Assassin's Heart (Assassin's Heart, #1)(92)

“Lea . . . ,” he said, his voice no longer soft, but questioning. He removed his hands. “What is this?”

“What?” I twisted my neck.

He held me in place and ran his fingers over the same spot on my back. “You have a mark here.” He pressed his fingers against my skin.

The warmth that had built in my body vanished. I shouldn’t have a mark. . . .

“Was this where you were stabbed?” he asked.

I rolled over to face him. I moved his arm and pendant and examined his chest. There, where Val had driven his sword through Les’s body, was a white mark.

“You have one too,” I said.

I traced it. Shaped a bit like a starburst, it was smooth, completely unlike a scar. More like a discoloration of his skin.

He trembled, and I snatched my hand away. “Does it hurt?”

He captured my fingers and brought them to his lips. “No. Just a mark to remember that night by.”

He leaned over and kissed my shoulder, my collarbone.

I ran my hands across the skin of his chest. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget,” I said.

His lips pushed against mine and he rolled on top of me, his weight pressing down as he continued to kiss me deeply, fervently. I returned the kisses, my hands sliding across his back, his muscles, his skin, imprinting the feel of him on my fingers.

If I died tomorrow, at least I had one last beautiful thing remaining in my life.

Fabricio’s looked dull in the early evening light. The restaurant opened once the sun set, since most of their clientele were those who spent their daylight hours in bed.

The restaurant was as far north as the city allowed, pressed against the crumbled city walls. I imagined the ghosts pushed against Fabricio’s after sunset, trying to reach me. Les and I hid in a shadowed alley, Les with the firebomb and extra materials in a satchel strapped to his back. I watched the front of the restaurant until he started to fidget.

“No one’s come in or out,” he said. “At some point we’re just going to have to take a stab at it and see if it bleeds.”

I tapped my mask and sighed. He was right, though I wished for more certainty about our task. My plan consisted of finding the Da Vias’ home, saving Marcello, and killing them all. The how of it still eluded me other than use the firebomb to set the place on fire.

Whatever we decided, we needed to strike soon. It had taken more time than planned to make the firebombs this morning and the longer we took now, the less chance we’d find Marcello alive. Most of the Da Vias would be asleep until dark. Once the sun set, we would encounter more resistance.

I waited until a street sweeper passed by before I dashed out of the alley toward Fabricio’s. Les followed quickly behind, and we tucked ourselves against the south side of the building.

Les whistled like a bird. He gestured at a window and mimed breaking it. I nodded and checked the street. No one had noticed us.

The clinking of shattered glass erupted behind me.

Les knocked the broken panes out of the sill, then climbed through. I followed, and we found ourselves in the dim dining room of Fabricio’s.

The tables and chairs had been cleaned and perfectly arranged. The empty room seemed a dead place.

“Now what?” Les whispered.

“There can’t be a secret entrance in the dining room,” I whispered. “Too many witnesses to see them coming and going. Let’s try the kitchen.”

We walked through the maze of tables and chairs, careful to make as little noise as possible. Once we reached the kitchen, we searched the space, but there weren’t any obvious trapdoors or signs pointing to where the Da Vias lived.

I tapped my mask, thinking.

“Over here.” Les leaned across a barrel of wine.

I scurried over. Behind the barrel was a small door in the northern wall, hidden from sight.

Les rapped a knuckle on the barrel, and it echoed back. “I think it’s fake.”

Together we pushed on the wine barrel. It swung easily away from the wall, installed on hinges.

We stared at the hidden door. “It might be nothing,” Les suggested.

“If it was nothing, they wouldn’t hide it behind a fake barrel.” I took a deep breath, then pushed the latch on the door. It swung outward, the hinges well-oiled and quiet.

I slipped through the door and found myself outside once more, in a tiny, hidden courtyard.

In front of me lay a crumbled section of the city wall, a gap open to the dead plains stretching behind it and the river glowing gold beneath the quickly setting sun.

To the right was the corner of Fabricio’s, pressing up against the city wall, but to the left was another door. A door that led into the manor house next to Fabricio’s. It was the only way to go, unless I wanted to cross the crumbled city wall and enter the dead plains, or go back into the restaurant. The courtyard led directly to the dead plains, the Da Vias’ own secret entrance. They didn’t even have to enter the city to get to their home from the dead plains.

Les squeezed himself out of Fabricio’s. I stretched my neck and looked up at the four-story monstrosity of a house that towered over us. Everything about it spoke of the richest of inhabitants. I shook my head.

“What is it?” Les peered past the gap in the city wall to the dead plains.

“It’s only . . . of course the Da Vias live in a giant mansion, displaying their riches for all to see. I don’t know why I ever assumed they’d have tunnels like we did. They’re too much in love with themselves to think of safety.”