Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Forty-Four: Something to Lose

There were times when logic must come before heart or desire, when one must consider the dire consequences of jumping into a fight and find a better solution. Thoughts of consequences did enter Lasura's mind that morning, along with the fact that he had only a small knife to fight with, but when the son of a bitch who'd almost killed the woman you saved showed up and demanded she return to him, consequences, Lasura decided, could go fuck themselves.

The knife jumped into his hand before he knew what he was doing. The rage in his chest drove his arm back, guiding the weapon where it needed to be from years and years of training. There was nothing in his head when he flicked his wrist, nothing except the fact that the motherfucker had to die, never mind what it would cost him, never mind––

Rhykal crossed the five steps between them with the speed of a ghost popping from one place to another, reaching him before the knife left his grip. A hand materialized, shot forward, caught him by the throat like an eagle's talons closing in on a mouse, and rammed him against the wall next to Djari. It knocked the air out of his lungs, got his head spinning in circles for a moment. By the time his head was clear enough to try jabbing the bastard with the knife, the thing was in Rhykal's hand, thrusting toward him without warning, and driven tip to hilt into his gut faster than he could say fuck.

"I can kill you," said Rhykal in a calm, collected manner of a butcher about to carve his favorite customer the best part of an animal, "with or without this knife. The next time you interfere with my plans, it will not be a flesh wound."

Not a bluff, he knew, at least not where the ability to do it was concerned, or the number of reasons the man had to keep him alive. Rhykal pulled out the knife, sent him reeling from the sudden jab of pain that ripped through his stomach. Wouldn't be surprised if half his gut came out with it.

The blade, still dripping blood, travelled up his chest, and paused right over his heart with the accuracy of someone trained by Deo di Amarra. Human anatomy was the first lesson he taught all his apprentices before teaching them how to fight, and the best of his assassins had the precision of a surgeon when it came to where one should stick the pointy end of the blade.

"Now listen to me very carefully," said Rhykal. "You can die here like the useless piece of meat that you are, or you can live to tell the woman following me that if she tries to take my life again, I will do exactly as I've said. I will take the Bharavi apart piece by piece until she leaves me alone. Do you understand?"

It was Saya, after all, Lasura realized. She must have tracked him down, and now, without a hostage, could pursue him freely, and would likely succeed. This was why he came back to get Djari after leaving her to die. Why he still needed her. Why he was still alive: to deliver a message.

It was understandable, logical even, and he might have been able to handle it with his head had the man not approached them the way he did. 'Come,' Rhykal had said, had walked in here with confidence so unshakable, so absolute, based on the presumption that all it would take to get her back was to show up and say the word, that the sword on his back wasn't even necessary to get it done.

Lasura gritted his teeth, tilted his head back, and spat on the son of a bitch, would have followed through with a finger if the hole in his stomach didn't hurt so bad. "Go fuck yourself."

Blood and saliva landed on the right side of Rhykal's cheek, made him pause for a heartbeat. But it was when Rasharwi's most celebrated face turned into something keen and ugly, something fit for an assassin, that Lasura knew this was how he his story would end. Not that he regretted it one bit if someone asked him.

"I thought so," said Rhykal, smiling.

Lasura closed his eyes, told himself it was a good death. For the very least it wasn't being locked in a barn to starve and die eaten by pigs like Azram had tried when he was ten. This was dying to to save a woman. Heroes did that, didn't they?