Abolisher

It was midnight when Faolin’s feet began moving, led her out of her room, her apartment, the building. And were now steering her through a dark forest with an aim she wasn’t conversed with.

She’d guessed the aim, though—knew exactly what the sudden reverberations in her head meant, what the pull to her mejest meant.

A year ago, Darkness had been her master. Faolin had felt the loss of control as her body had vulnerably become someone else’s to command, when her limbs didn’t listen to her, didn’t obey—not to her. She’d just been a vessel for the unholiness Deisn Rainfang had poured in her. Nothing more.

A year ago, Faolin had lost her mind, her soul, her body. Death had refused to claim her when life had abandoned her. She’d been left for Darkness to gnaw at.

A year ago, Faolin had met someone.

The woman had somehow sucked out the Darkness from her body—enough for Faolin to regain control of her limbs—like one might drink water from a glass.

“The Moon Sadist,” she’d crooned as soon as Faolin’s sight had returned—her face was the first she’d seen after days of eternal dark. She’d been beautiful, Faolin still remembered the way her gold-flecked obsidian eyes had gleamed, the way her angular cheekbones had lifted with that wicked smile.

The woman held a locket in her hand, her slender eyes fixed on it. “Is this the secret behind the ruthless mask of the Steelier Weapon?” She spoke the titles so softly—soft as a lover—and yet the voice rung in Faolin’s ears.

Faolin was too dazed—too weak—too exhausted—to go for weapons, for her body to answer to her assassin instincts.

“Why?” was all Faolin could muster. How? should have been her first question. How had the woman managed to trap the Darkness in that locket? How had she known that Faolin was trapped by the Darkness in the first place? “Why … help …”

“Help?” The woman snorted. “Oh, darling. It’s a debt.”

“How … do I … repay …” Because even in that haze, gratitude had gushed Faolin like nothing she’d ever experienced before. The Darkness was the worst torment she’d ever faced—it was neither life, nor death. In it, she’d been forced to go through her worst fears over and over. In it, her mind had been zapped and ripped and burned. In it, she’d been hopeless and lost and alone. It’d been Saqa and she’d wanted to die.

And this stranger … this stranger had just …

The woman had stroked Faolin’s hair out of her face.

“Come when I call.”

And then the world before Faolin had disappeared, claimed by a different dark. Comfortable dark. And she never saw that stranger again.

Now, as Faolin’s feet walked through the forest, crushing the twigs, the words buzzed in her head.

Come when I call.

The call had arrived, and Faolin was answering.

The trees cleared, disclosing a clear line of buildings a few yards from her. The ghostly whispers in her grew, urged her to advance. So Faolin did. The woman had made no other bargains—no other demands. All she’d asked was to come.

She hadn’t clarified whether to come to aid, or to walk right into a trap.

And Faolin knew better than to trust any stranger blindly—especially someone who’d radiated that much power. She found herself taking all safety precautions as her feet walked. Her hands were in closer distance to her weapons, each inch of her body was ready. Alert.

But she hesitated when she contemplated reaching for her mejest. It belonged to her, yes—that much control was gifted by that stranger—but it belonged to the Darkness just as much.

Fear threatened to flare inside her chest, so fierce that she thought, if unleashed, it would crumple her to ashes. But Faolin knew the Darkness fed on it, delighted in it. She clamped it down.

Faolin entered a wide alley; tall buildings flanked it.

Her feet paused before an inn’s wooden doors. She could hear the men chatting and laughing and the glasses clinking.

Come.

Faolin stepped forward.

A guard came to her, lips moving. But his voice was drowned out by some silent roaring in her skull.

“What …” Her voice barely made it out. She tried shaking her head, gently smacking her ears, but the voices around her didn’t sharpen—the words didn’t take shape.

The guard grew cautious, she could see it—the way he held out his hand, as if making an effort to comply with a furious animal. His hand went for the sword at his hip.

Her body—extremely alert—moved before her mind even registered him wholly. He was on the ground the next moment, nose broken, bleeding. She blinked, taking him in. But before she could even contemplate, two more guards charged—wherever they came from—and fell before her feet.

Stop, she urged herself. What are you doing—

She realized then—her body was moving with the promise she’d made to that woman, taking down any blockade without a thought.

Come.

Faolin’s feet were moving towards the doors again, stepping around the groaning guards. No one stirred in the tavern when she stepped inside.

Good.

That meant they hadn’t heard the cracks of those guards’ bones. Just to evade any suspicions or attention, Faolin lifted her hood. Then she was walking towards the door in the other corner—likely leading to the stairs. But—

“You know, with that dark attire …” The voice behind her was thick, dawdling. Drunk.

She turned. The man was holding a glass bottle filled with amber liquid in his hand. The color bizarrely reminded her of Vendrik Evenflame’s eyes—bright and crisp, and soft all the same. It was probably the mixture of inviting kindness and awaiting destruction. The man was tall, strongly built. Even then, Faolin doubted he would stand for longer than a second against her.

Faolin looked to his table behind him. A pale woman sat half-naked there. There was no other seat around the table—she could only guess that the woman had been sitting in his lap. Her gaze went to the red marks of fingers still blooming around her naked thigh, on her shoulder, her arm. Then she noticed it—the bracelets encompassing her wrists.

Red glazed Faolin’s sight.

Dresteen.

Slave.

The man stepped closer—enough that his round face seized the range of her sight.

“And with that white hair …” His breath stunk. His thick, calloused fingers came to brush away the strand of her hair falling in her face. “Anyone would mistake you for—”

Her dagger was at his neck.

His blue eyes bulged—he hadn’t caught her moving her arm, let alone sliding the weapon from beneath her sleeve.

“Mistake me for what? The Moon Sadist?” Faolin pressed the dagger. And crooned, “I very well might be.”

The Darkness inside her swirled, roused—excited at the lingering death. Possible food. The world darkened at the corners of her eyes, limiting her focus to the man, at his near-death. Her pulse quickened at the thrill that shot through her—there was no denying she’d grown a liking for killing this past year, no denying the release she felt when her weapons tore through these men’s flesh, and blood coated her hands—it gave her more satisfaction than water might a dehydrated person.

But killing him would attract attention—she didn’t want a whole tavern at her back. She didn’t want that much blood on her hands in a single night. She didn’t kill him, no—she didn’t need to. Instead …

She spoke too softly.

“Considering you haven’t made the Plunge, I’m taking that you’re young. Around twenty-five, thirty. Maybe because you’re too frightened to face the sea of your mejest—maybe you’re simply an Abyss-damned Grestel. Either way, you picked a wrong damn person to tamper with tonight, boy. Maybe I’m the first woman you’ve picked today, I’m hoping I am. But if you ever touch any other woman without her permission—no matter where—if you even so much as look in her direction in a roguish way, I swear on all the otsatyas, no matter where you are, I will come to your house and burn everyone you know. I won’t kill you, no—but I’m guessing it wouldn’t be so easy to live—no matter how long—without your manhood.”

His face went deathly pale, lips parted slightly. It told her enough—he had never assaulted any woman before. If he had, otsatyas knew where Faolin would have dumped his pieces.

And she’d done what she needed to do. The fear had seeped into his bones. And settled.

Come.

Faolin released the man. Only threw one look at the slave at his table—also open-mouthed—before turning to the stairs. Her chest stung.

No matter now many slaves they freed—no matter how much effort they put, there would always be more to be bought from the Voiceless Pits.

Rage and utter helplessness coursed through her as she walked to the room this bond led her to.

It was at the end of the hallway on third floor. Faolin opened it.

And the stranger from that night was the first thing her eyes settled on in the dark room—she was seated directly from the door, the dim light venturing from the hallway behind Faolin met her unswervingly. Dark eyes gleamed with animal delight in the gloom. She’d been waiting, Faolin realized, had known precisely when to call Faolin, and when Faolin would arrive at the doorstep.

She was trussed to a chair—brutally. Those ropes would leave angry bruises.

Faolin almost heard the vicious smile as the stranger greeted in a lover-soft voice, “Long time no see.”

Faolin didn’t reply.

She felt someone else in the room. Too silent, too cautious. She wouldn’t even have known of their presence had it not been for the sharp intake of breath when Faolin had entered.

The stranger wasn’t aware of the third presence.

Faolin flexed her fingers. One death tonight then.

“What are you waiting for?” the woman hissed, impatient. “Untie me.”

Faolin stepped inside the room.

She heard a long sigh, then—

“She would do no such thing.”

The third female voice was cool and deadly all at once. It was a bird’s gleeful melody, and a killer’s death threat. Sinful and virtuous. Chills skittered down Faolin’s spine—and her feet seemed to glue to the tiles. Her heart sped.

She knew that voice. Knew it as good as the back of her own hand. Knew it—and loathed it.

Hatred, lethal and destroying, roared in her head, coiled her from toes to head; took a hold of her entire body. Cunning and cruel and hideous. Faolin’s fingers curled into shaking fists.

The lights turned on.

There she stood—leaning against the wall in her golden nightgown behind the stranger, with a mischievous smirk on her full lips, which dug a deep dimple in her round cheek. Those hazel eyes seemed to weigh in on Faolin, pinning her to one place—paralyzing her. The woman’s silken night-dark hair was bundled up in a messy manner—two wooden sticks shoved through it.

Even now, even after one hundred and fifty-three years of grotesque hatred silently churning in her, Faolin had a strange urge to brush the spilling strands of her hair behind her ear. She remembered the way they felt, as if touching solidified sunlight—warm and utterly soft.

Touching it had even felt like being home once.

To say the least, Faolin was disgusted with herself.

“Hello, Faolin,” she whispered in that melodic, velvet-soft, loving tone of hers.

But as if a spell undone, Faolin sprung for the woman.

She tried to move out of Faolin’s reach, but with the wrath and hatred and darkness and everything else living and lively within her, Faolin was somehow faster.

She knew why.

Because she wanted the woman’s blood on her hands—because she didn’t care what she ruined on her way to get that. Because the desire to kill her was as intense as her desire to hold her—and for either, she needed to be near her.

Faolin caught her wrist before she could get away and tugged her.

She landed half a step from Faolin. The scent of her breath struck her like a bolt of lightning, seemed to have annihilated her. Froze her in place.

For moments, Faolin could do nothing but feel that breath brushing her face and just stare at her. At the beautiful face that had once been so impossibly precious to her.

Her eyes burned as memories, one by one, came rushing back. The betrayal, the ravenous fury, and the anguish she’d never really recovered from.

“Hello, Ferouzeh,” Faolin replied with same softness.

Before she knocked the healer unconscious.