Northern

Chapter One

     There is no moon tonight. I can hardly see a thing. I have to rely on hearing and my instincts alone—my eyes are of no use tonight. Still, I keep my eyes open unnaturally wide, as if that could possibly help. I am only human, after all; night vision doesn’t exist for me. I hold my long switchblade in a fluid grasp in my left hand. I am ambidextrous, a skill I worked on from the time I was five years old. I have now perfected said skill, of course, but I still prefer my left hand. I do not shift position despite my aching muscles. I do not turn my head despite my human urge to search and search until I find light. I breathe lightly and evenly, taking in a full breath without making loud sounds. Just because I am human does not necessarily mean that my mark is as well. I have had to fight things very much inhuman in the past.

     I hear nothing but the whisper of a breeze through the tree branches. Nothing sounds out of place, but the back of my neck prickles. I have learned to listen to these subtle signals from that small, primal part of my brain that just knows things. It does me no good; there is no telltale sign of where my mark is. I could just as easily miss by three yards as three hundred.

     A sudden weight descends on my body, pressing me into the ground. I roll with it, using the momentum in my favor to rise to my feet. I can still see nothing, but I can feel the warmth of another being nearby. I lashed out with my switchblade, but meet nothing but air. A fist drives into my gut; I gasp and feel long, strong fingers encircle my right wrist to pull me in. I make a fist around the knife handle with my left hand and drive it forward, aiming for my unseen attacker.

     I feel the blade slide into it; hopefully, I pierced the abdomen. My instructions are to bring this mark back to camp alive, if possible. That translates to harsh punishment and disapproval if I kill my mark rather than capture it. My mark grunts but pries my fingers from my knife. It grasps my other wrist as well, and I struggle violently in desperation. I never fail. I do not plan to break that streak now.

     I kick out flat-footed, hearing my mark grunt again as I manage to land a blow on its body. I kick again, and again, all the while struggling to free my wrists. Everything I do is ineffectual. It was so stupid of Mistress to send me out into a lightless forest. She knows I am human; she insults me for being human often. It is true that I am limited compared to some of her other assassins, but I have something none of the others do.

     I am impervious to magic.

     Pain, on the other hand, does affect me.

     My mark twists my arm violently, forcing me to go with it or risk my arm breaking. It releases me as I fall to the ground—a big mistake. I reach for my holster and pull, aim, and fire my Netherworld stunner in a heartbeat.

     A chuckle resonates quietly from behind me. “Poor performance—must be human,” he practically purrs. “Who sends a silly human child out into a lightless forest?”

     That is exactly my question. Cold dread trickles down my spine—Mistress wants me to fail. That is her intention with this assignment; she wants an excuse to get rid of me. I know she hates me for having an ability that she herself cannot figure out how to achieve. “Shall we make a deal?” he whispers slowly. “I agree to let you subdue me—take me to your silly little concentration camp for the otherworldly –in exchange for a favor.”

     Instantly suspicious, I say nothing. He knows nothing about me—not even my gender. I have given him no information, and it is best to keep it that way; the less that Netherworld creatures know about me, the better. “You know that you stand no chance,” adds my mark. This is true. “I will allow you to subdue me. It will look as though you took me out all on your own.”