The musket ball tore through Byron’s chest and he collapsed, struggling to breathe. Byron tried to get to his feet, but his limbs wouldn’t respond to his brain’s demands.
Lyra! I’ve got to get to Lyra, he thought.
It was too late, though. Blood gushed from his wound and Lyra was nowhere to be seen. Seconds later, even Byron’s vision began to fail him.
I’ve survived dozens of battles, and this is how it ends—a lucky bullet by an honorless mercenary, dying on behalf of an evil wretch.
The pain and darkness pulled Byron under and he felt his very spirit plummet until he splashed into a pool of light. Its warmth flooded into his body and he suddenly had the strength to kick to the surface for breath. The pool vanished around him and he opened his eyes to the same dank tunnel he’d gotten shot in.
He coughed up some blood, looking at the striking woman with her hand on his shoulder. She had skin as black as ebony, a smooth-shaved scalp, and enormous, sorrowful eyes. Byron smiled at the sight of her, thanking the gods Lyra had arrived in time. Though, considering Lyra very well might be a goddess . . .
“Thanks, Lyra.”
Byron didn’t hear her reply. That same mercenary was lining up for another shot not twenty feet away. He pulled Lyra down, shooting over her shoulder with a bullet that hit the man square in the forehead.
Scrambling to his feet, Byron followed the sound of gunshots down the next corridor, where Joshua was pinned between two shooters. If Byron kept walking forward, he’d be sighted before he could help, but . . . there! Byron slipped through a doorway into a storeroom—ugh, the battlefields were bad enough, but seeing a body willfully mutilated, chest cracked open in macabre display, was nauseating. Byron tried to focus on the door on the other side, breathing through his mouth to keep from retching, though the more he thought about how he could actually taste the stench, the harder that became.
Byron stumbled out the door, nearly crashing into one of the shooters. The man took too long to recover and Byron thrust his saber into his neck. Byron snuck up to the edge of the corridor. Now he and Joshua had the other man pinned. The man was well positioned, and it took a few rounds, but Byron distracted him long enough for Joshua to execute the killing shot.
The two ran into the ritual room, where the dark priest fell to the ground at Lyra’s feet, her little knife slick with his blood. The room itself was now covered in steaming, wriggling blobs. Thank Lyra, they wouldn’t have to fight newborn lava beasts as well.
“You got one this time, Lyra?” Joshua said. “Good for you! We’ll make a warrior of you yet.” The man had a self-satisfied smirk plastered to his face. Good fighter, but far too arrogant for his own good.
Byron looked at Lyra, his heart matching her eyes. Joshua didn’t understand that killing was easy. Why would anyone prefer that to the miraculous healing she did every day? It took years of fighting a pointless war for the Imperium to make Byron realize he’d much rather build than destroy. Too bad he never got a chance to do that.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Lucas can send others for the clean up.”
Keeping to the tunnels, Byron led the group back to the warehouse district. The markets above may be closed this late at night, but their blood and muck-stained clothes would be remarked on by any stragglers, and he didn’t want them connected to this location. When they finally emerged street-side, Joshua bobbed his head at Byron.
“You’ll report back, yeah, Byron?” he asked, walking a few steps backwards.
“Always,” Byron replied, giving a slight nod in farewell. He turned toward Lyra, executing a short bow to her. “It was a pleasure to work with you, Lyra, as usual.”
Her white teeth flashed a smile, gleaming against her dark skin in the lamplight. “Because it means that you don’t go home with a bunch of wounds for your wife to fret over?”
Byron almost laughed at that. “Of course. Say hello to your kids for me.”
“You as well,” she replied, turning away.
Continuing on to Lucas’ manor, Byron finally allowed his shoulders to slump. Lyra shouldn’t be out on contracts killing beasts and sorcerers. She should be out healing cripples and single handedly eradicating plagues. But Guildmaster Lucas had the same choke-hold on Lyra as he did on Byron.
His wife didn’t understand why Byron was so unhappy living in the city again. Of course, if he helped her understand, he’d consign her to the same mortal fear that threatened to crush him every day.
Reaching the side door of the manor, Byron gave the pass signs and soon found himself in Lucas’ office. The man was scratching a quill pen across a page – for a man with such power and money, Lucas had some old-fashioned quirks.
“It’s done?” Lucas asked, not looking up.
“It’s done,” Byron replied. “The priest and his compatriots are dead, and Lyra ensured the lava beasts never coalesced. The clean-up crew should also take care of the victim in a side-storage room.”
“Not necessary. I rather think anyone trying the same thing will think twice if they came across that rotting scene, don’t you? Lucas said, smiling up at Byron. He didn’t remark on the blood soaking most of Byron’s coat. He probably didn’t care.
Byron stared at the man. “Part of taking contracts is cleaning up after ourselves. And that girl’s family deserves to know she’s not coming back.”
Lucas fixed his pitiless eyes on Byron. “You know nothing. Contracts are about reputation, and you don’t get a reputation if no one knows you finished a job.” Lucas’ glare turned into a sneer. “And you’re supposed to be a tactical ‘genius.’ Do you think that girl’s family would thank us? No, they’d accuse us of the murder. Besides, knowing what those rituals require, I’d guess her family is better off not knowing exactly how she died. Passcode is ‘lamb to the slaughter.’ Now go home.”
Turning on his heel, Byron walked out. He hated Guildmaster Lucas. He hated the Guilds, he hated the corruption, he hated his life, but Byron had to live with it to protect the things he loved – his wife and children.
Byron practically ran to his front door, sighing at the sight of the parlor light on. He hated when Julia invited Desmond in. He strode into the parlor as Desmond lounged in Byron’s favorite chair, sipping tea.
“Lamb to the slaughter,” Byron said. “Get out.”
Desmond gave a cheeky salute. “As you wish, Colonel Cornelius. Always a pleasure, Mrs. C,” he called.
Julia popped her head into the parlor to say goodbye, but gasped at the amount of blood on Byron’s clothes.
“Good heavens! How are you standing, Love?”
“I’m fine – Lyra was there,” he replied, stroking Julia’s hair.
Julia relaxed at that, pulling off Byron’s coat. “Well, I’m glad for that. Though with all the dangerous work you do, I wonder why Master Lucas doesn’t send Desmond with you instead of sitting outside our house. I appreciate his sentiment, but it seems you need more watching over than we do.”
Byron pulled Julia into a firm embrace, heedless of the sticky blood on his chest.
That’s because Desmond isn’t here to protect you, Love. He’s here to kill you if I ever fail.
