different too. It wasn’t just any High One’s face, it was his master’s face. The hideous reality of what he was doing suddenly seeped back into Rafael’s consciousness, and the sheer wrongness of it made what was left of his soul shriek with pain. This wasn’t his place. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. Fifteen years of conditioning couldn’t be undone by five years of neglect.
Before he could do more than hesitate, though, Xian was on him. His feet flew out from under him and Rafael was thrown to his back, the breath driven from his lungs as he impacted the floor. He barely had time to register the negligible, pricking pain in his side and the appearance of his master’s face, his hair shielding their locked gaze like a curtain, before it dissolved into silver mist along with everything else as his consciousness faltered. Past the rush of blood in his ears and his own harsh gasping for breath, he vaguely heard the words, “Welcome back, pet,” before the darkness flooded in and mercifully drowned him.
Chapter Five
Revival was excruciating.
Rafael regained consciousness much more slowly than he’d lost it, but apart from that the circumstances were very similar. He could tell he was strung up in a large chamber, nearly as large and open as the floor of the ruined cathedral where he had so spectacularly failed his last assignment. He was in pain, a fiery ache spreading from his wrists down his shoulders and radiating out from his much-abused back. He heard slow footsteps move across the cold stone floor, but he didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see yet, not yet. His memories were bad enough, and he had plenty of memories of this particular room.
They were alone. Rafael could tell that much without looking, but it wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. He shouldn’t be alive. Xian had taken a contract out on him, and an assassin’s contract, with very few exceptions, was a death sentence. They didn’t usually toy with their prey, although Rafael bitterly admitted to himself that their fight might well have qualified as playing for all the effectiveness he’d had against his former master. A failure. That was what he was, that was all he had ever been and he had proved that quite spectacularly. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t ever want to wake up again. Why hadn’t Xian killed him?
Rafael’s masochistic side forced his mind to replay the fight. It was so clear, in retrospect. Xian had played him beautifully, enticing him into wasting his crossbow bolts with his game of hide-and-seek, pretending injury to coerce Rafael into abandoning the high ground to try to capitalize on the wound before Xian was healed. The cloth, that magnificent gleaming black cloak had protected his former master from the wrath of the sun as well as the rain of silver needles Rafael had shot at him. And when they’d closed… Shame burned through Rafael’s chest, making him squeeze his eyes shut, trying to deny it. He had tried. He truly had tried to kill Xian, at first. He had made a supreme effort, especially after he’d nearly fallen to death when the floor crumbled to a yawning pit beneath his feet. He should have died then, but now he knew Xian had pulled him back and saved him from that dark, solitary end. Why? So he could revel in his former apprentice’s inadequacies and watch him shatter beneath the realization that even after five years of living a life of vengeful sorrow and anger, in the end he couldn’t move to kill his master? Did Xian sense the hopelessness in Rafael as he had realized that, the futile frustration and self-loathing? He could have run Rafael through right then.
Instead he had saved him. Saved him from falling, then spared his life when by all rights he should have killed him immediately. He had saved him for what, then? To gloat? That wasn’t Xian’s style. To impress Rafael’s worthlessness upon him? Perhaps, especially if he still resented the death
Before he could do more than hesitate, though, Xian was on him. His feet flew out from under him and Rafael was thrown to his back, the breath driven from his lungs as he impacted the floor. He barely had time to register the negligible, pricking pain in his side and the appearance of his master’s face, his hair shielding their locked gaze like a curtain, before it dissolved into silver mist along with everything else as his consciousness faltered. Past the rush of blood in his ears and his own harsh gasping for breath, he vaguely heard the words, “Welcome back, pet,” before the darkness flooded in and mercifully drowned him.
Chapter Five
Revival was excruciating.
Rafael regained consciousness much more slowly than he’d lost it, but apart from that the circumstances were very similar. He could tell he was strung up in a large chamber, nearly as large and open as the floor of the ruined cathedral where he had so spectacularly failed his last assignment. He was in pain, a fiery ache spreading from his wrists down his shoulders and radiating out from his much-abused back. He heard slow footsteps move across the cold stone floor, but he didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see yet, not yet. His memories were bad enough, and he had plenty of memories of this particular room.
They were alone. Rafael could tell that much without looking, but it wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. He shouldn’t be alive. Xian had taken a contract out on him, and an assassin’s contract, with very few exceptions, was a death sentence. They didn’t usually toy with their prey, although Rafael bitterly admitted to himself that their fight might well have qualified as playing for all the effectiveness he’d had against his former master. A failure. That was what he was, that was all he had ever been and he had proved that quite spectacularly. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t ever want to wake up again. Why hadn’t Xian killed him?
Rafael’s masochistic side forced his mind to replay the fight. It was so clear, in retrospect. Xian had played him beautifully, enticing him into wasting his crossbow bolts with his game of hide-and-seek, pretending injury to coerce Rafael into abandoning the high ground to try to capitalize on the wound before Xian was healed. The cloth, that magnificent gleaming black cloak had protected his former master from the wrath of the sun as well as the rain of silver needles Rafael had shot at him. And when they’d closed… Shame burned through Rafael’s chest, making him squeeze his eyes shut, trying to deny it. He had tried. He truly had tried to kill Xian, at first. He had made a supreme effort, especially after he’d nearly fallen to death when the floor crumbled to a yawning pit beneath his feet. He should have died then, but now he knew Xian had pulled him back and saved him from that dark, solitary end. Why? So he could revel in his former apprentice’s inadequacies and watch him shatter beneath the realization that even after five years of living a life of vengeful sorrow and anger, in the end he couldn’t move to kill his master? Did Xian sense the hopelessness in Rafael as he had realized that, the futile frustration and self-loathing? He could have run Rafael through right then.
Instead he had saved him. Saved him from falling, then spared his life when by all rights he should have killed him immediately. He had saved him for what, then? To gloat? That wasn’t Xian’s style. To impress Rafael’s worthlessness upon him? Perhaps, especially if he still resented the death
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