Clarisse paled again, and Lysandra began shaking. “Please, Celaena,” Lysandra begged. “We didn’t—I would never—”
Someone knocked on the front door.
Aelin slid her hands into her pockets. “Well, well. What good timing.”
The Master of the Bank looked as if he might vomit at the sight of blood-covered Lysandra, but then he sighed with something like relief when he spied Aelin. Lysandra and Clarisse now sat in twin armchairs while the Master took a seat behind the little writing desk before the towering bay windows, Tern and his cronies hovering like vultures. Aelin leaned against the wall beside the doorway, arms crossed, Aedion flanking her left side and Rowan her right.
As the Master went on and on with his condolences and apologies, she felt Rowan’s eyes on her.
He took a step nearer, as if to brush his arm against hers. She sidled out of reach.
Rowan was still staring at her when the Master opened a sealed envelope and cleared his throat. He spouted some legal jargon and offered his condolences again, which gods-damned Clarisse had the audacity to accept as though she were Arobynn’s widow.
Then came the long list of Arobynn’s assets—his business investments, his properties, and the enormous, outrageous fortune left in his account. Clarisse was practically drooling on the carpet, but Arobynn’s three assassins kept their faces carefully neutral.
“It is my will,” the Master read, “that the sole beneficiary of all my fortune, assets, and holdings should be my heir, Celaena Sardothien.”
Clarisse whipped around in her chair, fast as an adder. “What?”
“Bullshit,” Aedion blurted.
Aelin just stared at the Master, her mouth a bit open, her hands falling slack to her sides. “Say that again,” she breathed.
The Master gave a nervous, watery smile. “Everything—all of it, is left to you. Well, except for … this sum to Madam Clarisse, to settle his debts.” He showed Clarisse the paper.
“That’s impossible,” the madam hissed. “He promised I was in that will.”
“And you are,” Aelin drawled, pushing off the wall to peer over Clarisse’s shoulder at the small number. “Don’t get greedy, now.”
“Where are the duplicates?” Tern demanded. “Have you inspected them?” He stormed around the table to examine the will.
The Master flinched, but held up the parchment—signed by Arobynn and utterly legal. “We verified the copies in our vaults this morning. All identical, all dated from three months ago.”
When she’d been in Wendlyn.
She stepped forward. “So, aside from that teensy sum for Clarisse … all of this—this house, the Guild, the other properties, his fortune—it’s all mine?”
The Master nodded again, already scrambling to pack up his case. “Congratulations, Miss Sardothien.”
Slowly, she turned her head toward Clarisse and Lysandra. “Well, if that’s the case …” She bared her teeth in a vicious smile. “Get your whoring, blood-sucking carcasses the hell off my property.”
The Master choked.
Lysandra couldn’t move fast enough as she rushed for the door. Clarisse, however, remained seated. “How dare you—” the madam began.
“Five,” Aelin said, holding up five fingers. She lowered one, and reached for her dagger with her other hand. “Four.” Another. “Three.”
Clarisse hauled ass from the room, bustling after a sobbing Lysandra.
Then Aelin looked at the three assassins. Their hands hung limp at their sides, fury and shock and—wisely enough—something like fear on their faces.
She said too quietly, “You held Sam back while Arobynn beat me into oblivion, and then didn’t raise a finger to stop it when Arobynn beat him, too. I don’t know what role you played in his death, but I will never forget the sounds of your voices outside my bedroom door as you fed me the details about Rourke Farran’s house. Was it easy for you three? To send me to that sadist’s house, knowing what he’d done to Sam and what he was aching to do to me? Were you just following orders, or were you more than happy to volunteer?”
The Master had recoiled in his chair, trying to make himself as invisible as possible in a room full of professional killers.
Tern’s lip curled. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Pity. I might have been willing to listen to some paltry excuses.” She looked at the clock on the mantel. “Pack your clothes and get the hell out. Right now.”
They blinked. “What?” Tern said.
“Pack your clothes,” she said, enunciating each word. “Get the hell out. Right now.”
“This is our home,” Harding said.
“Not anymore.” She picked at her nails. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Master,” she purred, and the man cringed at the attention. “I own this house and everything in it. Tern, Harding, and Mullin haven’t yet paid back their debts to poor Arobynn, so I own everything they have here—even their clothes. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll let them keep those, since their taste is shit-awful anyway. But their weapons, their client lists, the Guild … All of that is mine. I get to decide who’s in and who’s out. And since these three saw fit to accuse me of murdering my master, I say they’re out. If they try to work again in this city, on this continent, then by law and by the laws of the Guild, I have the right to hunt them down and chop them into itty-bitty pieces.” She batted her eyelashes. “Or am I wrong?”The Master’s gulp was audible. “You are correct.”
Tern took a step toward her. “You can’t—you can’t do this.”
“I can, and I will. Queen of the Assassins sounds so nice, doesn’t it?” She waved to the door. “See yourselves out.”
Harding and Mullin made to move, but Tern flung his arms out, stopping them. “What the hell do you want from us?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t mind seeing you three gutted and hanging from the chandeliers by your insides, but I think it would ruin these very beautiful carpets that I’m now the owner of.”
“You can’t just toss us out. What will we do? Where will we go?”
“I hear hell is particularly nice at this time of year.”
“Please—please,” Tern said, his breath coming fast.
She stuffed her hands into her pockets and surveyed the room. “I suppose …” She made a thoughtful sound. “I suppose I could sell you the house, and the land, and the Guild.”
“You bitch—” Tern spat, but Harding stepped forward. “How much?” he asked.
“How much were the property and the Guild valued at, Master?”
The Master looked like a man walking up to the gallows as he opened his file again and found the sum. Astronomical, outrageous, impossible for the three of them to pay.
Harding ran a hand through his hair. Tern had turned a spectacular shade of purple.
“I take it you don’t have that much,” Aelin said. “Too bad. I was going to offer to sell it all to you at face value—no markup.”
She made to turn away, but Harding said, “Wait. What if we all paid together—the three of us and the others. So we all owned the house and the Guild.”
She paused. “Money’s money. I don’t give a shit where you get it from, so long as it’s given to me.” She angled her head toward the Master. “Can you have the papers drawn up today? Providing they come through with the money, of course.”
“This is insane,” Tern murmured to Harding.
Harding shook his head. “Be quiet, Tern. Just—be quiet.”
“I … ,” the Master said. “I—I can have them made up and ready within three hours. Will that be adequate time for you to provide proof of sufficient funds?”
Harding nodded. “We’ll find the others and tell them.”
She smiled at the Master and at the three men. “Congratulations on your new freedom.” She pointed to the door again. “And as I am mistress of this house for another three hours … get out. Go find your friends, get your money together, and then sit on the curb like the trash you are until the Master returns.”
They wisely obeyed, Harding clamping down on Tern’s hand to keep him from giving her a vulgar gesture. When the Master of the Bank left, the assassins spoke to their colleagues, and every inhabitant of the house filed outside one by one, even the servants. She didn’t care what the neighbors made of it.
Soon the giant, beautiful manor house was empty save for her, Aedion, and Rowan.
They silently followed as she walked through the door to the lower levels and descended into the dark to see her master one last time.
Rowan didn’t know what to make of it. A whirlwind of hate and rage and violence, that was what she’d become. And none of these piss-poor assassins had been surprised—not even a blink at her behavior. From Aedion’s pale face, he knew the general was thinking the same thing, contemplating the years she’d spent as that unyielding and vicious creature. Celaena Sardothien—that was who she’d been then, and who she’d become today.
He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t reach her when she was that person. Hated that he’d snapped at her last night, had panicked at the touch of her hands. Now she’d shut him out entirely. This person she’d become today had no kindness, no joy.