Blood of the Underworld(22)

“You are strong,” she said. “None can defeat you, so do not be afraid.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Haern said, but despite the frustration in his voice, he did not pull away from her touch. “I may kill thousands, but I will still die. What happens then, Zusa? What will I have accomplished? There will be no peace when I am buried, only a celebration of fire, theft, and murder.”

Zusa swallowed.

“Tears will be shed.”

“Not for me.”

“You are wrong.”

He stood, but his head remained low, his back hunched. His cloaks curled over him like gray wings.

“What if you’re right, and it is pointless?” Zusa said, feeling her temper flaring. “Why continue?”

Haern chuckled.

“Because I’m not dead yet. Have a safe night, Zusa.”

“You too, Watcher.”

Pulling his hood over his head hid his face in shadow, but she could still see his mouth, and the way it curled into a half-smile at the mention of the Watcher.

“Haern,” he said. “To you, let me always be Haern. The Watcher should have no friends.”

At this she laughed, then blew him a kiss as he vanished into the night. Staring where he’d been, she thought on his words.

“Victor,” she whispered. “Who is Victor?”

Haern had told her to look into it, so she would, but not yet. With his absence, her mind drifted once more to the mansion, and Melody waiting there. Must she burden Alyssa with even more worries? Whoever this Victor was, Zusa hoped that he would indeed be friend instead of foe. Their life was turned upside down enough as it was.

She took once more to running across the rooftops, the exertion welcome to her muscles. She was getting older, felt it in her bones. It had been nine years since she’d stumbled upon a frightened, endangered Alyssa. Zusa had been young then, but not anymore. It seemed everyone she knew was getting older. How long until even the Watcher was nothing but bent back and wrinkled hands? At the image, she laughed. As if Haern would ever age. He probably wouldn’t let it happen, too stubborn for even time to defeat him.

Old instincts guided her along, up walls, through windows, and across dark alleys many feared to tread when the sun went down. She was unaware of where she went, her thoughts elsewhere, but when she crept to the top of a roof and stared out across the street before her, she shivered. Sinking into old patterns, she’d come to the Temple of Karak, hidden deep in Veldaren’s wealthy district. A thousand memories assaulted her, most of them painful. The beatings. The trials. The methodical breaking of everything that made her a woman, coupled with the hiding of her body and face with cloth and wrappings. The priests had branded her a Faceless, an outcast meant only to serve in penance.

But not all the memories were terrible. She fondly recalled her fellow sisters, Eliora and Nava, and their camaraderie in face of such persecution. And of course, Daverik’s touch, the taste of his lips, before they’d been discovered, and punished...

A chill spread through her chest, and she shoved such memories away. Looking to the temple, she muttered a curse, a hope that the earth would swallow up the obsidian pillars and lion statues, leaving nothing but a scar where the temple had been. And it was then that she saw the movement, just a shadow among shadows. The sight of it nearly stopped her heart.

“No,” she whispered.

Drawing her daggers, she leapt from the roof and gave chase. It had been heading north, a black shape with a cloak. But it was no thief she’d seen. Oh no, something far worse than that. Her legs pumped, and she was but a blur on the streets. When she lost sight of her prey, she leapt atop a nearby home and catapulted herself into the air. Calling upon the innate powers she’d developed over her years of training, she sailed forward, her arms outward, her daggers pointed down like the talons of a hawk. As she slowly fell, she once more spotted her prey. Twisting her arms together, Zusa spun, and she plummeted at a vicious speed.

When she landed, it was upon a large two-story set of homes, the roof long and flat. Before her, at the edge of the roof, was her nightmare. She wore black and dark purple wrappings, tightly woven around her body. A white cloth covered her face, masking her features. A grey cloak trailed behind her.

Another Faceless.

“Who are you?” Zusa asked as the other woman turned around, her own daggers drawn.

“You?” the Faceless Woman said, her voice revealing her surprise. “Zusa, yes? The betrayer, the murderer of the faithful. They’ve told us of you, warned us of your blasphemy.”

“They?” asked Zusa, her whole body tensing. “I was the last of the Faceless. What cruel joke are you?”