DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains violence. Read at your own risk.
The laundry wagon rumbled over the cobblestones, its wheels groaning under the heavy load. In a dark, narrow alley, a shadow detached itself from the wagon's undercarriage, landing softly without a sound.
Viviana straightened up, brushing the dirt and dust from her dark assassin's attire. Before her, at the end of the alley, stood her destination: House Of Desires.
It was a three-story building, far grander than its neighbors. Carved wooden balconies overhung the street, and warm, golden light spilled from its stained-glass windows, along with the muffled sounds of lively music and loud, drunken laughter. Two armed guards stood guard at the main entrance, scrutinizing every wealthy merchant and minor noble who sought entry. The front door was not an option.
Viviana melted back, her eyes scanning the building's front. Her gaze settled on a second-story window, slightly ajar to let out the thick, cloying smoke of incense. It was a private room, its balcony adorned with a thick, climbing ivy grid that reached almost to the ground. It was like a ladder, waiting for her.
Moving with a speed and silence, she scaled the grid, her fingers and toes finding sure holds in the thick, woody vines. In moments, she was at the window. She listened for a second, heard nothing but the distant sounds from downstairs, and then slipped through the opening.
The room was decorated in deep reds and golds, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine. A young woman, a pleasure worker, sat before a vanity mirror, brushing her long, copper-colored hair. She was humming softly to herself, unaware she was no longer alone. Viviana moved from behind. One hand clamped over the woman's mouth to stifle her surprised gasp, while the edge of her other hand delivered a swift, precise chop to the side of her neck, at a pressure point she knew would induce immediate unconsciousness without causing lasting harm. The woman went limp in her arms.
Viviana quickly dragged the unconscious body across the room and bundled her into a large wardrobe, stuffing a silken pillow in after her to ensure she wouldn't suffocate. She would wake in a few hours with a sore neck and a confusing story to tell, but she would be alive.
Viviana then turned her attention to the vanity. She stripped off her assassin's attire, threw it out the window and slipped into the woman's working gown – a daring creation of thin, orange silk that clung to her figure and was extremely exposed. She used the woman's cosmetics, applying them softly. She let her own dark curls tumble freely around her shoulders, then tied a thin, translucent orange veil over her nose and mouth, obscuring the lower half of her face but leaving her smoldering eyes visible.
She exited the room and descended the staircase into the main hall. The scene that greeted her was no surprise; she had walked through places like this a dozen times on other missions, in other cities. It was a sickening stench of wealth and lust. Richly dressed merchants and nobles laughed loudly, their faces flushed with drink, while scantily clothed women moved among them, filling their cups and laughing at their crude jests allowing the said men touch them as they pleas.
"Another round for my friends!" a stout wool merchant bellowed, slamming a purse heavy with coins on a table. "The price of southern wool has doubled! A cause for celebration and sin!" He laughed as he planted a kiss on the neck of a woman who perched on his laps.
In a corner, a gaunt-looking noble murmured to his companion, "I tell you, Marcus, the court is on edge since that… public display at the banquet. Prince Dominic has a heavy, bloody hand."
"A necessary hand, my friend," the other replied, taking a sip of wine. "A heavy hand keeps the wolves from the door, both inside and out."
Viviana's eyes scanned the crowd, her gaze passing over the drunken, leering faces until it landed on her target. General Tiberius Vorlag. He was exactly as she remembered: an older man, powerfully built but running too fat. He stood near the bar, speaking gruffly to the house manager. Vorlag was clearly displeased, likely asking for a new girl to pleasure him. This was her chance.
She didn't approach him directly; that was too obvious, too eager. Instead, she began her seduction. She moved to a small, open space near a pillar where other dancers were, well within Vorlag's line of sight, and began to dance. It was not the joyful, spirited dance she had performed with Lilliana, but a slow, sinuous, deeply seductive rhythm. She moved her hips, her arms, her entire body, making sure he saw a great amount of skin she was showing. Her eyes, half-lidded, drifted over to the General, held his gaze for a smoldering moment, and then looked away as if she were shy.
Vorlag's gruff conversation with the manager faltered. His roving, piggish eyes landed on her, and they stayed there. He grunted, then pointed a finger in her direction. "Her," he growled to the manager, his voice a low rumble. "That one with the dark hair and the veil. I want her. Send her to my private room. Now."
The manager bowed obediently, then scurried over to Viviana, delivering the General's summons.
Viviana followed the manager up a private staircase to the top floor, to a lavish suite of rooms known as "The Falcon's Eyrie." The manager opened the door, ushered her in, and then quickly retreated, closing the door behind him.
General Vorlag was already there, pouring himself another goblet of wine. The moment the door clicked shut, his thin veneer of nobility vanished. "Took you long enough," he grumbled, his breath sour with wine. "Been a long, hard journey from the border, girl. Time for a proper soldier's reward."
He slammed his goblet down and lunged for her, grabbing her arm in a punishing grip. He dragged her across the room and threw her aggressively onto the large, canopied bed. The silk sheets were cool against her skin. As he began to clumsily strip himself of his general's tunic and heavy breeches, he murmured disgusting flatteries. "Ah, you are a beautiful one… so fresh… so much better than the tired old nags downstairs…"
Naked, he climbed heavily onto the bed, his weight pinning her down. His face, close up, was a mask of pure lust. He lowered his head and began to plant wet, sloppy kisses on her neck. "You are so beautiful," he murmured again, his voice thick and slurred.
It was the last coherent thing he would ever say.
Concealed within her sleeve was a tiny, sharp pin, its tip coated with a powerful, fast-acting paralytic agent. As he tore her gown, Viviana pricked him sharply in the fleshy part of his neck.
He grunted, a sound of surprise, then his eyes widened as a strange numbness began to spread through him with terrifying speed. His body went limp, his muscles refusing to obey his commands, and he collapsed on top of her, a dead, suffocating weight.
With a grunt of disgust and effort, Viviana roughly shoved his heavy, paralyzed body off of hers. He rolled onto his back, his eyes wide with a mixture of anger and dawning terror.
"Wha… what did you… do to me?" he managed to slur, his tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth.
Viviana stood up from the bed, looking down at him, her expression now cold. "I was ordered to poison you, General," she said, her voice clear and hard. "A quick, simple task. But I find I cannot get my true revenge if you die so quickly and peacefully. This is not poison. It will simply keep you from moving, from fighting back, from resisting. I have immobilized you."
She moved across the room, tore a strip of silk from the heavy curtain, and returned to the bed. She stuffed the silk roughly into his mouth, gagging him tightly to muffle any sound he might try to make. His eyes bulged with terror.
"Do you remember me, General Vorlag?" she asked quietly, leaning over him. He stared, his mind racing, but no recognition dawned. "No? Let me remind you."
She reached down and from its sheath on her thigh, she drew one of her twin daggers.
"I'm the traitor's daughter," she whispered, her voice a low growl of pure, distilled hatred. "The little girl from that tiny cottage you and your men burned to the ground ten years ago. The 'little rat' you ordered to be killed along with her nanny."
Understanding, followed by absolute, soul-shattering shock, finally flooded his eyes. He began to make frantic, gurgling noises behind the gag.
"Yes, there it is," Viviana said, a horrifying, humorless chuckle escaping her lips. "You thought I was dead, didn't you? That I burned with everything else." She leaned closer, her face inches from his. "No, I didn't die. But Mama Emma did. She saved me. She died in that fire you started, after your man ran a dagger through her heart. And now, General, you will join her in whatever hell awaits men like you."
Her face was a mask of fury. " Don't look at me like that, I'm only returning the favor," she hissed. And with that, she raised the dagger high and rammed it down into his exposed chest, just close to his heart.
His body arched violently against his invisible bonds, a muffled, gurgling scream tearing from his gagged mouth. The sound was terrible, inhuman.
"Does it hurt, General?" Viviana asked mockingly, her face spattered with the first spray of his blood. "When your soldier ran his dagger through Mama Emma's heart, did she scream like that? Did you enjoy it?"
She pulled the dagger out with a wet, tearing sound that echoed in the silent room, and then, her movements becoming frenzied, fueled by repressed grief and burning rage, she rammed it back in. Again, and again, and again. She lost count of the thrusts, her world narrowing to the plunge of the blade, the tearing of flesh, the hot spray of his lifeblood on her face and arms. She continued her brutal, vengeful work until his struggles ceased, until his eyes glazed over, until he was nothing more than a mutilated piece of meat on a silk sheet.
Finally, she stood up from his naked, ruined body, her chest heaving. She looked down at the carnage she had wrought, at the man who had destroyed her childhood. Then, with a final gesture of utter contempt, she spat on his corpse.
"Disgusting," she said, her voice filled with a cold, hollow finality.