Whisper of Blade | ✓ (Crimson #1)

Chapter 1: The Pale Viper

858 A.G.M.

11 years later

Perched on a rooftop, Minerva Pyroline crouched in the shadow of a chimney.

Smoke puffed from it, golden sparks mixed with ash rising as an offering to the sky. She pulled the black cloth around her neck up to cover her mouth and nose, listening to shouts echo from faraway streets. Once in awhile, a flame spurted in the distance, a shining beacon in the night.

A beacon of destruction.

She shifted her feet, wincing at how they scraped on the slate tiles. Then she stilled, body tensing. On the opposite side of the street, two rough men emerged from a by-way with a young woman in tow, jeering at her desperate struggling and impotent threats.

"Let me go!" the girl screamed, hands clawing at the man's arm.

He backhanded her across the face.

Minerva closed her eyes. Burn me for a bloody fool. Any rational creature would have walked off without a backward glance. Yet here she remained, playing the gallant rescuer again like some naïve child who believes the heroes always win.

If she were completely honest, she'd admit that she'd seen the two men earlier, recognized them as trouble and tracked their footsteps, knowing they'd come this way. Which is why she'd only admit to being partially honest. She'd just happened to be here, in the perfect position to help.

Minerva pulled her face back into the obscurity of her cloak's deep hood, aware that her glowing, golden eyes could give her position away. One thug, a thin, shifty looking fellow, scanned the streets, a dagger held ready in his hand. Sharp yellow eyes passed once over the rooftops before returning to scrutinize the dark alleys. Despite their disheveled appearance, the two reprobates commanded authority of the highway, fellow night walkers hastily giving way. In direct contrast to their shabby attire, the glistening kirukkan phoenix dangled from chains on their foreheads.

Minerva considered very few things to be absolute fact. One of those rare truths happened to be that the emblem of the phoenix—which to most symbolized power—was a mark on the bearer.

A mark that meant you deserved to die.

The captive girl beat on the shoulders of the man who had slung her across his back like a sack of grain, screeching dirty epithets that made Minerva cringe. Again she second-guessed her decision, the one man's wariness and the young hussy's stream of profanity putting her ill at ease. But if she turned her back now, she would feel—illogical though the feeling might be—that the woman's blood was on her hands.

Not to mention two more Phoenix Kin would still be blood and bone instead of ash. Minerva's lips twisted in a wry smile. Let them see whether their goddess would resurrect them.

Keeping an eye on the men down below, Minerva removed a corked vial from her satchel and shook it up to mix the contents. If she were to forget, the added ingredients that had settled to the bottom in a thin layer wouldn't do their work in negating the snake venom. The intended antidote could poison and kill her instead.

She popped the lid and poured a single drop onto her palm before licking it up and tucking the glass vial away.

Carefully laying her satchel in the crevice between the brick chimney and the sloping roof, she eased down the tiles and dropped without a sound to the street below. Three rickety buildings away, her quarry remained oblivious to her presence.

Breath misting, she pressed against the wooden slats of the wall, shivering in the chilly, winter air. A potent-smelling pile of refuse a few inches from her face sent her stomach roiling in protest. She shook her head in an effort to clear her mind. Focus.