through the straps.

  “If it’s not, the deal’s off.”

  “I understand.” Raven cast a sideways glance at his companion. “I’m surprised you people don’t use Swiss banks. That would be easier than lumping gold around.”

  “We have our traditions.” The man never turned his head toward Raven, but his eyes roamed, constantly assessing his surroundings. “You have three days to change your mind. After that, we will begin work. It may take up to a month. Do not contact us again to enquire about progress or anything else—only if you change your mind within the initial three-day period.”

  He spoke quickly, as if he had delivered these instructions many times before. How many people had he killed? His hands on the rail were slim and elegant—a guitarist’s hands, or an artist’s. He looked completely unthreatening.

  A sudden gust buffeted me, and I glanced down sharply at the light-weaver. The flame bent and flickered but didn’t go out. I cupped my free hand more closely over the opening.

  When I looked up again, the assassin was staring straight at me. I flinched.

  Then I realised his gaze was focused behind me, and he couldn’t actually see me. I must have made some kind of noise that had alerted him; it took all my willpower to hold myself, unmoving, until his gaze moved on.

  His hearing must be super sharp if he had picked one little indrawn breath out of all the ambient noise, and good instincts to decide from that tiny sound that something was off. But how had I thought him unthreatening? Those grey eyes were as cold as the dark waters of the harbour, and hid dangers just as deep.

  “Remember.” He looked at Raven for the first time. “Three days. After that, Merritt is as good as dead.”

  Raven nodded, and the assassin walked away.

  10

  Spooked by his reactions, I gave him more of a head start than I’d been intending. He hurried towards the station entry. Damn. Why couldn’t he open a gate to the Wilds like a normal fae, instead of running around Sydney’s bloody train system? But at the last minute, he changed direction and diverted onto Wharf 4, where the last of a crowd was filing onto a ferry bound for Neutral Bay.

  I followed him onboard, moments before the gangway was drawn up and the crew cast off the massive line holding the ferry in place. The engines throbbed and rumbled, the water bubbling furiously as the ferry backed out of the wharf and began its ponderous swing to head out into the harbour.

  My quarry took a place on the open deck at the stern of the ship. No one else braved the cold—all the other passengers were inside, protected from the wind. I decided to join them. Unless he jumped overboard, he wasn’t going anywhere until we reached the first stop at Kirribilli, and I preferred not to panic over my flickering candle in the wind all the way there. I sank gratefully into a seat by the window, where I could keep an eye on him.

  For his part, he remained standing at the stern. From the direction of his gaze, I guessed he was watching Raven, who hadn’t moved from his position. As the ferry drew away, Raven finally turned and headed toward George Street. The assassin relaxed, turning to lean his elbows on the stern rail behind him and gazing up at the night sky.

  There was a subtle difference to his face, and I realised he’d dropped the Glamour. None of his features had changed dramatically, but his jaw was stronger, his cheeks more sharply defined. Now, he was someone you might look twice at—a male model, perfect in his symmetry. I glanced again at those elegant fingers. Or a poet, perhaps. The dark brown hair tumbling over one eye made him look a little Byronesque.

  He stayed out there all the way across the harbour, not budging when people got on and off at Kirribilli, but he started to move as we pulled into the wharf at North Sydney.

  When we disembarked, the wind was quieter, though I still kept a careful eye on my candle as I followed him up High Street. North Sydney was a big business hub, full of tall office buildings. It had a little nightlife, particularly in the long stretch of restaurants along Miller Street, but it was quieter than the Quay had been.

  Taxis zoomed past as we made our way along Miller Street, muffling the sound of my footsteps, but I took care to give him plenty of room. He was moving at a fast pace, untroubled by the weight of the backpack. Every time we passed a quiet alcove among the buildings, or a narrow alley, I expected him to open a gate and disappear—but every time, he disappointed me. At least he hadn’t gone to North Sydney train station.

  Finally, he stopped outside one more office building, indistinguishable from all the others we’d passed. Just another glass and steel edifice, its night lights showing a glossy foyer and a bank of lifts. He ran a card over a small sensor plate to the right of the doors, and they slid open.

  Well, that was unexpected. No magical breaking and entering? Fancy the assassins being so tech-savvy that they had security passes. I looked up as I followed him inside. The building was called Hampton Court.

  He headed straight for the lifts and pressed the call button. Now, I had a dilemma. This building had looked just as tall as all the others that loomed over the streets here. Twenty storeys? Thirty? Even more? How would I know which floor he was going to unless I got into that lift with him?

  The thought of being trapped in such a small space with him was terrifying. One wrong move, and I would be discovered. Surely it was enough to tell the king that he’d come here? Someone else could look more closely into the assassins’ association with this building.

  But what if there was no association? He could have stolen that security pass. Maybe he planned to open a gate from somewhere in this building, and these were all just paranoid precautions against being followed.

  The lift dinged and the up arrow illuminated. I only had seconds to decide. As the doors slid open, I forced myself forward, my feet like lead weights. He stood slightly to the right, facing the closing doors, so I plastered myself against the left-hand wall, hardly daring to breathe. Fear sweat broke out on my forehead and under my arms—thank goodness the lift already smelled of stale sweat and old coffee, or he might have been on to me—and I clenched the bowl tight against me, concentrating on not moving.

  He pressed the button for the twenty-first floor. God, I hoped this was a fast lift. At least no one else got on as we climbed smoothly upward. I watched the numbers slide pas
t, praying for twenty-one. I couldn’t even look at him, afraid that, somehow, he would feel my gaze on him and become suspicious.

  Finally, the torment ended. The doors opened on level twenty-one, and he stepped out onto soft navy-blue carpet. I followed as close as I dared and found myself in a reception area. Fraser and Young, Chartered Accountants was written in a curving script on the pale grey wall behind the desk.

  Accountants. Not quite what I’d been expecting. He led the way past the reception desk and down a long hall with offices on either side, stopping at the door to a large meeting room. Through the glass wall, I saw black leather chairs around a massive teak table. Then he opened the door and it all disappeared.

  On the far side of the wall, moonlit grass appeared, and the impression of many buildings. Holy shit. That wasn’t the Wilds.

  He’d opened the door into a sith, and I had a split second to decide: follow or not?

  Raven would say not. Observe only, he’d written, with many firm underlinings beneath the word “only”. And yet … what a massive opportunity this was. A chance to see inside the mysterious headquarters of the fae world’s most infamous assassins. And who knew how long their sith would remain tethered to this particular door in the mortal world? Tomorrow, it might be anywhere.

  But tonight, I was invisible and I was right here. Who knew what I might find, what secrets I could uncover?

  I nipped forward and slipped through the door just before he closed it behind him, amazed at my own daring. I was so close to him I could have counted every one of his eyelashes, which I couldn’t help noticing were long and luscious. That faint scent of ironbark I’d noticed the night before still clung to him. I literally held my breath until he moved away, afraid he would sense me there. But he turned and walked away, moving at a relaxed pace. I guessed he felt secure, now.

  After a moment, I let out a long, steadying breath and set off in his wake. An enormous building of grey stone lay dreaming in the moonlight before us, in the middle of massive grounds. Or rather, a set of interconnected buildings. It looked more like a university than the headquarters of a feared assassins’ guild, built in a fanciful style. Flying buttresses protruded from one wall. An assortment of towers, some round and others square, rose at intervals from the jumble of stone. It was like walking into a real-life Hogwarts.

  I cast a quick glance behind me to check the door we’d come through. On this side, it was a massive set of gates with ornate brass hinges bigger than my head. A high stone wall ran off to either side from the gate and, from my vantage point, it appeared to run all the way around the estate.

  Because “estate” was the only word to describe it. A small forest stretched off to the right, a lake on the left, its waters shimmering silver under the moon. In front of us, Killer Hogwarts sprawled. I realised I’d been so busy checking it all out that my assassin had gained quite a lead on me, and I hurried to catch up. My guess was he’d be taking the gold to someone important, and I wanted to see who that was.

  As far as I was aware, no one knew who the elusive head of the Vipers was. Imagine taking that information back to the king! A fierce determination entered my heart: I would see him—or her—brought down. It was the least I could do for Nevith. All that anyone could do for him now, really, and it was too little, too late. It wouldn’t bring him back.

  But somebody needed to pay for his death.

  My guide bypassed the imposing front entrance and went around to a smaller side door. He was too quick to close it behind himself this time, and I stopped short as the door slammed in my face.

  I blew out a frustrated breath and checked my candle. It had burned down to perhaps half its original size, but the flame was still going strong. Plenty of time left. I wouldn’t need to be invisible for long once I returned to Sydney; only long enough to leave the office building without trace. I could spend some time here exploring before I had to think about leaving.

  I waited a good minute before cautiously opening the door and peeking around the edge. I didn’t want my quarry noticing the door opening and closing by itself. Inside, a dim corridor carpeted in red stretched away, with solid wooden doors opening off either side. He was just disappearing around a corner, so I darted inside, eased the door shut behind me, and went scurrying after him.

  Wall sconces holding candles were the only illumination. It was cool inside and very quiet, and I got a sense of the thickness of the stone walls around me. The assassins weren’t much for interior decorating—there were no portraits on the walls or rustic suits of armour. Just bare corridor, though the carpet was patterned with fading flowers.

  No, actually, those were body parts, not flowers. Hands, fingers spread in agony. Severed heads dripping blood. I pulled a face as I turned the corner. They had the creepy mansion vibe down pat.

  The assassin mounted a narrow staircase, so I went up, too. The corridor on this level was wider and ran along beside deep windows on one side, giving a view across a moonlit herb garden. It looked pretty, but I wondered how many of those herbs were deadly.

  He finally stopped and knocked on a door.

  A man’s voice called, “Come in.”

  The assassin paused in the doorway, hand still on the doorknob. Hovering behind his shoulder, I saw a pleasant, book-lined room. A dark-haired man behind a large oak desk looked up as the door opened. He had a sallow pallor to his skin and shadows under his eyes that made him look tired. For a fae, that was practically at death’s door.

  My gaze caught on a dagger on a stand behind him, looking out of place among the books. Its long blade wasn’t straight but had waves in it, unlike any knife I’d ever seen before, and shone with a kind of oily sheen. It was probably the ugliest dagger I’d ever seen—I had no idea why anyone would keep such a thing on display.

  “Ashovar,” the man said, and smiled. Then the door closed, and I was shut out.

  11

  I contemplated my candle, thinking. Less than half the wax column remained. Still plenty of time for me to have a good look around before I had to make my escape. I could bring the king back a full report on the setup of the assassins’ lair, on how many people were here, maybe even give him a basic map of the layout.

  I squared my shoulders and set off down the corridor. I had a lot to do in the next hour or so. Some of the doors were open, showing me comfortable sitting rooms or larger meeting rooms. One looked like a schoolroom, with two neat rows of desks. I wasn’t game enough to open the closed doors in case I surprised someone inside. Doors opening by themselves would surely arouse comment.

  The corridor took a bend to the right, and doors appeared on both sides instead of windows to my left. I kept going, passing a staircase that led upward. I could come back to that. A man passed me, wearing plain grey clothes and carrying a stack of books. I stepped to the side and held my breath, but he had no hint of my presence. His eyes were fixed straight ahead as he marched down the corridor.

  When I had completed my tour of this level, I returned to the stairs and checked out the upper level. There were fewer doors up here, though all of them were closed. The rooms must be bigger, or perhaps the doors led to suites. I stood outside one for long moments, listening hard for any sound of movement, any slightest hint of a presence on the other side. Eventually, I worked up the courage to turn the handle ever so slowly and push the door open the tiniest bit.

  Peeking through, I found a comfortable if rather austere lounge or sitting room. Emboldened, I opened the door wider and slipped inside. There was no one here. One wall was lined with bookcases, which held volumes with dark leather spines. Through one door, I glimpsed a bed, its covers tumbled; and through another, a bathroom. Someone’s private quarters.

  I resisted the urge to go hunting through the papers on the bedside table. What was I expecting to find? Contracts? A map of the sith with all the weaknesses marked? My time would be better spent in checking the place out for myself.

  There was one more floor above that one, reached by a nar
row, uncarpeted staircase. A series of small rooms were tucked up among the eaves—clearly servants’ quarters. I hurried back down to see what the ground level of this labyrinth had to offer.

  More grandiose rooms, as it turned out. I found one that reminded me of the refectory of a monastery I had seen on TV once. Four long, bare tables stretched nearly the length of the room, with hard, backless benches on either side. Perpendicular to these was another, smaller table. This one had chairs along one side, and the one in the middle had a high carved back and arms. It even boasted a cushion of red velvet. The butt that sat in this chair must belong to someone important—perhaps the tired-looking man in the booklined room upstairs. There were no other furnishings in the room. The windows appeared to be stained glass, but since it was dark outside, I couldn’t make out the details.

  A clatter of pots and pans drew me to the kitchen at the back of the building. It was huge, as expected for a place this size. To my surprise, half a dozen people, all wearing the same plain grey clothing as the man I had seen in the upstairs corridor, were working there in complete silence. I stood in the doorway and watched them for a long, puzzled moment.

  Back on Lord Thistle’s estate in Spring, the kitchen had been one of the noisiest places; full of people coming and going, full of laughter and the sound of the people who worked there chattering. It had been a welcoming place, and I’d spent a lot of time there over the years. Even in our own sith back home, Zinnia was always singing while she worked, and whenever someone came in, there was conversation and laughter.

  Here, there was nothing. A woman was kneading bread, flour puffing up into the air as she pummelled the dough with her fists, but her expression was blank. Even the boy turning the spit—which had to be one of the most boring jobs in creation—stared straight ahead at the meat, barely blinking as his arms moved. No shifting from foot to foot, no impatient sighs. His attention never wandered, and I began to get an uneasy prickling at the back of my neck. There was something wrong with these people. Each of them might have been completely alone. They acted as if their companions didn’t exist.