The Assassin and the Empire (Throne of Glass 0.5)(21)

Perhaps she’d tear this entire city down, too.

She smiled. She liked the sound of that.

Then she took a deep breath and broke into a run.

The roof was no longer than fifty feet—fifty feet between her and the jump that would either land her right through that open window a level below, or splatter her on the alley between.

She sprinted for the ever-nearing edge.

Forty feet.

There was no room for error, no room for fear or sorrow or anything except that blinding rage and cold, vicious calculation.

Thirty feet.

She raced, straight as an arrow, each pump of her legs and arms bringing her closer.

Twenty.

Ten.

The alley below loomed, the gap looking far bigger than she’d realized.

Five.

But there was nothing left of her to even consider stopping.

Celaena reached the edge of the roof and leapt.

Chapter Ten

The cold kiss of night air on her face, the glitter of the wet streets under lamplight, the sheen of moonlight on the black curtains inside the open window as she arced toward it, hands already reaching for her daggers …

She tucked her head into her chest, bracing for impact as she burst through the curtains, ripping them clean off their hangings, hit the floor, and rolled.

Right into a meeting room full of people. In a heartbeat, she took in the details: a somewhat small room where Jayne, Farran, and others sat around a square table, and a dozen guards now staring at her, already formed into a wall of flesh and weaponry between her and her prey.

The curtains were thick enough to have blocked out any light within the room—to make it look like it was dark and empty inside. A trick.

It didn’t matter. She’d take them all down anyway. The two daggers in her boots were thrown before she was even on her feet, and the guards’ dying shouts brought a wicked grin to her lips.

Her swords whined, both in her hands as the nearest guard charged for her.

He immediately died, a sword punched through his ribs and into his heart. Every object—every person—between her and Farran was an obstacle or a weapon, a shield or a trap.

She whirled to the next guard, and her grin turned feral as she caught a glimpse of Jayne and Farran at the other end of the room, seated across the table. Farran was smiling at her, his dark eyes bright, but Jayne was on his feet, gaping.

Celaena buried one of her swords into the chest of a guard so she could reach for her third dagger.

Jayne was still gaping when that dagger imbedded itself to the hilt in his neck.

Utter pandemonium. The door flung open, and more guards poured in as she retrieved her second sword from the chest cavity of the fallen guard. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds since she’d leapt through the open window. Had they been waiting?

Two guards lunged for her, swords slicing the air. Her twin blades flashed. Blood sprayed.

The room wasn’t large—only twenty feet separated her from Farran, who remained seated, watching her with wild delight.

Three more guards went down.

Someone hurled a dagger at her, and she knocked it aside with a blade, sending it right into the leg of another guard. Unintentional, but lucky.

Another two guards fell.

There were only a few left between her and the table—and Farran at the other side. He didn’t even look at Jayne’s corpse, slumped on the table beside him.

Guards were still rushing in from the hall, but they were all wearing strange black masks over their faces, masks with clear glass eyepieces, and some sort of cloth mesh over the mouths …

And then the smoke started, and the door shut, and as she gutted another guard, she glanced at Farran in time to see him slide on a mask.

She knew this smoke—knew this smell. It had been on Sam’s corpse. That musky, strange—

Someone sealed the window, shutting out the air. Smoke everywhere, fogging everything.

Her eyes stung, but she dropped a sword to reach for that last dagger, the one that would find its home in Farran’s skull.

The world jolted to the side.

No.

She didn’t know if she said it or thought it, but the word echoed through the darkness that was devouring her.

Another masked guard had reached her, and she straightened in time to drive a sword into his side. Blood soaked her hand, but she kept her grip on the blade. Kept her grip on the dagger in her other hand as she cocked it back, angling for Farran’s head.

But the smoke invaded every pore, every breath, every muscle. As she arched her arm, a shudder went through her body, making her vision twist and falter.

She swayed to the side, losing her grip on the dagger. A guard swiped for her, but missed, slicing off an inch from her braid instead. Her hair broke free in a golden wave as she careened to the side, falling so, so slowly, Farran still smiling at her …

A guard’s fist slammed into her gut, knocking the air out of her. She reeled back, and another fist like granite met her face. Her back, her ribs, her jaw. So many blows, so fast the pain couldn’t keep up, and she was falling so slowly, breathing in all that smoke …

They had been waiting for her. The invitingly open window, the smoke and the masks, were all a part of a plan. And she had fallen right into it.

She was still falling as the blackness consumed her.

“None of you are to touch her,” a cool, bored voice was saying. “She’s to be kept alive.”