Seven Witches

twenty-two

Zoya;

Zoya checked her pockets, and then checked them again one last time before entering Lord Boris's study. The place was set in the middle of the city, where all eyes will be wide open, and all ears pressed against doors and walls. She wanted to blind those eyes, and deafen those ears, but not now, not when Vladislav had asked her to deliver the goods personally to Boris.

He was most likely twice her age and a bit older, with a round belly and a balding head. He constantly had a pipe in his mouth, and he seemed to never understand the concept of respect. "I have come to deliver something from Master of the Assassin's Keep, Vladislav." She said, her voice was deep and soft, like flowing silk.

Boris blew a cloud of smoke, watching with distaste. "And what is it he wants?"

Zoya reached into her pockets and pulled out the ring that Mr. Gytius used to seal his document. "A small gift, to remind you of our master's kindness, and a warning to not try anything foolish,"

He took the ring, examining it under the candlelight. Despite the act she had put up, her heart was thundering for what was about to happen, what she might need to do. The lord stood, throwing the ring at her feet, mouth twisting into a sneer. "I knew this was coming," he spat. "And I have had enough of your master's nonsense."

And perhaps it was her dinner or the sight of his ridiculous attire that made her sick, unable to stomach his stubbornness. Vladislav had been kind, gave him weeks and weeks to pay his debts to the guild, had even offered to cut a portion of it to support the poor man.

But Boris was greedy and selfish, had flipped over all of her master's good deeds into something sour and horrible. And it was for this, that she agreed on coming today, to be the one to degrade him.

He called for the men stationed outside his door, called them in to take Zoya as a hostage. She immediately had her daggers in her hands, bracing her feet on the floor, ready to leap.

One man came face first with Zoya, a pistol tucked into the folds on his coat. Once he was close enough for her to reach out for, she grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed herself up and jumped above him. Then from behind, she struck the dagger home into his liver. "One," she counted out loud.

Zoya pulled out the blade from his body and threw it into the eyes of another. "Two,"

She captured the pistol from the corpse of the man by her feet, and aimed it at the approaching pack. "Three," she shot. "Four," again. "Five," and again. "Six."

It was her favourite part, the counting, the way her enemies fell like dominoes. The rush of excitement pumped into her veins, her heart, and she wanted to be kept in the moment for life. Zoya counted her dead, because when people asked how many have she killed, she wanted to give them a solid answer.

246 men and women.

Now, when there were only corpses inside Lord Boris's study, she pointed the pistol at his head, right between his eyes. He was trembling, scurrying to move out and into safety.

Zoya shot one of his thighs, sending him tumbling into the floor with a cry. She clicked her tongue, "Wrong choice."

Walking up the dais to Boris's enormous chair, her shoes clicking on the asphalt floor, she lowered the pistol and placed it in her pocket. When she was close enough to see that he was as pale as the grey walls, she laughed. "Oh I'm not going to kill you," she assured. "My master thinks you might be of some good."

His face did not relax. "W-what do you want," he asked, and she only shook her head.

"It's not about what I want. It's about what my master wants, and what he wants right now is for you to remain alive. At least, until your job is done, then he will decide what is to be done with you,"