Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,60

came with returning home: collecting a selection of new spell books, speaking with the slavhki who requested an audience, and other duller affairs.

He still hadn’t visited his mother. He wasn’t putting it off per se, he just hadn’t found the right time for it. The second he went to visit her, everything would come spilling out of him. He wasn’t so sure she could keep things from his father.

So, instead of investigating the plots swirling thickly through the air of Grazyk just as heavy as its magic smog, Serefin did the one thing he knew best: consumed a fantastic amount of alcohol.

It was fitting assassins chose to strike that same evening.

Ostyia was the one to catch them, shooting to her feet and drawing the thin szitelki at her waist in one rapid motion.

The world spun dangerously as Serefin stood, but he shook it away, forcing himself sober. Well, as sober as possible.

“How on earth did they make it past the walls?” Kacper asked in disbelief.

Ostyia and Kacper both moved instinctively closer to Serefin, shielding him. A spinning dagger cut through the air toward him.

He saw the blade coming and ducked out of the way, his fingers already paging through his spell book without his mind following. He cut open his forearm on the razor in his sleeve and it bled profusely.

“Kalyazi?” he muttered under his breath to Ostyia. A second assassin appeared down the garden path. The third shot out from the bushes, knocking Kacper down.

“Can’t tell.” She seemed torn about which assassin to go after, not wanting to leave Serefin on his own while Kacper grappled with the third.

Serefin knocked her toward the one down the path as he crumpled a spell book page. His magic ignited and he let the assassin in front of him draw close before he lifted a hand and blew on his bloody fist. The paper crumbled into dust in his palm and shot in an acrid spray into the masked face of the assassin. When the dust hit, it burst into flames.

Serefin lashed out with a booted foot that connected with the assassin’s middle. The man went down in a heap. He turned to find Kacper had cut the throat of one assassin. Ostyia—shorter than her attacker by almost half—had cast a spell that made the last assassin falter. As he tried to regain his footing she threw herself at him, catching her legs around his waist and driving both blades into his neck. She gracefully leapt off as the man fell.

Well, that was short work. Serefin wasn’t sure who would send such incompetent assassins after him, but apparently someone had too much faith in their purchase.

Ostyia turned. Her single eye widened.

“Serefin!”

Something hit the back of his head. Pain exploded through him and he stumbled forward. He felt the stone path scrape his knees open. He managed to roll into a crouch. His vision swam and he could barely make out another set of three figures in the darkness.

Of course there would be more. He tried to stand but his struggling vision and spinning head made it impossible.

Kacper moved toward the new group, but one of them was already at Serefin’s side, a flash of steel at their hands. Suddenly they were gone and a figure Serefin couldn’t identify was standing in front of him.

The new figure’s face ducked before his.

“Get him up, I don’t think he can see.” He knew the voice instantly.

“Lady Ruminska, I don’t think—” Ostyia called, but ?aneta was already turning to face the remaining pair of assassins.

Blood ran down her arms as she tore two pages from her spell book. She wiped blood over them both while dodging out of the way of the assassins’ blades. One by one she let the pages flutter to the ground.

Iron spikes shot out from where the papers landed, skewering the assassins simultaneously and pinning them together. Both went down in bloody heaps. The pain in Serefin’s head amplified and he pitched forward, barely catching himself before face-planting into the stones. He lasted there for a few tense seconds—he could vaguely hear someone’s voice but he couldn’t tell if it was ?aneta or Ostyia—before everything shuttered black around him.

* * *

This was worse than any hangover Serefin had ever experienced. And he always kept track of his hangovers and how badly they hurt. He had a list.

His head pounded. His mouth tasted like blood and was dry as a desert. When he opened his eyes, a vivid panic shot through him. He