St Petersburg, Russia, 1796
The lights in the empty hallway were just dim enough to conjure sinister ghosts and demons from the shadows, but Neira didn’t care. Shecrept past the dingy lanterns, silent as a wraith, and slipped into her room.
She locked the door behind her, fishing out the shard of glass she’d stolen half an hour ago and placing it on the table to her right. It was barely visible on the dark wood. Then, with an unimpressed grunt, she made her way to a chair and began to peel off her blood-soaked cloak, cursing under her breath as her sore body protested to any movement. She briefly glanced at the runes tattooed on the inside of her brown forearms –one for endurance on her left, and one for wisdom on her right. A promise and a reminder.
She was halfway done wiping the blood from her boots, when there was the sound of the lock clicking open, andLucifer quietly let himself in. His golden magic coiled around his fingers, bringing with it that faint scent of sandalwood as the lock clicked back in place, and as always, the air itself stretched and when he entered.
“Privet, dorogaya.” An embodiment of mystery and allure, he leaned back against the door as if he owned the place – which he did – and crossed his ankles, giving her a wink. “How’s my favourite assassin doing today?”
“Fine.”
“Hey, – ” he placed his hand over the small table by the door and immediately flinched back, red blooming on his palm. “Why the hell do you have glass here?”
Neira looked up with a raised brow. “Try not to get blood all over my room, will you?”
“You’re prickly today.” He wiped the blood on his black pants, sank into the corner of her rickety bed, and stretched out his long legs, a tapestry of hard lines and sharp angles. “All that red on you from one job?”
Neira shook her head irritably. “The job went perfectly – just some rich merchant who didn’t realize anything till my knife was at his throat. But this,” – she raised her boot and discarded cloak accusingly – “was after. I ran into my moron of a gang leader and found him in his office in a pool of broken glass and blood and misery.”
Lucifer leaned forward, midnight blue eyes lit with mild interest. “Micah’s dead?”
“No,” she said, undoing her braid. “Almost, though. That new white assassin was about to deliver the final blow when I barged in. She fled out the window as soon as they saw me, and Micah was dying all over my damn feet, so I couldn’t give chase.”
Lucifer shrugged.“Pity. That assassin’s starting to become a pain around these parts of the city.”
Neira narrowed her eyes and leaned back in her chair languorously, drumming her fingers against the wooden armrest. “Well, why don’t you do something?”
“Me?” He sounded surprisingly youthful.
“You’re Lucifer, the devil himself.” She pointed one of her many curved knives at him. “More importantly, you own nearly every inn, tavern, and brothel in these filthy parts of St. Petersburg. You have connections; why not use them to flush out that assassin?”
“Well,” Lucifer hummed thoughtfully, giving her a lazy grin that had most people weak in the knees. “Not interested. I’drather watch.”
“People say that the assassin’s an angel,” Neira countered, unfazed. “Sent to rid this city of corruption and sin. To purge us of drugs, gangs, and prostitutes. You know, scum.”
“Ha. So far, she’s killed the smallest of drug lords and hapless women forced to work at brothels.” He said coldly. Lucifer ran a careless hand through his golden hair, shrugging off his tailored black coat. “Not much ‘ridding’, if you ask me. Besides, you’re not asking for my help, are you?” He smirked. “I thought you were the best in the city. Is this white assassin too much for the great, feared Nyx? Are you afraid?”
Neira pushed herself up and walked to him, her long hair a smooth black curtain behind her, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Placing the tip of her icy ebony knife under his chin, she lifted his face up to hers, her touch gentle as a lover’s. A heartbeat later, a second knifewas in her hand as though by magic, kissing the spot just under his right ear. He wasn’t bothered – just as quickly as she could kill him with her blessed knives, he could stop her breath with a twitch of his finger. This was their dark friendship, a mixture of taunts and dares.
“No,” she cooed softly. “I’m the Nyx, the Shadow, the Ghost. St. Petersburg’s assassin. I’m this city’s very own legend, the monster hiding under beds and behind closets. A story for naughty children, a very real nightmare for the rich and greedy. Do you know why?”
“I know, I know. You worship no god but one that grants you power. Green and lust are your slaves – they follow you, seep into the people you point them to.” He gave her a cocky grin. “The demons of this city may worship me, but they fear you. The monsters themselves cower and bow down to you, sweet Neira.”
“Damn right, they do.”
And just as quickly, the knives were off of him, disappearing into sheaths on either side of her hips, their sly curves winking in the dim light of her room. She nudged his knee aside with her foot and flopped down onto the bed, placing her hands under her head as she looked up at the ceiling. Exhaustion nagged at her body. The bed creaked as Lucifer lay down beside her, a hand over the hard planes of his stomach.
He turned his head. “I’ll stay for tonight?”
“Yeah.”
Neira was the only one who knew his secret. To the rest of St. Petersburg, he wasn’t Lucifer, but Dimitri, a rich merchant and a distant relative of the tsar. As for those whohad discovered his identity and subsequently tried to assassinate him – well, they were lying six feet under unmarked graves. Neira had taken care of most of them. She also had a feeling that Lucifer knew. He never thanked her explicitly – it just wasn’t his way, and honestly, it wasn’t hers, either – but she knew he looked out for her in his own way.
She sighed. “Micah asked me to take care of the assassin. It’s a job, and I always see the work done.”
With a tired “hmm”, he threw his coat over her, the material still warm. He yawned and pulled on a threadbare blanket from the head of the bed, seeming as though the day was catching up to him too. Immortal or not, everyone needed sleep.
“Sleep well, Nyx,” Lucifer said. “Come tomorrow, you have a monster to hunt.”
Funny to think the devil was the only one whose company she slept well in.
The next morning, Neira put on one of her many aliases to visit ever tavern she knew, listening to every rumor and truth tossed around about the mysterious White Assassin who had almost killed her boss. Over the next two weeks, the kills rose in number, swift and unyielding, but Neira proceeded cautiously, planting whispers and dark promises in everywhere she visited.
By the next month, even people in the blackest corners of the city knew: The Nyx was prowling the streets, ready for a fight. St. Petersburg’s slum monster against the rising righteous angel, the zhritsa. It was a dare and an invitation.
Either way, one of them was going to die soon.
Rumor had it that the assassin had hair bright as the sun, skin like bone china,movement smooth like magic, andLucifer, too, became mildly wary. Even though no attempt had been made on his life, he was still one of the most feared and respected people in the disreputable parts of town, which made him a target. Everywhere, the hushed voices said the same thing about the White Assassin: god-sent, god-sent, god-sent. Who could fight an actual angel and win?
Neira waited. She was willing to bide her time– recklessness and impatience never got you anywhere. When you hunted, the trick wasn’t to run the fastest or strike the hardest. No – the key was to wait, to let your preymake its way to you.
And Neira was nothing if not patient.
Walking over the creaky bridge along the canal with nothing but the feeble light of the crescent moon and the sound of furtive water lapping against the docks, Neira mentallycounted her collection of knives. Two up her sleeves, two on either side of her hips, hidden from view, and another two hidden in her tall boots. Over her loose cloak, Neira lookedlike any other girl out for a dangerously late walk, hooded to protect herself from the wind.
In one of the hidden pockets, two small vials clicked against each other, one clear as fresh ice, and the other a beautiful, translucent brown. It was only when the city clock declared midnight – a low, dull peal as the bell struck the twelfth note – that Neira felt it.
Someone was watching her.
She turned, her skin tingling with apprehension as her eyes darted around the bridge, looking formovement –
There. A spry shadow, still as stone, facing her as though it had been waiting there for hours. They held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat, before the White Assassin turned away slowly, deliberately, and headed towards the outskirts of the city, her ivory cloak gleaming like its very own moon.
Neira felt it, then, that otherworldly aura from her rival and felt a flicker of doubt.
Angel indeed.
Who could fight an actual angel and win?
The White Assassin led her down narrow alleys that smelled like urine and vomit. A few drunkards were heaped on the groundtheir faces hollow and defeated, sunken with malnourishment or disease or both. Some barely looked up as Neira passed, while others watched her with sharp, crow-like eyes. There was hunger and desperation in their gaze, but one look at her confident strides told them enough – she was the predator, not the prey, and it was in their best interests to steer clear.
The assassin made her way to the end of the street before stepping into the cruelest brothel in the city, and even Neira hesitated. That building was frequented by the greediest, most imperious of men, the kind who believed their coin gave them every right over a woman’s body. She hated the place.
A heartbeat later, Neira followed, silently stalking past the reception area and the curious eyes, still following her assassin. They made their way into one of the dimly lit, tunneling corridors, walking past countless doors from behind which feigned moans echoed.
The sounds of the countless rooms crept past locked doors and bled into the corridor. Grunts and moans. Once, the crack of a belt. Twice, a whimper of pain. Neira heard the blood rushing in her ears, felt her heart beating in her chest, found her hands fisted, and wished she could burn the whole place down. And yet, she simply followed, until the assassin reached the final door at the end of the corridor and disappeared behind it, leaving it slightly ajar.
Neira slipped past the heavy metal door to find stone stairs that descended into darkness. The only light was offered by rare, spluttering lamps along the wall. She began her descent, her heart a livid, restless thing in her chest. Neira could have sworn that even the shadows hushed and gathered to watch the horror about to unfold, and they followed her like moths after light.
After what seemed like hundreds of stairs, finally, she found herself in a tomb, the stone ceiling barely a foot above her head. Fat, cracking pillars splattered with red and brown stains struggled to bear the weight over themselves, and the walls shone with the cool, green bioluminescence of blooming algae that thrived on the moisture from the sewer under the tomb. The wooden floor was dusty, and phantom winds coaxed out murmurs and whispers from between the aching pillars.
The White Assassin stood in the center, with her ivory hood down to reveal pale golden hair that did indeed shine like the damn sun. She wore white leather gauntlets over her slender arms. Their eyes met – Neira’s the color of bitter, splitting coffee, and the assassin’s the color of grass greener than anything you found in these parts of the city. Standing in the dim light with that beautiful face, she looked every bit as god-sent as the people claimed.
“What’s your name, angel?” Neira purred.
“Elena,” the assassin raised her chin, her voice like warmth and honey. “Do you know who I am?”
“Do tell.”
“I am your mirror,” Elena said. “Everything you can do, I can, too. Every you know, I know, too.” In a fluid motion, she unsheathed two knives from her boots and twirled the white blades in her hands, putting them up for Neira. “Same weapons. Two in your boots, four on your hips, two in your sleeves. I am your twin, your one true match.”
“The gods made me my very own monster?” Neira raised an eyebrow. “How flattering.”
“Not a monster, no,” Elena’s voice flared as the two of them orbited each other like wary street cats. “A light to your darkness. An angel to balance the wrong you’ve done in this world. To wash away the dirt and corruption in parts of the city that were once beautiful.”
Neira barked out a laugh. “This part of St. Petersburg was never beautiful, pretty one. And you’re no match for me.”
Elena narrowed her eyes dangerously, seeming to burn with a steady but frantic righteousness. “Oh, but I am. You see, I was born with theangel’s blood in my veins. I’ve been blessed – nothing you do could hurt me.” Her smile was a fervent, grotesque thing. “I am the hand of my lords, here to do Their holy work. And your death will be my gift to Them.”
“You have tattoos on your arms,” Neira said, her own blades appearing in her hands, black and ruthless. Her heart pummeled against her chest beneathher bored demeanor.
“One for endurance, one for wisdom.” Elena smiled.
“Strange. I thought someone god-sent would already have those shining qualities. Why tattoo them on you?”
“It would be like your own arms delivering the blow that kills you. Symbolic, don’t you think?”
“What I’m hearing is,” she cocked her and raised an eyebrow haughtily, giving a look so insolent even Lucifer hated it, “you like my fashion.”
Elena looked murderous when she roared and attacked.
And then they were fighting, their blades singing as they slashed at each other, twirling and shifting in their intricate dance. Elena was a force to be reckoned with – she moved like fire, like light, and slipped past almost every defensethat Neira could manage, her hair flowing around her like a golden cloud. Her white knives gleamed like dried bones, slowly tasting The Nyx’s blood, and Elena wore her down slowly, almost gently, bit by bitin shallow cuts.
Neira blocked and parried and ducked, but it was almost pointless. Elena was good, just as good as her, and fueled with a fanatic righteousness that drove her every attack. Save a few small wins that stained her knives red, every attack Neira tried was met with a swift defense. Their grunts echoed in the tomb, and bits of ancient dust loosened from above. The shadows and phantoms danced on the algae-covered walls, sinister and thirsty for the blood that now spilt freely from both of them. But Elena was indeed blessed – her wounds healed as soon as they appeared. Neira’s didn’t.
It seemedthat the White Assassin was right – no normal weapon could hurt her. Neira’s blades were nearly useless.
Soon, Neira found herself backing away, protecting herself rather than trying to land a blow – it was all she could do to keep her arms unscathed and her fingers attached. Despite the past two years of training and all the name her grace and agility had won her, it wasn’t enough. Her breathing was harsh, and cool sweat coated her feverish body, her arms burning as she swung and deflected. But alas, Elena executed yet another perfect maneuver, and as Neira watched her knife wreck free from her hand and clatter onto the ground, she realized two things.
The firstwas that Elena wasn’t just ‘as good’ as Neira. She was better.
And the second – as Neira scrambled to yank out the knife in her boot and narrowly missed a swing that would have beheaded her – was that she could not beat her angel with brute force and skill alone.
But Neira was nothing if not patient, nothing if not cunning. And as anyone in the city could tell you – she never, ever came unprepared.
Feigning exhaustion, Neira retreated till Elena was pushing her in a corner. As Elena swung her knife for a savage killing blow, Neira ducked, the knife carving a shallow slice along her cheek. Then in a fluid motion, she uncorked the brown vial from her cloak and threw the content in Elena’s face.
The angel screamed. It was a horrifying, beseeching sound, high and piercing enough to feel like claws against stone. The knives slipped from her elegant fingers and her hands came to cover her face as she staggered back. There was the rancid smell of burning flesh, and in the same motion, Neira punched the mossy brick in the wall, which she had known wasn’t a brick at all. It was a lever.
The meter-wide trapdoor swung open right underElena, but Neira grabbed her by her collar. The angel cried out in agony, half her face disfigured and bleeding profusely, and clutched Neira’s straining arm, the only thing keeping her from falling fifteen feet into the rapid, roaring currents of the sewer below.
“What did you do?” Elena screamed, her legs kicking and swinging for any solid ground.
Neira gave her a smile that sent men crawling, a thing devoid of anything but cold ruthlessness. “Unholy water, pretty angel. Mixed with the blood of the devil himself.”
Waking up in the middle of the night over a month ago and taking Lucifer’s blood from that shard of glass had been easy. He’d bled enough for her to make half a liter of the foul stuff, and she’d coated a single one of her knives in it. Quietly snoring away, he hadn’t suspected a thing the next morning.
“You got lucky.” Elenagasped. “In a fair fight, I would have won.”
“You may be my twin,” Neira whispered, twirling that knife drenched in unholy water, the cut of her face like a parody of a blush, “but I know this city. Outside and inside and inside and outside. My city. My home.”
“You’re a witch,” Elena spat, the hatred like a living thing on her glorious, stunning face. “St. Petersburg’s rat, filth from the slums. You’re evil and rotten, and you’ll get what’s coming your way.”
“No.” Neira brought her face closer to her enemy’s, till their noses were inches apart. “I don’t think I will.” And in a flash of movement, Neira buried her knife between Elena’s ribs, straight into her heart. Tears spilled from the angel’s good eye, her mouth bloody when she opened it for a weak, desperate plea, but The Nyx silenced her.
“Shh, beautiful Elena. And remember,” she yanked out the knife, savagely thrilled at the low whimper it evoked, “that the righteous and absolute tend to do far greater evils than common people desperate for survival.”
Neira let go.
Elenawas dead before she splashed into the sewer with a sickening crack. The water turned a dark, murky brown as it mixed with blood, and Neira watched the angel’s body crash and drift in the current before it was swallowed by the dirty water. The tombwas a hushed pool of silence. Stepping back, Neira grimaced at the irksome cuts along her cheek and arms, feeling that familiar anger and guilt and pain course through her as it did after every kill. She nearly fell to her knees with the sheer force of it, but –
“NEIRA!” Lucifer thundered down the stairs and all but tumbled into the tomb. “Neira, be careful. . .” His words faded. He examined her from head to toe, lips parted in surprise, his collar unbuttoned and askew. His face was concerned, of all things, as he rushed out, “Abraxus told me this morning that the assassin was truly blessed and no mortal weapon could kill her. I was coming to warn you, but then I heard you came down here, following some strange woman, and I thought I’d be too late, I -” He threw his hands up, exasperated. “The hell happened? Where’s the assassin?”
“Ah,ty takoygromkiy, Lucifer. Her name was Elena, and she’s dead.” Neira said, feeling that torment subside ever so slightly at the sight of her friend, the only one who was as broken and bitter as her. The only one who knew the hideous, painful story behind her tattoos.
“Dead?” He demanded, looking at her incredulously. “What – how?”
She shrugged sheepishly and kicked the trapdoor shut, sheathing her knives. “I used your blood to make unholy water. Coated my knife with it before I stabbed her and threw her in the sewer.”
He stared at her blankly for a moment. “Unholy water.” He looked down at his palm. Blinked. “You knew what she was?”
She shrugged again. “I had a feeling. Wanted to be prepared, just in case.”
Neira waited for his response.For a moment, she thought he was angry, – after all, his blood in the wrong hands would have been disastrous – but when he looked up at her, he was grinning in that lovely way of his. “Neira, you genius, wicked thing.”
She rolled her eyes. Secretly pleased, she fished out the other vial from her pocket and tossed it to him.
He caught it effortlessly. “And what’s this?”
“Holy water,” Neira said. “I didn’t know if I was going to be fighting a blessed or cursed creature today, so I brought both. Do whatever you want with it.”
He laughed softly. “Let it be known that The Nyx never comes unprepared.” Wearing an expression of wonder, Lucifer walked up to her and gently wiped away the blood on her cheek. “I’m telling you. The monsters themselves cower and bow down to you, Neira.”
She gave him a mocking bow and walked past him, her wounds throbbing faintly as she trudged back up the stairs. She knew that by now, everyone had heard about her and the White Assassin. And she knew that the moment she walked up those stairs, victorious, it would be yet another declaration to anyone foolish enough to have doubted her. She would enjoy the looks of surprise, fear, and even the occasional thinly-veiled disappointment.
Again, she felt the shadows follow her, but Lucifer snapped his finger. A faint, golden orb glowed just before them, shedding much-needed light on the path ahead.
Throwing her shoulders back and putting on a dastardly smile, she walked on, and Lucifer followed at her heels, cool and amused. Her partner in crime.
“I told you, Luce,” Neira said, raising her chin. “It’s a job, and I always see the work done.”
Because she was Neira – The Nyx, the Shadow, the Ghost. St. Petersburg’s assassin. And in the city of demons and unrest, only the wicked thrived.
