Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(39)

Ramson feinted left; his opponent lunged.

Ramson slashed right; his opponent dodged.

Bit by bit, Ramson’s exhaustion began to show. His limbs ached. Soon his weakness would cost him.



Ramson leapt back as the mercenary swung his blades down, but he felt the sharp sting of metal across his chest. Blood warmed his clothes. He barely had enough time to glance up when the mercenary’s fist collided with his face.

Pain exploded in his jaw. Black spots filled his vision and the world spun as he reeled off balance. He plunged backward into cold, wet mud.

Gasping, he rolled to his side, reaching for his sword.

A dark shape burst from the curtain of rain, and the mercenary was on him, landing one, two, three vicious punches in his abdomen. Ramson retched; stars erupted before him.

A flash of metal. Kneeling atop Ramson, the mercenary drove his blade down.

Ramson’s hands flew up. His arms screamed; his legs felt like cotton; his head was light from the breaths that he could not draw.

A savage grin split the mercenary’s face as he threw his body weight into pushing the dagger down, its steely edge glinting like a wicked promise. The man was going to sink the blade into Ramson’s heart. Slowly.

I’m going to die.

The tip of the dagger pressed into his rib cage, drawing blood. A strangled yell tore from Ramson’s throat as he gave one final push—

And suddenly, the pressure on his chest and on his arms was gone. The mercenary’s head flew back sharply, throat exposed. For a moment, he was frozen, outline rigid in the rain as though he was grappling with an invisible force. And then he toppled into the mud.



Ramson scrambled into a crouch. Even as he stumbled away, the mercenary began to rise.

But it was the figure ten paces behind the mercenary, barely an outline in the falling rain, that caught Ramson’s attention.

The witch was on her hands and knees, the crimson in her eyes receding as they shifted away from the mercenary. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth. For a moment, their gazes met. And then she collapsed.

Ramson had heard of Affinites surpassing their limits. Affinities drew energy from their bodies, and overexertion could lead to unconsciousness or, in the rarest of cases, death.

For a split second, staring at the witch’s still frame, he wondered whether she’d died, and how he would feel about that. She was a Trade and a valuable asset, so that would be a loss…but there was something more tugging at his conscience.

She’d saved him—again. For the second time, he owed the witch a blood debt.

Long ago, his father—the demon who called himself his father—had taught him the meaning of blood debts, of honor, and of courage. Ramson had made himself forget almost all memories of that man. But today, with the rain roaring all around him, phantom shapes rose from the ground, whispering to him in his father’s words.

Lightning flashed, outlining the mercenary’s towering form amid the slashing rain. His sword gleamed wet as he turned to Ana’s crumpled form.

Ramson’s head spun. The ground blurred, weaving in and out of focus.

Move. Ramson gouged his nails into the mud, struggling to regain control of his muscles. Something rough and hard dug into his palm. He lifted his hand. Half-buried in the muddy water beneath him was the coarse, wet rope that he’d easily shimmied out of while the mercenaries had been distracted by Ana.



Ramson’s hands closed around the rope, thick as a vessel’s anchor line.

Sudden inspiration struck.

He was weakened and exhausted, with no leverage over this mercenary in a sword fight. Yet outside of swordplay, Ramson did have one advantage.

Before he’d become a Cyrilian crime lord, Ramson had been a sailor. A blue-blooded Bregonian sailor.

He stood, gripping his sword and stretching the long coil of rope between his hands. Within a few seconds, his sailor’s hands had worked the end into a bowline with a loop large enough to fit a man’s head. As fluid as the river, he thought.

The rain fell so thickly now, it was difficult to see past a dozen paces. The roar of the deluge blocked out any other sound. He was on a ship again, in the middle of a storm, navigating with nothing but a broken compass and that boy with the thin, sharp voice by his side.

Ramson clenched his lasso, his muscles coiled tighter than a spring. “Hey, horseface!” he yelled. “Find your balls and take on someone your own size, won’t you?”

The mercenary turned. A snarl split his ugly face as he palmed his daggers. “I’ll snap you like a stick,” he growled, and hurtled toward him.

Ramson leapt back. In an extension of the same motion, he whipped out the length of rope, lashing it at his enemy. The motion was smooth, familiar. He’d done it a thousand times in a life long past.



The rope met its mark. Like a living thing, it whipped around the mercenary’s neck.

Ramson threw his weight backward and pulled, sharply and with all his strength. The mercenary stumbled off balance, his legs tangling as he fell to the ground. His fingers scrabbled at the noose around his neck.

Ramson leaped forward, the hilt of his dagger slick but firm in his hands. He plunged it through skin and sinew and flesh, and slashed upward.

The mercenary jerked, and with a few more twitches, his struggles ceased. Blood gushed, quietly pooling around him.

Ramson sank to his knees. The rain fell steadily, already washing away the blood on his hands. He drew a deep breath, trying to still the frantic galloping of his heart and his shaking limbs.