Dominions

33-1

33

- 33 -

He could smell the trees, even from the path, but they appeared as silhouettes against the brilliant lighting at the rear of Dryad House. It was bright as day, almost as if those inside were afraid of the dark.

But he couldn’t allow himself to believe they were weak. He couldn’t underestimate them. Especially the person in that room up there‌—‌three windows in from the right, third storey. Rodin wondered if she was working on another article, or if she was planning how best to protect Leopold.

At least she wasn’t by his side. This way, he could get Shae alone.

His hand dropped to his side, to the bulge in his hip pocket. It felt strange, having his old friend so exposed, in a normal pocket rather than one he’d altered. But it was good to have a familiar tool with him.

A shape moved, a shadow on the window covering. Toilet break? Grabbing a drink? Could be anything. But he’d wait until she returned.

Rodin pulled out his screen, checked the hacks he’d set up earlier. Security to Shae’s apartment was registering normal, but he’d placed a loop just beneath the surface, triggered to run the moment a door or window was opened.

While he had his screen out, Rodin read through the messages he’d timer-sent earlier. There were two of them, one for Sertio, the other for Daventree. In both messages he apologised for his sudden departure, leaving reasons vague. He thanked both men for all they’d done for him, and listed the meals he’d placed in storage for Sertio, enough for a couple of weeks.

As an afterthought, he’d suggested Paskia as a replacement assistant. She knew the artist, was comfortable in his presence, and in the message Rodin hazarded the notion that both work and time away from her aunt would help the young woman settle into her new life.

The timer on both messages was still counting down. In a few hours, the artist and his agent would know that Terrell was not returning.

The shadow moved back into the room, and then dipped down and remained steady. Sitting at a desk, then. Perfect.

Sitting at a desk, then.Rodin pushed through the trees and scaled the metal fence at the back of the building’s gardens with ease. A few quick steps more, and he launched himself up onto the first balcony, then climbed. The exercise warmed his arms and legs, and increased his heart-rate, and he felt a comforting glow when he stood in front of the frosted glass of Shae’s sliding doors.

There was an old-style lock on one of them, but before Rodin reached for the picks he’d stowed inside his jacket, he placed a gloved hand on the glass and exerted pressure. The door slid open soundlessly. Rodin took a breath, listened for movement or an alarm. There was neither‌—‌his hack was working. It was safe to enter Shae’s property.

Shae’s living area was sparsely decorated‌—‌a sofa that sat away from the wall, a low table in front of it, an easy chair opposite. There was a bookcase, half-filled with what looked like binders. The curtain for the sliding door was pulled to one side, bunched up near the sofa. And through an arch Rodin saw a basic food prep and a sturdy but plain set of chairs around a wood-effect table.

Rodin padded silently through the open door, into the area the plans called a lobby‌—‌a wide corridor leading to the main access to the apartment and all the other rooms. He crept along to the last door on the left, the one that was open enough to allow light to spill out.

He peered in. Shae sat at a desk, reading from a screen and making notes on a pad. A steaming mug sat next to a desk lamp.

Rodin grabbed the door handle and pushed, gently, eyes fixed on the back of the woman’s head, ears alert for any sound. He eased himself into the room, closing the door silently, before moving a couple of paces.

Position was always important. Here, with his back to the wall, he could see both Shae and the door.

“Good evening, Shae.”

She gasped. The screen clattered on her desk as she spun. Her arm flew round, and the mug shot through the air.

He batted it away. The liquid was hot on his sleeve, but not enough to burn.

“Not the warm welcome I was hoping for.”

“What do you want?” Her voice was firm, but her hand trembled on the desk.

“I want your help.”

Her mouth opened, and her brow furrowed. He waited for a response.

“What?”

“I want your help. I came here, tonight, to ask for your assistance.”

She laughed. “Why would I help you?”

Rodin leaned in, pierced her with his gaze, and said the phrase he’d spent far too long preparing. “Is your niece at home?”

The simplicity of the phrase belied the preparation of that threat. Rodin had run through so many alternatives‌—‌‘Maybe we should see Paskia.’ ‘How much do you care for your niece?’ ‘It would be a shame if something happened to Paskia.’ But none sounded right. When he said her name, he felt his throat constricting, and his tone suffered. He didn’t want to be too blunt, either. Best to leave the implications vague. She had him pegged as a cold-blooded killer, and she would imagine the worst.

But her reaction was not what he expected. She sat back in her chair, head at an angle, a cold glimmer in her eyes.

“You haven’t seen enough of her at Sertio’s?”

She didn’t care‌—‌that much was obvious. And Rodin should have known this. The clues were all there‌—‌Paskia’s hesitation over talking about her ‘aunt’, Shae’s cold manner in the Council gardens. She was helping Paskia not through altruism, but because it suited her purpose. She was using Paskia.

Not as an assassin, but for something else. Something that involved getting the girl close to Rodin.

He formed his words with care. “I wouldn’t use her as a spy. Did she even know what you wanted from her?”

Shae puffed out a breath, maybe a surprised laugh, and Rodin knew he’d judged correctly. Then her expression softened.

“Maybe honesty would have garnered better results,” she said. “I thought she would have enough intelligence to spot something. But no, she talks of Sertio, and then of your muscles and scars, as if that’s any use to me. As a source of information, she was useless.”

somethingRodin pushed. “Was it even worth taking her on?”

“In all honesty, no. Oh, she’s pleasant enough, in a kind of airy, detached way, and she keeps the place clean. But for what I wanted, she’s useless.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, then stopped. Her head tilted again. “So what happens now? Do you kill me, like you want to kill Councillor Leopold?”

Her hand rested on the desk, one finger on the screen, and Rodin scanned quickly, looking for anything she might use as a weapon. But unless she threw the screen at him, she had nothing.

“You know too much. You’re a threat. But, as I said, I came here to ask for your help.”

She snorted a laugh. “I don’t think so. You came here because it serves your purpose. You want me to help you get close to Leopold, but do you seriously think I’d allow that to happen? I know about you. So do you think I’d let you threaten me like this?”

Her finger tapped on her desk. No‌—‌on her screen, where a small icon the size of her nail glowed pale green.

Rodin spun, hearing the unmistakable sound of someone running. The door burst open. Rodin crouched, ready.

The man was well-built, honest muscle. He wore stubble on his chin, same length as the hair on his head. And his eyes darted round the room with practised efficiency. As soon as he saw Rodin his knees bent, his arms raised a fraction. Not a natural stance for someone from the Dome, but a sign of one used to fighting dirty.

This was the assassin Shae had hired from the districts.

The man lunged, fast. Rodin dodged, jabbed his elbow into the man’s side. The thug stumbled, recovered quickly.

“No!” Shae leapt to her feet. “Not here!”

The man ignored her, and lunged again. Rodin stepped in, turned, slammed into the man. He rammed his boot down, felt pressure as it ran down the man’s shin, heard him grunt.

As the assassin staggered back, Rodin darted from the cramped office. In the living area, he spun, facing the man.

The thug’s chest rose and fell, and his mouth twisted into a snarl. Metal glinted in his hand.

Rodin raised his hands, palms out. “I have no trouble with you. I don’t want to kill you.”

The man grinned, his teeth uneven and yellow. “Good. Should make it easier for me to kill you.”

“I said I didn’t want to.” Rodin backed away, his leg hitting the sofa. “Doesn’t mean I won’t if I have to.”

The assassin came closer, and Rodin edged round the sofa now. As long as the furniture remained between them, Rodin was safe. A lunge across it would put the man off balance too much. A professional wouldn’t risk such a move.

But they could only circle for so long. Rodin let one arm drop, close to his pocket.

“You’re scared,” the man said, his shoulders rocking with a derisory laugh.

“Of you?”

The man held the blade firmly, his writs loose enough that he wasted no energy, but his arm bent, ready for sudden movement. And the man watched Rodin intently.

“Oh, you should be scared,” the assassin said, twisting his blade so that it reflected light into Rodin’s eyes.

A standard move, and one that failed to intimidate Rodin. He didn’t blink either, which meant he didn’t miss the way the assassin’s eyes darted to one side, looking past Rodin and‌…‌to the curtain.

Rodin had only just gone past the bunched material, and now he realised there had been a smell, a presence in the air. Sweat, and mud.

He glanced down. The assassin’s boots were clean.

Why would Shae stop at hiring only one assassin?

Why would Shae stop at hiring only one assassin?The thug’s eyes were fixed on Rodin once more. He moved along the back of the sofa, Rodin along the front. They passed one another, close enough for Rodin to catch a waft of something bitter as the man breathed out.

The curtain shifted. It might have been a breeze, but there were no open windows.

Rodin reached the end of the sofa, and slowed. The thug came closer.

He had to time this just right.

Rodin moved toward the curtain as the assassin rounded the end of the sofa. It was the first time they’d been on the same side, and the thug grinned. Rodin forced a gasp, and shifted a leg closer to the sofa, let it catch on one of the supports. He stumbled, arms spinning, one hand brushing the curtain.

And the assassin grabbed his opportunity.

But this was Rodin’s opportunity too. As the thug lunged, Rodin planted his back foot firmly, threw himself forward. The blade sliced through the air where Rodin’s head had been, and Rodin reached up, grabbing the man’s wrist. He carried on twisting, dancing round the man, locking his free arm around the man’s shoulder and pulling the man’s own blade up to his neck.