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  A dark presence swam up inside of him, responding to his mood. You sound like a simpering child, the voice murmured.

  No one asked you, Crash thought.

  The demon only laughed. You can’t hide from me, little snake, it sneered. Take her, if that’s what you want. Spend yourself. I know what you crave—why fight it?

  Crash grimaced. Silence, fiend, he thought coldly.

  The demon showed its fangs. So noble, it mocked. So sincere.

  Crash turned away, staunchly ignoring it.

  The demon snarled suddenly, demanding his attention. Do it, the beast pressed, climbing up his throat to perch behind his eyes, furrowing his brow. Take her. She told you herself—she wants you.

  Crash grabbed his dagger suddenly and flung it into the wall—thunk! It quivered, embedded deeply in the wood. He seethed for a moment, rage flickering behind his eyes. Press me once more, and I will slit both our throats, he threatened. He meant it, and the demon hissed in reply. If anything could hurt Sora—if anything could ruin her, could break her in two—it was the malevolent and sick-minded beast that cursed his body. He would not let that happen.

  The creature shuddered, then slunk to the back of his mind. It faded from his thoughts, though he still sensed it just beneath the surface of his skin, taunting him, biding its time. Since the Dark God’s weapons entered the world, his demon had become increasingly difficult to control, and such bouts of inner struggle had become commonplace. He trained each morning for more reasons than to keep his skill sharp—he had to remain strong to contain the beast within him.

  Crash stood up, anger still surging through him, and struggled for a moment to rein in his emotions. Eventually, the blank, cold mask of the assassin fell back in place. Then he pulled his knife from the wall and headed out the door.

  He slipped down the hallway past several cabins. For such a narrow ship, the Dawn Seeker contained a lot of rooms. Most cabins held no more than a small bunk and a porthole window, barely bigger than a closet. Noise traveled an exceptional distance through the walls, though at this late hour, most of the crew were asleep, except for the handful manning the sails.

  He counted the doors as he went by and soon arrived at the one he sought. Soft gold light shone through a crack under the door. He’s awake. He paused, glancing around to make sure the halls were empty.

  A thick wall of shadow stood to his back, swirling behind him like a dense cloak. He glared at it—dammit.

  No one will see you, the demon whispered in his thoughts.

  My threat still stands, he warned.

  The demon shied away, but couldn’t resist a response. Are we having fun tonight? it murmured, eagerly prancing against the bars of its cage, contained somewhere deep in his gut. Shall we eat him? Shall we twist his bones and peel his flesh?

  No, Crash replied, forcefully turning away from the darkness. He faced the cabin door, leaving the shadow to his back.

  Inwardly, the demon glared—another surge of anger rose in Crash’s throat. He dirtied her name, the demon said in a toxic whisper. A name is a precious thing. He deserves my fire.

  He deserves a lot of things, Crash agreed dismissively.

  Let me out, the demon whined.

  Silence, he ordered. His body shuddered slightly. The dark presence gave up and crawled away, fading again.

  Crash waited until he was certain the beast wouldn’t interfere. Then he turned the doorknob. The door opened halfway and bumped into the side of a cot. Lantern light spilled into the hall.

  Immediately, a man’s voice cursed. “By the six gods, Joan! I told you not to bother me this late!”

  Crash stepped into the room.

  Tristan froze when he saw the assassin. His face drained of color. The Dracian stood half-clothed in his undershorts, literally caught with his pants down, his shirt half-unbuttoned and trousers tossed thoughtlessly on the floor. He was a hand shorter than the assassin and a few years younger. His coppery hair looked tangled and greasy, his cheeks flushed from drinking, eyes hooded and bloodshot. He had probably come from the mess hall and was about to go to bed. Crash didn’t care.

  In two steps, he grabbed the man by his collar and heaved him effortlessly into the air.

  “Aye!” Tristan yelled. “Aye, put me down! Help! Help!”

  Crash slammed him against the wall. “Shut your disgusting mouth,” he hissed.

  Tristan’s eyes widened and his mouth snapped shut. The assassin hauled him around by his shirt and forced him out of the room, half-dragging him down the hallway. The Dracian stumbled. Pathetic whimpers issued from his throat, which is embarrassing for a full-grown man, but Dracians weren’t known for their courage.

  “Wh-where are you taking me?” Tristan gasped as Crash shoved him into the night. The assassin spun him in a half-circle and rammed his back against the railing. He pushed the Dracian until he was halfway over the side of the ship. Tristan almost screamed, but Crash’s knife-like glare shut him up. The Dracian glanced over his shoulder at the black water of the Little Rain tributary. Goosebumps rose on his skin. Crash knew the scent of fear like a predator on the hunt; Tristan reeked of prey, of undisciplined, weak-minded cowardice.

  Crash didn’t draw his dagger; he didn’t need the man pissing on his boots. He spoke directly into his face.

  “If you say anything more to hurt Sora,” he threatened venomously, “I will slit you navel-to-jaw and tie your intestines in a wreath.”

  “I-I-I’m sorry, sir, I won’t, I swear it, I won’t say a word.”

  “Oh, you’re going to speak,” Crash said, cutting him off. He leaned Tristan farther over the railing until he was completely off-balance, his arms flailing pathetically in the air, one foot off the ground. “You’re going to tell everyone you’re a liar. That you’ve wanted Sora since you first laid eyes on her, but she doesn’t want you back. That she rejected you, and you lashed out like a coward.” Crash loosened his hold slightly, letting Tristan fall a few inches over the rail. The man let out a short squeal of terror. “And if I hear you spinning tales again, I will cut out your tongue and sew your lips shut. Are we clear?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “YES!”

  Then Crash pushed him overboard.

  Tristan screamed like a wounded sow all the way down to the water, ending in a massive splash! The sound drew another sailor’s attention. He swung down from the rigging, landing on the deck nearby.

  “What happened?” the sailor demanded.

  Crash gestured over his shoulder. “I hope your friend can swim,” he said. Then he turned back to the cabins below.

  The sailor ran to the railing and leaned over the side, let out a colorful string of curses, then grabbed a long line of rope and dashed to the rear of the ship.

  Crash allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile. Then he headed below deck.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sora awoke naturally a few hours before dawn. She lay in bed for a long moment, staring at the wooden ceiling. The ship swayed peacefully. They didn’t seem to be making much speed; today Captain Silas would most likely bring out the sweeps, long oars used to manually row the ship upriver. He was counting on the winter rains to begin; the storms usually blew inland and would propel their ship up the Little Rain to the Crown’s Rush.

  Her mind traveled to her brief conversation with Crash the day before. She flexed her injured hand to test the wound beneath her bandages. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do.

  Sora stood up and dressed herself in a thick woolen shirt, belted at the waist, and snug cotton pants. She pulled her boots on one by one, stretching out her cramped legs as she did so. She was used to spending nights under the stars, which made sleeping in a small, cramped cabin difficult. She often felt suffocated, as though shut in a tight box.

  Finally, she strapped on daggers and slung her staff over one shoulder, then climbed on deck. She exited the row of cabins and walked down the side of the ship, where she paused
next to a large barrel.

  Crash lay horizontally along the aft of the boat. She knew he would be there, as he always was at this time. As she watched, he finished a quick set of press-ups, then ran through a series of sprints across the deck. His breath appeared in small bursts of vapor and he had yet to break a sweat. These simple exercises would warm up his muscles in preparation for more strenuous training.

  He finished his sprints and removed his shirt. The sky held only a slight tinge of gray, but in the dim pre-dawn light, she could see the scars that traced his powerful back. They crisscrossed every which way, some long and thin where blades had cut, or perhaps whiplashes. Others formed white, rough craters—perhaps puncture wounds from arrows or daggers. They were small but numerous and formed a fine web across his shoulders, like constellations drawn on tan parchment.

  She knew his longest scar began at his jaw and cut down his chest in a jagged white line. The bloodmage Volcrian had dealt him that wound many years ago. It should have killed him, but Crash was not a normal man.

  A new scar sat red and angry at the base of his neck, partially healed from the Isles. It looked as though someone had jammed a red-hot poker straight between his collarbones. His voice still hadn’t fully recovered from the sunstone’s burn. His tone sounded rougher, deeper than she remembered. As an assassin, it only made him seem more lethal when he spoke, like small rocks grinding behind his words.

  He paused after another set of crunches, then stood to face her, watching her quietly.

  Sora left the protection of the barrel and stepped into the open. She had prepared a little speech for this moment, but now words failed her.

  Finally, she cleared her throat. “A long time ago, you called me your student,” she said.

  He considered her for a moment, then nodded.

  “I’d like to be that again…if I could.”

  Crash observed her, then a slight smile crossed his face, a wry tug of his lips. Wordlessly, he sank into a fighting stance, his knees bent agilely and his hands held naturally before him, slightly below eye level. He beckoned her with a quick flick of his wrist.

  Sora felt mildly surprised. Well, that was easy. Then she mimicked his position, but her stance was not as smooth or comfortable. Her legs strained from her slight crouch and she hesitated before putting her left foot first. It had been a while since she practiced hand-to-hand combat and her muscles were cold.

  She first came to know Crash in the depths of Fennbog swamp, where he taught her to defend herself: to leap nimbly over roots and through tree branches, to duck and weave, block and punch, and kick with enough force to break ribs. Now—after uncovering the truth of his race, the hidden darkness of his past—she would come to know him again.

  She approached him warily and decided to attack head-on. Best to get it over with. She gave a swift punch to his face. He easily swept her hand to one side with his open palm, efficiently blocking her. One attack led into the next, and she bowled into him, attempting to knock him off-balance. He intercepted all of her blows.

  Moving faster as her muscles loosened, she caught him behind the knee with a deft kick. He fell gracefully and rolled to his feet, coming up behind her. A quick volley of strikes and jabs ensued. Now she found herself on the defensive, relying purely on muscle memory and instinct. She tried to anticipate each blow, but he moved too fast for her to watch his hands.

  Finally she saw an opening. She lunged, intending to upper-cut him in the jaw, but he caught her hand at the last minute and spun her around, pulling her against his chest. He locked her arms in front of her, tightly holding her wrists. She gasped, surprised by this abrupt change of position.

  “Softly,” he murmured against her ear, his breath unexpectedly hot on her cold cheek. “You’re too rigid.”

  “You’re too fast,” she countered.

  “You’ll be faster if you loosen up.” He held her like that for a moment too long, it seemed, or maybe she became overly focused on the warmth of his skin, the tight coil of his arms. Then he abruptly released her. “You’re worse than I remember,” he mentioned.

  She flushed. “I…I know,” she relented. “It’s the Cat’s Eye. Usually it helps me.”

  Crash raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been cheating?” he asked with mock disapproval.

  She wrinkled her nose, resisting the urge to grin. While training with her mother, she had learned the Cat’s Eye could aid her in hand-to-hand combat. The souls of past bearers still resided somewhere deep in the stone, centuries of warriors, their skills at her fingertips if only she had the control. During battle, she could feel the old warriors stir; not as specific people, but as a source of strength, a sixth sense to guide her hand and improve her reflexes.

  But now the necklace seemed stifled. It offered no hidden power, no secret help. She was just a normal girl with a few years of practice under her belt, sparring with a deadly man. And Crash was more than just an assassin, but one of the Named.

  “Again,” Crash said, and returned to his crouch. They repeated their brief battle, except this time he critiqued. He never spoke harshly, but he called out her missteps, her inconsistent footing and lack of balance. His words offered no encouragement. Everything he said was coldly logical, without flattery or pretense, but she knew this side of him. She understood his method of instruction.

  “You’re wasting energy,” he pointed out when she overextended her reach. “You’re small. Get closer before you attack.”

  “But you’ll grab me!”

  “Then wait for the right moment,” he said. “Everyone lets down their guard, even a Grandmaster.”

  She frowned, uncertain. What’s a Grandmaster? Obviously someone far more skilled than she. No time to ask. She came at him again, targeting under his ribs; a swift punch to the abdomen could deal a lot of damage.

  He trapped her arms again and pushed her back against the railing of the ship, easily overcoming her. She let out a breath of frustration.

  “Will you at least let me try?” she hissed, aggravated. How could she practice when he didn’t come down to her level? This seemed less like training and more like flaunting.

  She tried to escape his grasp, but he pinned her in place. He used his body to trap her in a living cage. She could feel his entire body against her. As her heart slowed and her head cleared, she found herself completely preoccupied by his closeness, his height and strength. The memory of their kiss was fresh in her mind, and she tried not to weaken against him. She glanced up and met his impenetrable gaze.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, hoping he didn’t notice her distraction.

  A small, teasing smile touched his face. “If I were the enemy, you’d be dead right now.”

  His words broke the spell. Her lips twisted in defiance. She slipped to one side and ducked halfway under his arm before he grabbed her again. He spun her around effortlessly and locked her against the rail. “Wrong,” he murmured. “Try again.”

  She twisted her arm inward to break his grip, then threw a punch at his exposed neck. He trapped one hand and she attacked with the other, aiming for his solar plexus. He blocked her again, easily deflecting each blow until her arms felt tied into a sailor’s knot.

  Finally they stood face-to-face, locked together, noses inches apart. “Better,” he said briefly.

  “You’re enjoying this,” she murmured, her voice huskier than intended.

  His lips twitched. He watched her.

  She cleared her throat self-consciously. She waited for him to release her, but he didn’t. Finally, she asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  “To gauge your skill.”

  She blinked at him, mildly surprised. “I thought you were just trying to humiliate me,” she said.

  His sudden smile stole her breath. “And why would I need to taunt my own student?” he murmured.

  She paused, uncertain. “Then…you’ll teach me?”

  “Of course,” he replied, as though she were a fool to doubt it. “Soon you w
ill need to defend yourself against the Shade, with or without a Cat’s Eye.”

  Sora hesitated. She hadn’t encountered the Shade before, but if they were anything like Crash…. “Are the Shade as skilled as you?” she asked slowly.

  “Some of them,” he said.

  Her face turned stubborn. “Then I will have to try harder!” She used that moment to slip from his hold, drop to the ground and roll between his legs. She leapt to her feet and dashed across the deck before he could catch her. “Ha!” she exclaimed. “I win!”

  He turned to watch her. She paused at the row of cabins and danced lightly from foot to foot, her heart hammering with exhilaration. She laughed at his bemused expression, her breath rising in small puffs of mist in the cold air. “Be on guard, Crash!” she called. “I’ll have your back against the railing next!”

  He shook his head slowly, like he was trying not to laugh. “Weapons?” he offered.

  Sora took a deep, refreshing breath of crisp morning air. Then she unslung her staff from her shoulder and held the weapon crosswise in front of her, all too ready to continue. Dawn light brightened the sky, summoning a chorus of birdsong from the forest. A variety of hoots and trills rose from the dense pine trees.

  Crash drew his thin-bladed sword and assumed another fighting stance, clasping his weapon lightly in one hand, his wrist strong and flexible. They began to circle each other slowly, responding to each other’s movements.

  Sora felt much more at ease with her staff. When they finally clashed, she was able to hold her own for several minutes. Crash paused every now and then to adjust her hands and show her subtle techniques, ways of blocking and striking in one smooth motion. Sora lost track of the number of rounds they practiced; over time, she could feel her muscles strain, her hands ache with each strike of his sword. The exertion felt good—addictive. Before she knew it, the sun was high in the sky and the ship was bustling with activity. A few sailors watched from the rigging, munching on sweet rolls for breakfast.