ISBN13: 9781632163240
Pages: 374
Appearance:
Pages: 374
Appearance:
Summary:
Untouchable. Ghost. Assassin. Mad. Fen Jacin-rei is all these and none. His mind is host to the spirits of long-dead magicians, and Fen's fate should be one of madness and ignoble death. So how is it Fen lives, carrying out shadowy vengeance for his subjugated people and protecting the family he loves?
Kamen Malick means to find out. When Malick and his own small band of assassins ambush Fen in an alley, Malick offers Fen a choice: Join us or die.
Determined to decode the intrigue that surrounds Fen, Malick sets to unraveling the mysteries of Fen's past. As Fen's secrets slowly unfold, Malick finds irony a bitter thing when he discovers the one he wants is already hopelessly entangled with the one he hunts.
Kamen Malick means to find out. When Malick and his own small band of assassins ambush Fen in an alley, Malick offers Fen a choice: Join us or die.
Determined to decode the intrigue that surrounds Fen, Malick sets to unraveling the mysteries of Fen's past. As Fen's secrets slowly unfold, Malick finds irony a bitter thing when he discovers the one he wants is already hopelessly entangled with the one he hunts.
“Nice
attack,” Malick panted as he spun, swept the sword down on a forward feint then
followed with a cross with the knife for a compound attack.
The Ghost didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to hear, merely
whirled back in a counter-defense, whipped yet another of those cursed little
knives. Advanced again with a sweeping cut of the long knife that nearly took
Malick’s nose off as he spun out of his dodge of the damned throwing knife. Little shit was really trying to kill him.
“You’re—” Malick ducked under a press with the long knife,
feinted to his right, watching for another of the little knives to come
whistling at his head. “You’re very skilled.” He just managed to keep the
wheeze out of his voice.
Again,
the Ghost was silent, concentrating, entirely focused on what his body was
doing and what Malick’s was doing in response.
Focus, purpose—all smooth economy and lethal drive, this
pretty man with the hard glare and soft braid. Compact corded muscle and
sinewy-sleek limbs; hard lines and angles; sculpted, silky masculinity, and
every last ounce of it was out to part Malick very decisively from his life. Too
focused, perhaps, too driven. Fast and
seamless, but foreseeable, if one paid attention. No personal little flourishes
to the moves, no stepping outside the lines of that perfection of skill. Malick
could almost count out the steps himself, trace the shapes of the positions in his
own head just before the man made them. Like he was performing for a trainer,
or reciting the instructions in his head as he followed the steps. The
technique was nearly faultless, every move in perfect form, every parry and
advance styled and structured—a flawless copy.
“Let’s see what you do with this,” Malick muttered under his
breath as he lunged in with the knife and followed with an indirect attack with
the sword. His eyes narrowed when the knife was smoothly parried and the sword
deflected with a forward press.
Malick smirked.
Control—that was the key, and Malick had never seen a body
so completely under the control of the mind that inhabited it. Control was
generally a good thing. Except when it equaled predictability.
No surprises from this man, none but the deadly drive behind
his attacks and the apparent conviction that the only way this could end was
with one of their corpses cooling on the damp, dirty stone of the alley. He
could beat Malick with his speed and determination—he was more skilled, and
more focused in his attention to it—but Malick had to wonder what would happen
if he changed the rules.
Grinning
now, Malick lunged again, forced an opening when the man parried, and caught
him in a spinning counterattack with a hard shove of his boot to the
solar-plexus. A thin whoof huffed from the man’s
chest, and his eyes went wide before they narrowed down to slits, nostrils
flaring and lips pressing tight. Malick could almost hear the, Hey,
that’s cheating! that was all too obvious in the man’s indignant
glower.
Malick
broadened his grin, waggled his eyebrows. With a deep breath he was all too
aware might be his last, Malick turned to his right, left himself open—clear
invitation—then swept the sword under his own arm. He caught the man in the
momentum of his own spin to turn the offensive, putting them in positions
opposite of where they’d been just a second ago. Lunged in again with a
sideswipe of his foot toward the backs of the man’s knees. Turned it into a
spinning kick to the thigh when the man dodged backward. Malick drove in right
up close at the resulting stumble, one long knife tangled with Malick’s sword,
the other grinding at the hilt of Malick’s knife.
“Figures you’d fight dirty,” the man growled, glaring directly
into Malick’s eyes like it was the lowest form of insult he could imagine.
Malick’s brain went a little wobbly.
Almonds. He smells of almonds. Sweat
and leather and metal polish, too, but mostly almonds. Right. And so does cyanide. Pressing in close, so close they were chest to chest for a
heady half second, Malick backed the man another two steps toward the wall of
the building. Brick to his back and his left, Samin to his right and Malick in
front of him. Two more steps and he’d be neatly cornered.
“C’mon, love.” Malick kept his smile and let his eyelids
droop halfway. “Everyone likes it dirty now and again.”
GIVEAWAY:
AUTHOR BIO:
Carole lives with her husband and family in Pennsylvania, USA, where she spends her time trying to find time to write. Recipient of various amateur writing awards, several of her short stories have been translated into Spanish, German, Chinese and Polish.
Author links:
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