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Every button he hit was like a grain of sand trickling through an hourglass, and I was rapidly running out of time to figure out how to defeat Brayden and the other Reapers, protect the artifacts, and get off the train alive.
Chapter Five
Gin
The thing no one ever tells you about getting shot is that it bloody hurts, more than just about any other kind of injury. And over the years, I had been shot, stabbed, choked, cut, punched, crushed, burned, and bludgeoned enough times to know. Yep, that was me, Gin Blanco, wound expert. Sometimes I thought I should just quit the assassin business and start training to become a nurse. Because I certainly had a lot of experience dealing with injuries.
Like the massive, puffy bruise that was aching in my chest right now.
Winifred had been going for a kill shot, and her aim had been true. Her bullet would have blasted straight into my heart—if I hadn’t used my Stone magic to harden my body into an impenetrable shell. Even then, the bullet had still hurt, as though someone had hit me in the chest with a sledgehammer.
The force of the blow had knocked the wind out of me, and I’d crumpled to the floor, although no one had seemed to notice that I wasn’t bleeding all over the stone. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy of Winifred and the other Reapers not to check and make sure that I was really down for the count.
So I lay there with my eyes closed, listening to my enemies plot, as well as Gwen’s answers to their questions. Sweet of her to be so worried about me, but I could take care of myself, and it sounded like she could too, given all the things she said.
Although I still wasn’t sure why Gwen kept calling them Reapers. To me, they were just your run-of-the-mill thieves, but I wasn’t about to quibble over semantics. It didn’t matter what fancy name they gave themselves. Winifred, Brayden, and the others had tried to kill me, so I was going to return the favor. Only I wouldn’t be so foolish as to let any of them live, even if I wasn’t a Champion for some mythological goddess . . . or whatever Gwen Frost truly was.
“You two, stay behind and get rid of the body,” Winifred ordered her minions. “Dump our would-be heroine in the woods at the edge of the depot, then get on the train. With any luck, the animals will come and pick her bones clean . . .”
The other Reapers murmured their agreement, and several sets of footsteps sounded, including the squeaking of Gwen’s sneakers, along with a couple of heavier thumps. My enemies were splitting up. Excellent. That would make it easier for me to kill all of them.
The last of the footsteps faded away, but I remained still and silent on the floor, as though I truly was dead, instead of about to make a whole bunch of other people that way.
“I can’t believe Winifred is making us get rid of the body,” one of the men grumbled. “She shot the woman, so she should have been the one to haul the body outside. Or made her stupid kid brother do it. Not dumped the job on us just because we’re Vikings and stronger than she is.”
“No kidding,” the second man muttered his agreement. “I don’t mind getting rid of a body, but tracking down the girl and retrieving the artifacts was supposed to be an easy payday. So far, nothing about this has been easy.”
Aw, being a criminal was so hard these days. I hid a grin. If he only knew how much harder—and bloodier—it was about to get.
“Come on,” the first man grumbled again. “Let’s carry her outside and be done with things. We still need to get on the train before it leaves.”
Some more footsteps scuffed across the floor. One of the men must have squatted down, because his sour breath wafted over my cheek, and I could smell the burned coffee he’d drunk earlier in the day. My fingers tightened around the knife I’d palmed on my way down to the floor during my supposed death. The spider rune stamped into the silverstone hilt pressed into the larger matching scar that adorned my palm, and a sense of calm resolve and deadly purpose settled over me. Nothing steadied me like the cold, hard feel of a knife in my hand.
The coffee drinker dug his fingers into my right shoulder and rolled me over onto my back. My eyes snapped open, and I gave him a bright, sunny smile.
“Boo!” I hissed.
The man flinched and jerked back, but I surged up, fisted my hand in his coat, and yanked him right back down toward me—and my knife.
The silverstone blade punched into his chest, making him yelp with pain. The man lashed out again and again, trying to swat me away like a pesky bug. I didn’t know anything about Vikings, but he was as strong as he had claimed to be, and his brute force easily rivaled that of a giant or a dwarf. But I used my Stone magic to harden my skin again, and his hard, heavy blows didn’t do any real damage to my face, neck, and arms.
The man pitched over onto his side, and I followed the motion, maneuvering around so I was on top of him. Then I ripped my knife out of his chest and slashed it across his throat, and his pain-filled yelps morphed into desperate, choked gurgles.
This guy was already more dead than alive, so I scrambled to my feet and whirled around, searching for the second man.
A glint of metal caught my eye. On instinct, I ducked, and a sword zipped through the air where my head had been. The second man—the Reaper—snarled in frustration and whirled around. He lifted his sword and came at me again.
I waited until he was in range, then reached for my magic. This time, I tapped into my elemental Ice power, and I snapped up my hand and blasted the Reaper with a cloud of Ice daggers. The cold jagged chunks punched into his face, neck, and chest, bruising and cutting his skin. The man growled in pain, but he kept charging forward, so I whipped up my knife to block his blow.
Clang!
His sword crashed into my knife, and the blow rocked my entire body, hard enough to make me bite down on my own tongue. This guy was even stronger than the first one had been. I wondered if that was what made him a Viking, or maybe even a Reaper too, but it didn’t much matter. Strong or not, I was about to make him dead.
The man snarled and drew his sword back for another swing, but I darted forward and spun past him. Then I whirled back around and lashed out with my boot, driving it into the side of his left leg. He grunted in surprise, even as his knee buckled, and he toppled to the ground.
I didn’t give him a chance to get back up.
I surged down and forward and rammed my knife into his back, making him scream. Then I yanked the blade out, dug my fingers into his hair, pulled his head back, and cut his throat.
