The Lone Warrior Read Free Page A

very like a sigh of relief, her throat bared and vulnerable. Merciless he might be, but his presence was clean, sharp as a blade, with none of the taint of evil about it. There was the strangest comfort in that. Strong fingers squeezed, choking, hurting.
    Writhing, she struggled for air. A painful gasp brought her awake, her eyes snapping open. Above was a low, whitewashed ceiling with a pronounced slope. Wonderingly, she patted her throat with her fingertips. Gods, she was alive! But how—?
    She turned her head.
    A man sat opposite on a wooden chair placed squarely against the door, his empty hands in plain sight, folded across a flat stomach. His eyes closed, he was so still in the warm light of the lamp he could have been a statue cast in bronze. Mehcredi’s gaze darted over high slashing cheekbones, an imperious nose and uncompromising mouth. His body was all lean length, whipcord and muscle, clad conventionally enough in a working man’s shirt and trews, soft boots.
    Beyond him, on the other side of the door, lay freedom.
    Soundlessly, Mehcredi eased herself up on her elbows, her head pounding like a funeral drum. She was lying on a narrow bed, no more than a pallet, in a room not much bigger than a cupboard. Remarkably, there were no ropes, no restraints, nothing to impede her—save the man.
    His long legs were stretched before him, ankles crossed. Mehcredi stared longingly at the scabbard hanging from his belt. She ran her tongue over dry lips. If she could grab the weapon before he woke . . .
    She lifted her gaze to his face and swallowed a scream.
    The man was watching her, his dark gaze unreadable. But then, she’d never been able to fathom what people were thinking, feeling. His eyes were black—as dark as his hair. The lamplight struck bluish gleams from the sable thickness of it, falling soft and straight as rain over his shoulders, two thin braids on either side of his face.
    And she knew him.
    “The bones.” Her voice came out raspy, even huskier than usual. “Where are the bones?”
    The hunter regarded her in silence. Unnerved, Mehcredi scrambled as far away as possible, until her shoulder blades were pressed right up against the wall behind the bed. She tucked her legs beneath her.
    After an interminable wait, during which her heart banged against her ribs like a trapped bird, he said, “You are Mehcredi the assassin.” It wasn’t a question.
    She raised her chin. “I—” Her voice cracked so badly she had to stop and swallow. The hunter crossed his arms over his chest and the gleam in his eye became more pronounced. “I am a member of the Guild, yes.”
    “Count yourself fortunate Dai’s not dead. Thanks to Erik’s quick wits.”
    She hadn’t known the man’s name, only that watching him writhe on the tavern floor, his merry handsome face contorted into a mask of excruciating pain, had made her guts heave. At the memory, bile rose in her throat, sour and burning. “H-he’s not?” She swallowed again. “Water, I need water.”
    The hunter went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Though I don’t doubt he wishes he was.” A pause. “You used prettydeath, assassin.”
    This time, Mehcredi had no problem recognizing the expression that flashed across his grim features. She’d seen it every day of her life. Revulsion. Disgust.
    “What’s that?” she whispered. “I swear, I—”
    “You didn’t know it’s absolute agony? That it can take a whole day to die?”
    Abruptly, the hunter rose, lethal grace in every line of him. Stalking to the foot of the bed, he raised one arm and pressed his palm against the low ceiling. He leaned in, dominating, his eyes flat and black. “Someone wanted him to suffer. Don’t lie to me, assassin .”
    “No.” Mehcredi shook her head, panic slowing her wits. “No, I’m not lying. Anyway, it was a mistake. He wasn’t supposed—” She broke off on a gasp.
    “I know. It was Erik Thorensen you were meant to murder. The singer.”
    “N-not murder.