Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin 2)

Author: Robin LaFevers

Still smiling, I lean in toward d’Albret as if welcoming his hands around my neck. I grip the knife handle firmly and, fueled by seventeen years of the despair I have felt on behalf of those I love, whip the knife out from behind my back and plunge it into his belly, driving it upward.

D’Albret’s eyes widen in surprise, and his hold around my neck loosens. He looks faintly puzzled, as if unable to believe what I have done. I shove upward again and twist, willing the knife to damage every organ it touches, just as he has damaged every life he has touched.

As my hand grows wet with his blood, and I watch his eyes dull, I want to throw my head back and howl with victory. Instead, I yank my knife out, and he starts to slump to the ground.

Even now, with his guts spilling out onto the fine white marble, Death does not claim him and no marque rests upon his brow. It never will. That is another thing I learned from my true father that night: d’Albret is not welcome in Death’s realm. That is the promise Mortain made to all d’Albret’s victims, that d’Albret will be barred from the Underworld, his flesh fated to linger until it rots, his soul to wander restlessly until the end of time.

Madame Dinan rushes to his side and tries to shove his guts back into his belly, staining her slender white hands with blood and gore. As she calls for the surgeons, I have a vision of her new life as it spreads before her, tending to d’Albret and his unnatural wound for all the rest of her days.

I glance again at the fallen Julian’s face, as white and still as marble. That is when I understand that it was Julian’s love that was the key to this victory. His love for me, Beast’s love for Alyse, my own love for my sisters—even Jamette’s love for Julian—has driven all of us to this moment in time, each strand wrapped around the next like links in a chain.

And now d’Albret is as good as dead. And I am finally free.

Dinan looks up to glare at me. “Seize her!”

Ah, but I am not free yet. There are still over fifty men in here, and all of them are staring at me with eyes bright with the promise of violence and their own brutal nature. What did I hope? That with d’Albret’s death, they would be released from their own dark impulses and rejoice in their freedom? No, for they were drawn to him as like is drawn to like, and they eye me now with a hunger for blood and vengeance. Besides, they will have to answer to Pierre for what happened here. I grip the knife I still hold in my hand. D’Albret cannot hurt anyone again—my destiny has been fulfilled. I will not surrender to what I see lurking in the enraged faces around me. Slowly, I lift the knife and press the tip of it to my own throat.

One of the men, seeing what I intend, leaps forward. He looms over me, the helm he wears shadowing his face. I try to pull away from his grasp, but he is as quick as he is tall. When his hand closes around my wrist—the moment our skin touches—I know.

My head snaps up, and I look into a pair of light blue eyes that burn with an unholy light.

Beast.

Chapter Fifty-One

THE SIGHT OF BEAST FILLS my heart with such joy that I fear it will burst. He is dressed in d’Albret’s colors and shoves a rolled-up leather packet into my hands. His disguise buys us some time, and while his body blocks me from the other men’s view, I quickly unroll my knives. Since there is no time to don the sheaths, I stab them through my skirt, threading the blades through the thick fabric so they will not fall out.

“Bring her over here!” Captain de Lur orders.

When I am fully armed, Beast flashes one of his fierce grins at me. “Cut the tabard off, for I will not besmirch my god by fighting in d’Albret’s colors. ”

I cannot blame him. I put the tip of my knife to the tabard and cut it in half, careful that the blade does not go too far. Beast shrugs out of it and pulls his sword from its sheath. For a brief moment, the men think he means to use it on me. “You ready?” he asks.

“I’ve only been waiting on you. ”

He smiles again, then turns to face the surrounding men, and confusion erupts. As Captain de Lur takes a step toward us, there is a faint whisper of sound, then his eyes roll up and he crumples. A small rock pings to the floor.

Yannic.

Then Beast gives one of his bloodcurdling yells as the battle lust engulfs him. He raises his sword and lunges to his left to get his body and his weapon between me and the bulk of d’Albret’s soldiers.

I kick out, my foot connecting with the nearest man’s gut, up high where it will knock all the air from his lungs. Gripping a knife in each hand, I realize that all the hate in this room is no match for the love that fills me. And fill me it does, its effervescence racing along my limbs, chasing away the sorrow and fatigue, as if some holy light rather than mere blood flows in my veins.

But it is no holy light, simply me, whole and unafraid of who and what I am, eager to do the work I was born to do.

D’Albret’s men have regrouped and are rushing toward Beast. He meets the first parry, and the sound of their swords is deafening.

I tighten my grip on my knives as another soldier rushes toward me, sword drawn. As easily as if I were practicing with Annith, I duck under his blade, get inside his guard, and shove my knife into his throat. Before he has even begun to fall to the ground, I turn to meet another. But this one has witnessed my trick just now and lowers his own sword to block another such maneuver. So instead, I flip my knife around, grab it by the point, and hurl it toward him. It takes him straight through the eye, and he drops to his knees.

Two more guards approach and I turn to meet them. Time slows, like a drop of honey suspended from the tip of a knife. As I feint and parry, every move comes without conscious thought. It feels as if my body has been filled with something as cool and dark and unerring as a shadow. I am whole now. Whole and unbroken and filled with an unearthly grace that moves through me with unspeakable joy.

From out of the corner of my eye I see that the battle fever has completely consumed Beast, and he churns through the rushing guards like a plow tills through earth. Truly, we are the gods’ own children, forged in the fire of our tortured pasts, but also blessed with unimaginable gifts.

How long we fight, I do not know, but slowly, as if I am being drawn up from the bottom of some deep well, I become aware of my surroundings. Now that I have stopped fighting, I feel as thin and empty as a discarded glove. Over half of d’Albret’s men lay dead at our feet. The other half show no signs of retreating. Indeed, two of the men have gone for reinforcements.

Out of knives, I bend over and pluck a sword from one of the dead soldiers who litter the ground, then turn to Beast, who is breathing hard.

The light in his eyes is only half feral now. He opens his mouth to say something, but an explosion rocks the building—indeed, the very earth beneath our feet. It sounds as if a dozen cannon have been shot at once. Beast grabs my hand and begins pulling me toward the door.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Lazare and his charbonnerie. ”

“Here?”

“He thought we might need a diversion. Nor did we think it necessary to leave the duchess’s own weapons in the hands of her enemy to be used against her. ” Another explosion follows.