A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 5

It was the pins that were the worst of it. Ghost had endured stabbings before, broken bones, and brutal beatings. Those he’d always known how to black out in his mind, to ignore as if they were happening to someone else. But the gentle touchers were too clever and too patient. As he wandered down the street, his entire body wrapped in a thick robe with a heavy hood, he could still hear the sick words of the man first sent to torture him after he’d been found dying in Leon Connington’s room.

“You’re a big man,” the gentle toucher had said. In all four years, Ghost had never learned his name. His face had been withered, his nose thin and scarred, his skin paler than the moon. “A big man, and you might be responsible for the death of our lord. So, I’m going to break you with the tiniest of things; do you hear me?”

The first pin slid into the flesh of his forefinger.

“The very … tiniest…”

Every hour, that man had come and inserted another pin. Underneath his fingernails, into his fingertips, his toes, his toenails. If the man slept, he didn’t for long, because for three weeks straight, the man had come, always cheerfully telling him the hour as well as the pin’s number.

“It’s just after midnight,” he’d say, grinning, stabbing a pin just left of Ghost’s eyelid. “And this is your seventieth. I’ll see you for seventy-one.”

At the three hundredth pin, the last sixty of which had been focused on his groin, Ghost had finally relented and begged for death. But death hadn’t come.

Only more pins.

“One day,” Ghost muttered, shivering despite himself. “One day, I’ll return as the one holding the pins.”

The hour was dark, which suited Ghost fine. He kept his hood pulled down across his face, hiding the white paint. Now was not the time for attention. The pins had done their work, and while the gentle toucher had removed them over the years, the ones in his fingertips had remained the longest. Even now they were puffy, scarred, and ached at the slightest pressure. The idea of holding a sword and wielding it in combat was preposterous. At least, without aid …

Ghost stopped before cracked white steps he recognized well. In what felt like a previous lifetime, he’d fought on those steps, keeping back a mad horde of mercenaries bent on desecrating the temple of Ashhur in their attempt to slaughter more of the thieves that infested the city. Doing so had earned him the help of a certain priest, a priest Ghost hoped would still be living within. He climbed the stairs, grunting at the pain in his feet. At least the gentle touchers considered themselves artists above the more basic forms of torture. If they’d resorted to breaking bones and hacking off limbs, he’d have been hobbling up the steps like a toothless cripple. Perhaps that was the real secret to their art as well as their longevity. They could drag the truth out of kings and lowborn alike, yet still send them back to their lives without significant damage. What person of power wouldn’t have the occasional need for such a tool?

Torches hung from the marble columns atop the steps, keeping the double doors well lit. Up to them Ghost went, rapping twice on the door. After a moment, he heard a creak followed by the door opening a crack. A young boy, twelve, maybe thirteen, peered out at him. His eyes widened at the size of him, the deep color of his skin, the paint on his face.

“The … the temple is closed,” the boy said. “If you need succor, you may sleep on the steps until…”

“I will not stay out here until dawn like a beggar,” Ghost interrupted. He put a hand out on the door, let his massive weight keep it from shutting. “Wake the priest named Calan. I demand an audience with him.”

The request certainly didn’t help the boy’s composure.

“The high priest is not to be disturbed after his evening prayers.”

Ghost chuckled.

“Either you disturb him, or I will. Which would you prefer?”

It felt good to know that despite all he’d suffered, he still could be an intimidating presence. The danger in his deep voice had not vanished amid those four torturous years.

“And who should I say is asking?”

“Tell him what I look like,” Ghost said. “Tell him it’s a ghost. He’ll remember me.”

“A moment; just give me one moment,” the boy said, looking as baffled as he sounded. “I need to ask first. Stay here, please.”

“If you insist,” Ghost said, giving him a grand smile.

When the door shut, Ghost’s humor quickly fled. He leaned against the temple, letting out a heavy breath. Simply clutching the door with his right hand had flooded it with pain, and his feet were beginning to swell from his barefoot walk to the temple. The feeling of light-headedness was helping none, either. Food had never been consistent in the dungeons, and despite his exit, he’d not had much to eat. It felt like his stomach was forever tied into a knot, and he knew it might take weeks before his normal appetite returned. It seemed almost laughable what he’d promised Melody he’d accomplish. Kill the Watcher? Ghost closed his eyes and felt the cold of the marble against his cheek. As he was now, he had a better chance of beating down the temple with his bare fists than killing someone like him. Someone whose rage had seemed endless, whose speed and skill, already brilliant, became something otherworldly upon witnessing the death of his friend, Senke. But a promise was a promise, and he’d not go back on it now.

The door opened fully, and an older man with a waist-long beard stepped out.

“Follow me,” he said. There was no hiding his distaste at the white paint across Ghost’s face. “Calan said he’d meet with you, though only Ashhur knows why.”

The man led him through the entryway, and the crimson carpet beneath Ghost’s feet felt divine. Once within the grand worship hall, they veered right, up to a single door that was partially ajar. Without waiting for permission, Ghost yanked it open and stepped inside.

An older man waited for him, in a room sparsely furnished but for a large bookshelf, a desk, and the simple bed he sat upon. His round head was bald, his face cleanly shaven. His beady green eyes seemed to light up at Ghost’s entrance, though there was no doubt plenty of hesitance as well.

“Most sick and feeble have the decency to wait until morning for me to pray at their sides,” Calan said, slowly rising from his bed.

“I am not most sick and feeble,” Ghost said.

“You’re exactly like them, just with more pride. Have a seat, if you’d prefer. At my desk is fine.”

Ghost settled into the wooden chair, and he pulled the hood from his face. In the candlelight, he knew he must look quite a sight, and hoping to blunt away any questions, he extended his hands.

“I am in need of healing,” he said. “And I do not know of any other who might be better at the art.”

“I think it safe to say I’m the only one of my ilk you know,” Calan said, staring at Ghost’s hands. “Which makes your praise rather … unimpressive.”

The priest took a step closer, and slowly he took Ghost’s hands. Finger by finger he scanned them, the lines on his brow deepening.

“I’ve seen marks like this before,” he whispered. “But only twice in all my years. You’ve been at the mercy of a gentle toucher, haven’t you?”

Ghost was impressed at how fast he discerned it, and he felt a glimmer of hope that he still might be made well.

“I have,” he said.

“How long?”

He swallowed.

“Four years.”

Calan looked up from his hands, his eyes wide.

“Four years? By Ashhur, you poor soul. Consider yourself blessed you’re even alive and of sound mind.”

“How do you know I’m of sound mind?” Ghost asked as Calan sat down before him.

“You have a charisma about you,” Calan said, inspecting Ghost’s feet as he had his hands. “If you’d come in here shouting and ranting, or perhaps groveling, then I might be more uncertain.”

“I’ve never been one to grovel,” Ghost said, and immediately his memories reminded him of the lie it was, the way he’d begged for the gentle touchers to put an end to his suffering. It’d only been once, just that once, but still he felt the shame of it haunting him. Calan seemed to notice his unease, but he said nothing of it, only stood and tapped his lips with his fingers.

“They were careful with you,” he said. “That, plus Ashhur’s power, gives you hope. Close your eyes, Ghost, and give me your hands.”

Ghost swallowed, and he felt a tightening in his chest. He did as he was told, and he reached out, felt the older man’s thinner, wrinkled hands press upon his. The contact sent a brief spike of pain up his arm, and he gritted his teeth against it.

“This won’t be easy,” Calan said. “And forgive me, but this will hurt.”

Bony fingers clamped down tight, and Ghost clenched his teeth harder. Despite his self-control, he let out a gasp of pain. The whisperings of a prayer reached his ears, but the words were soft, and he could not focus on them. He felt a tearing, the pressure tightening, the fluid in his fingers dripping down his arms as Calan lifted all four of their hands to the ceiling. The words of the prayer quickened, its intensity growing. A sound, like that of a distant ringing, flooded his mind. Ghost had been healed before of a sickness in his knee, but something about this time differed. Was it the age of the injuries, or the sheer amount across his fingers? He didn’t know, and he felt strangely uncomfortable in asking.

He looked only once, and the blinding white light shining from Calan’s hands as it enveloped his own was enough to make him close his eyes and leave them shut until the prayer ended and Calan let him go.

“Was it enough?” he heard Calan ask, and so he opened his eyes.

Where once his fingers had been swollen, they were now back to their original size. The many scars remained, white fleshy dots across his obsidian skin, but they no longer caused him pain. His fingertips, always the worst, were now slick with blood and pus, and he asked for a rag so he might clean them off.

“They feel better,” Ghost said as he accepted a square of white cloth from the priest. He gingerly applied it to his fingertips and was surprised at how he felt no pain at all at its touch. It was strange, like stepping backward to a time before the gentle touchers, the needles, and the permanent care he’d had to take in handling even the smallest of objects.

“Not done yet,” Calan said, sounding out of breath. “Your feet now.”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, heels resting on the soft carpet, and then closed his eyes when the priest wrapped his fingers around the tips of his toes. Again came the pressure, this time broader, more evenly spread out across the entirety of his foot. Again, he felt liquid running down to his heel and then dripping to the floor, and it was shockingly cold. The words of the prayer came and went, the light faded, the ethereal hum died, and at last Ghost opened his eyes.

“Amazing,” Ghost said as he wiped the blood and pus from his feet. Calan took the rag from him, cleaned off what he could not see, then wiped it across the carpet, even though it clearly would not remove the stain.

“What is amazing is that I did not make you wait until morning,” said the priest, rising to a stand. “Falling asleep has slowly gotten more difficult over the years, and interrupted rest does not tend to improve matters.”

Ghost ignored him, instead flexing his hands and taking several careful steps back and forth. The priest watched him, his mood turning somber.

“What is it you plan on doing with those hands?” Calan asked. “Will you hurt and kill, as you once did?”

Everyone knew priests of Ashhur could sense a lie as easily as a normal man could feel the wind blowing on his skin. So instead, Ghost avoided it altogether.

“If I say yes, would you have still healed me?” he asked.

The priest chuckled, and he lay back down on his bed and groaned in pleasure as he settled underneath the covers.

“I would have healed you anyway, yes,” he said.

“Then why ask, if it changes nothing?”

The priest shrugged.

“Was hoping you’d put my mind at ease, is all. But I would rather help all I can instead of helping no one for fear of aiding a man with evil in his heart.”

“Seems naïve,” said Ghost. “There are some men that should receive no blessings, for there is nothing good left within them.”

Calan looked over at him, let a smile crack his face.

“I remember you, Ghost. You’re not one people tend to forget, and more than anything, I remember feeling there was a speck of hope buried down deep, perhaps lost along with your original name. Naïve or not, I will be here if you need me. You endured a long time in darkness in our cruel, cold world, and if there is anything this cruel, cold world hates most, it is letting go.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Is it all right if I see myself out?”

“Shut the door behind you,” Calan said, rolling over and putting his back to him. “And snuff out the candles, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The temple was only the first of Ghost’s many stops he had planned for that night. Gaining the strength back in his hands and feet was an important one, and relied solely on the mystical arts Ashhur’s priests were known for. His next step, however, was one far more firmly rooted in the material realm. He hurried to the main road running north to south through the heart of Veldaren, then turned south. Not far into the district, he took a left, stopping before a squat little cube of a building. It bore no written sign, just a large board above the doorway, marked by an image of an x formed by the crossing of a sword and an ink quill.

Ghost checked the door, found it barred on the other side. He frowned, considered trying to break it down, decided otherwise. He had a feeling such measures would be unnecessary.

“Bill!” he cried, banging on the door with his fists. “Bill Trett, get your ass out of bed and to this door!”

Making such a ruckus at night might normally have unnerved him, but four years under torture had removed much of his caution. What enemies did he have that might come for him? Only one, the Watcher, and if he had not already spotted his white face hurrying through the streets, then hollering at the mercenary guild’s headquarters would hurt matters none.

“Bill!” His fist thumped against the wood, and he took considerable pleasure in its rough feel, and more importantly, how it caused no pain to his hand. “I know you’re there, Bill; now open the door!”

When he paused to listen, he heard a scuffling, coupled with a veritable barrage of curses, at last followed by a lifting of the bar.

The door flung open, and an old man with a badly scarred face and bushy white unibrow stepped forward, a dagger in hand.

“What the bloody Abyss do you want?” Bill asked. “Answer now, before I stab you in the…”

The man froze, and his watery eyes widened as he caught sight of Ghost in the moonlight.

“Well, I never,” he said. “Ghost? Is that really you?”

“Back from the dead,” Ghost said. “Now put that toothpick away and let me in.”

Bill hobbled away from the door, but he kept ahold of the dagger. The man wore a long night robe, and when Ghost stepped inside the cluttered mess of papers, names, lists of locations and jobs all strewn about the shelves, he was not surprised to see a single cot in the center of the room.

“I thought you might sleep here,” Ghost said.

“Not much point in going home,” Bill said, stumbling back to his cot. “Only time I ever leave is to get drunk at a bar. It’s more interesting than getting drunk here, anyway.”

He crossed his arms, looked to sit, then changed his mind. Ghost could tell he wanted to ask dozens of questions but had far too much discipline to do so. Just one of many reasons the man had risen to his position when his time as a mercenary ended.

“I’ve been away,” Ghost said. “And not taking other jobs, either, so don’t hassle me about my dues. I’m out now, though, and have several kills already lined up.”

“An interesting person who’d hire you looking like, well…” Bill gestured to Ghost’s ratty clothing, his bare feet, and his clear lack of weaponry. “Like you do now. Did they dig you up out of the ground before offering the job?”

Ghost cracked a smile.

“You’re closer than you think, Bill. But I need coin, swords, and clothing. Given all I did for the guild, I feel I’m due.”

Bill frowned.

“You know I don’t keep any coin here overnight. Guild policy.”

Ghost gave him a look.

“All right, fine. Follow me, you bastard. But if I do this, I want one question answered after it’s all said and done. That fair?”

“Fair as this world can be.”

Only a third of the building was used to greet wealthy clientele needing to hire escorts outside the city, patrols for their property, or more permanent protection for their various farms, mines, and homes scattered throughout Dezrel. Past a door behind the counter, they entered the rest of the building, which was a single storage room. Two tall windows let in enough moonlight for him to see rows of shelves filling the center, and they were stocked with all kinds of weapons, armor, and clothing. Ghost beamed at the sight.

“Always knew I could count on you,” he said.

“Until you vanished, I could always count on you,” Bill said.

Ghost glared at him, and the old man quickly apologized.

“Just take what you need,” he said. “I’ll write it off as an expense at bringing you back into the fold. A man of your skills could easily find work today, especially given all the insanity we’ve been seeing in the city lately.”

“Anything beyond the usual?” Ghost asked. “Or is Thren’s private war finally dying down?”

“Dying down?” Bill asked, and he looked confused. “That ended when the Watcher’s truce began. Was about the same time you vanished, Ghost. Most of us just thought you were one of the many casualties of that night.”

Watcher’s truce?

Ghost realized just how badly behind the times he was. Four years had passed, and in the underworld, such a span could be a lifetime. It wasn’t just food and water he’d been starved of by the gentle touchers.

“So, did this Watcher kill him?” Ghost asked as he lifted the lid on one crate to see five or six short swords. None looked in good enough condition for him to use, plus their length would not be sufficient to fully utilize his height and reach. “I don’t see Thren Felhorn as one to sign any sort of truce.”

“You’d think,” Bill said. “But no, Thren’s alive, at least last I knew. Things have gotten hectic, what with the Sun Guild’s arrival and the Spider Guild’s disbandment.”

Ghost froze, a plain gray shirt held before him to check its size.

“Disbandment?” he asked. “Bill, if you are trying to amuse me…”

“It’s too damn late for jokes,” Bill said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe leading into the storage room. “The Sun Guild’s come in from Mordeina, and they’ve hit like a gods-damned thunderstorm. The Hawk Guild has been fully destroyed along with the Spiders, and both the Shadow Guild and the Serpent Guild are serving like the loyal little bitches that they are. As for the Wolf Guild, from what I’ve been hearing, it should fold within the week. I think the only ones left to fight are the Ash, but honestly, they’re fighting a hopeless struggle. Anyone can see that, and I’m sure they do too, hence why they’ve been lying low.”

“So, we trade one rat for another,” Ghost said. “Does the difference really matter in the end? Either way, the city remains filled with vermin.”

Bill shrugged.

“At least we used to know who the rats were. This Darkhand fellow is a giant mystery to most of us. When you’re in the business of killing, mysteries are rarely a good thing.”

Ghost removed his old shirt and replaced it with the new one. It was overly tight, but he flexed his arms a few times until it stretched. In the next crate, he found a stack of four breeches, and taking the biggest, he put them on next. Bill crossed his arms and turned away to give him some privacy.

“What can you tell me about the Gemcrofts?” Ghost asked as he tightened its drawstring, then grabbed a pair of boots he’d found during his scavenge.

“Alyssa’s still running things there, though not for long.” Bill turned back around, and he looked glum as he continued. “That crazy woman’s been great to our guild, always kept things interesting, but she’s in over her head now. Some sick man took out her eyes, left her blind. Her mother’s been steadily taking over responsibility, especially given Nathaniel’s age.”

“Nathaniel?”

“Her son.”

Ghost grunted, finished tying the boots, and then continued with his search for supplies. If Melody Gemcroft was coming to him to kill Alyssa’s protector as a way to ensure Melody’s ascension, then Bill was right about Alyssa’s days being numbered. His role looked to be little more than paving the way for whatever else Melody had planned. He wondered if she would come to him afterward, ask him to deal with Nathaniel or Alyssa herself. The idea put a twist in his stomach, but given the freedom Melody had brought to him, what did a few more killings matter?

“Do you have a mirror?” Ghost asked as he found a weapon rack hanging on the wall, and his eyes lit up at seeing the many swords.

“In here somewhere.”

“Help me find it.”

Bill began rummaging, and as he did Ghost pulled two similarly sized swords from the rack, tested their weight. They felt a bit heavy, but he knew his time in the dungeon was more to blame for that than the swords themselves. His arms would grow stronger, their weight less noticeable in time. Beneath the rack was a box with old sword belts, and he grabbed one, looped it around his waist, and slid both sheathed blades into it.

“Here you are,” Bill said, coming over from the corner.

Ghost grabbed it, then returned to the front of the guildhouse to stand in the light of the candles. When he could see, he drew one of his swords, lifted the mirror, and examined his face. He’d never been capable of growing much hair on his face, and in the four years of capture, his uneven beard was disgusting to behold. Slowly, Ghost scraped the blade’s edge along his face, slicing away the growth and congealed bits of white paint. Bill watched in silence, his arms crossed, until Ghost began cutting at his hair.

“If you’re going to shave your head, do it right,” Bill said, retrieving a small satchel from underneath his desk and tossing it to him. “Use a damn razor like a civilized man.”

Ghost flashed him a grin.

“Civilized,” he said. “Is that what you think I am?”

Still, the razor was small and sharp, and it cut across his scalp smoothly. It took some time, and he could see how annoyed Bill was at having the dirty hair fall upon his floor, but when he was done, Ghost felt more relieved than he had in ages. He turned side to side, scanning his face in the mirror. There were scars around his neck now, and a thinness to his cheeks that only time and plentiful food would remove. His eyes in particular were sunken inward and rimmed with dark circles. The gaunt look was unnerving, he had to admit.

Taking the box of paint Melody had given him out from his pocket, he dipped his fingers inside and began to smear it across his newly shaven face. Thicker and thicker he spread the paint, whitening him, hiding him. The last thing he wanted his opponents to see was himself, not with how sick and tired he felt. He needed to be the killer again, the brutal hunter no one could escape. With his swords, his clothes, his paint, he was as close to that as he’d been since being thrown into the Connington dungeons, and as the last of the paint spread across his neck, he let out a wide smile.

“How do I look?” he asked, setting down the mirror.

“Like your old self,” Bill said.

“And for that, I have you to thank.” Ghost dipped his head in respect. “Keep quiet about my return. Once my tasks are over, I plan on traveling far from Veldaren, and if I can, I’d like to ensure no one can follow me.”

“Of course,” Bill said. “Besides, who would believe me? All they’d think is that an old man saw himself a ghost in his sleep.”

He grinned at his own joke, and Ghost slapped the man across the shoulder.

“A shame we never fought side by side,” he said. “No doubt you were a fine mercenary.”

“Best this sorry guild ever saw.”

Before Ghost could leave, Bill returned to the front, used a key from his pocket to unlock a drawer, and then pulled out a small bag tied shut with string.

“Take it,” Bill said. “It’ll rent you a room for a bit, buy you meals when you must. And find yourself a washbasin. Even for a man of the streets, you reek.”

“The guild will not be happy with its disappearance,” said Ghost, accepting the offer.

Bill laughed.

“You don’t get it, Ghost. That there is a death bag, for families of those who die on the job. You had no family and so we kept it, but now I daresay that coin belongs to you. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ghost flashed him a smile.

“The guild has no idea how lucky it is to have a man like you.”

“Perhaps. Before you go … you promised me a question.”

“I did,” Ghost said. “So ask it, and I promise to answer the best I can.”

Bill clapped his hands together, clearly nervous. Bobbing his head up and down, almost like an old bird, he finally asked his question.

“Where have you been all this time?”

Ghost thought it over, the years, the tortures, the dungeon cell. It seemed impossible to explain it all, nor did he desire to. So, he kept it simple, and gave the only answer that mattered.

“Darkness.”

And with that, he stepped out into the night, and he breathed in the air like a man newly awoken.

“Zusa,” he said, testing out the name of his prey. The Watcher and the Eschaton were both formidable opponents, but this woman was unknown to him. He’d take his time, gather his strength before challenging them, but until then, he knew he should find out more about his mystery target. As Bill adeptly put it, in the killing business, mysteries were rarely a good thing. More often than not, they got you killed.

Well, if Zusa was Alyssa’s watchdog, then there was only one real place to expect her to be. Ghost followed the street north for a mile, keeping his eyes open for the various thief guilds as he did. At the height of the war between the Trifect and the thief guilds, Ghost knew he could have spotted at least one man or woman keeping watch in practically every road. Now, though, he found himself feeling more and more alone. Where were the guilds? Where were their watchful eyes? When the Sun Guild destroyed them, did they have no intention of replacing their numbers with their own?

When he turned west down Copper Road, he paused. Nearby was one of many taverns, and dug into the very ground at its entrance he saw a stone tile. Its newness, as well as its stark gray contrast to the worn brown dirt, made it stand out all the more. Carved into the front of it was a four-pointed star.

“You mark your territory with stone,” Ghost said, and he chuckled. “No wonder you’ve crushed Veldaren’s weak, hollow guilds so easily.”

A scrawny man with a similar emblem sewn onto the front of his vest leaned against the tavern, just shy of the door, and he gestured him closer.

“Leaf, powder, or woman?” the man asked him, and his accent was one Ghost recognized immediately, that of western Mordan, where he himself had grown up.

“Perhaps later, when the night is not so young,” Ghost said.

“Out on business, then?” the man asked, and he pulled up his dagger so that the light from the tavern flickered across it. “Make sure it’s something we wouldn’t mind you doing in our city.”

“Your city?” Ghost asked, and he smirked at the dagger. “You’ll need more than just that little knife to claim a place like Veldaren.”

The scrawny man smirked back.

“You’d be surprised how well these little knives work when wielded in the hands of thousands.”

Ghost purposefully put his back to him and marched on. There’d be no conflict between him and the Sun Guild, not unless he started one, but it annoyed him anyway, just hearing the arrogance in the man’s voice. If there was ever a city in the world where power was ephemeral, it was Veldaren, and it’d take more than a few stone slabs to change that fact.

Down the street he walked, even more brazen than before. This time, he did see a few men tailing him, and he had little doubt as to what guild they belonged.

At last, he reached the sprawling gates to the Gemcroft mansion. A single man remained on guard at the front, standing there with his sword sheathed and his eyes drooping. Ghost remained in the shadows of the other nearby homes, curling around toward the western side. From there, he had a fine view of the expansive garden and green grass that filled the border between the fence and the mansion proper. Climbing the fence wouldn’t have been too difficult, though the sharpened spikes at the top did give him some pause. But entering the complex wasn’t necessary for his task.

If Melody needed Ghost to kill this Zusa, and considered her Alyssa’s loyal watchdog, then he had a hunch she was someone more like him and less like the bored guard out front. Someone skilled, someone capable of wielding a blade like a living extension of themselves. And someone like that would not take long to notice Ghost lurking just outside the fence, his painted face grinning in the moonlight.

Ghost settled in, arms crossed and legs folded beneath him, but the wait was not long.

“You pick a strange place to sit and rest,” said a woman’s voice from above the fence top. Ghost looked up, and his jaw dropped. The woman perched atop the bars of the fence, her legs angled as to keep the pointed tops from piercing her flesh … he recognized her. He recognized that tattered cloak, those dark wrappings, and most of all, that beautiful face with the piercing dark brown eyes.

Ghost rose to his feet, and he kept his hands on the hilts of his swords.

“Forgive me,” he said. “But I was denied the chance to discover your name before, yet today I think I was gifted such knowledge. Zusa?”

The woman tensed at the mention of her name, and he saw her peering down at him with new understanding. When the realization hit her, it might as well have been his fist.

“I remember you,” she said. “You tried to kill me years ago.”

“A simple misunderstanding,” he said. “I thought you were the Watcher, remember?”

Zusa vaulted off the fence and landed light as a feather in front of Ghost. Her daggers were drawn, and she made no attempt to hide that fact.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

Ghost laughed, and he shook his head, hardly able to believe it. The strange woman he’d had but a single exchange with, the one he’d challenged in a race to find and kill the Watcher … she was Zusa, the one Melody needed killed?

How disappointing.

“Forgive me,” Ghost said, “but I do not enjoy this fact any more than you will. I am to kill you, Zusa.”

She froze, her whole body going tense. Those brown eyes widened, and Ghost knew a single quick movement on his part would set her tumbling. So instead, he remained calm, the hilts to his swords still comfortably resting in his large palms.

“It’s a strange assassin who reveals himself and then his plans,” Zusa said, clearly distrusting his statement.

“Look at my face,” Ghost said. “Strangeness and I are welcome bedfellows. But I only wished to speak with you, Zusa, and give you warning. You deserve as much, so consider this a token to make up for my earlier rudeness.”

“I am not one for games,” Zusa said, taking a careful step backward. “If you are to kill me, then draw your swords now and try.”

“I said strangeness and I are welcome bedfellows,” said Ghost. “Not foolishness. We will fight when I am ready, Zusa.” His grip on his swords tightened. “Either that, or you can charge me now and die. The choice is yours.”

He stared her down, the animal instincts of the killer resurfacing with such clarity and familiarity, he was shocked by their strength. This moment, this calm before the bloodshed, was one he’d always cherished. Never more was he so close to death, yet so alive.

Zusa leaped, but it was backward, a vaulting flip that sent her over the spiked tips and onto the grass behind the fence.

“So full of surprises,” Ghost said. “Perhaps you will not be the first to die.”

“Stay away from my family,” Zusa said. “Stay away from my home.”

“I’m only here for you,” Ghost said, deciding to toss her a bone. “If you seek threats to your home and family, look elsewhere.”

Zusa’s eyes narrowed.

“Be gone by morning,” she said, then turned and fled back toward the house.

Ghost let go of a blade and saluted her departure. Yes, she was definitely interesting, the strange wrappings, that intense stare … not to mention her ability to leap through the air as if she were but a sparrow on the wind. He would save her for later, perhaps even for after the Watcher’s death.

He strolled away from the fence, a bounce to his step. If she was to wait and the Watcher was to be last, then that meant the Eschaton Mercenaries would be the first to die.