His hands closed around the horns of the first bull, his knuckles turning white, heels digging into the dirt. He tossed the beast with a grunt, sending it sprawling onto its side. Its head lolled, the neck snapped. Sorasa gaped as the rest of the herd broke around him, a wave around a pillar in the sea. He stood firm and unafraid. His eyes never left her, alive with green fire.

Elder, her brain screamed in realization.

Immortal.

She ran as she had never run before. Through alleys, over rooftops, between walls so tight even the sun could not reach the ground. Cloak after cloak fell from her shoulders, in all colors. Anything to confuse him, to slow him down, to steal another second out of his hands.

She circled, trying for the docks, but he was always there, keeping her from her ship, from any ship. Her pouch of tricks was nearly empty, leaving blue, white, and green smoke trailing the streets of Byllskos. She dared not try the black.

Unyielding, unbeatable. The few things she knew of the Elders came rushing back from a lesson learned long ago. Unbelievable beings born of a lost realm.

Her body burned with exertion. Her nails tore on brick and wood; her fingers bristled with splinters. She felt little pain, most of it trained out of her. Adrenaline and fear ate the rest. She climbed; she leapt; she tumbled and spun. Fruit carts and barrels of wine exploded in her wake. Dedicant priests cursed her as she parted their ranks. She even debated sprinting back to the villa of the murdered merchant, to the guards and watchmen, who would make a fine shield between herself and the immortal monster.

None of the guild had ever killed an immortal. None had been foolish enough to try. Few had even seen them. How did Lord Mercury manage to wrangle one into his service?

She racked her memory for anything that could be of use. Whispers heard about the Elder kind, their strengths, their weaknesses. In the Guild, the masters and mistresses were not so concerned with folk of legend, nor creatures of Spindles lost. No one ever took out a contract on a dragon. Guild assassins did not cross paths with the immortal ghosts still haunting the Ward.

Until Mercury somehow sends one to kill me, she sneered to herself.

She was faster, smaller; she knew the city. But those things only bought her minutes.

And her minutes were quickly spent.

He fell on her too quickly, unstoppable as a rockslide. She loosed her sword before he could, slicing with a backhanded blow. The next strike met steel, his longsword bracing against her own.

Again she wished for Garion, if only to shove him into harm’s way.

But I am alone. It’s the road I’ve chosen.

He was immovable, his blade locked with hers at the hilt. It was all she could do to hold him off, arms and legs screaming beneath the pressure. She had no logical hope of overpowering him and did not try. When he opened his mouth to speak, she spat in his face.

“By the Spindles—” he cursed, dropping back in disgust. He had the manners and idiocy to wipe the spittle away.

She kicked a spray of dust into his eyes and pounced, winding herself around his torso until she was on his back. Her dagger rose, aiming for the spot where neck met shoulder, to pierce muscle and vein. To kill and kill quickly. One arm locked over his throat, squeezing tightly. Sorasa could not count how many men she had choked this way.

To her delight, she could feel him gasp for air. Even immortals need to breathe.

He moved as she stabbed, the strike glancing. Blood welled up at his shoulder, but not enough.

He seized her by the collar and pulled her free, throwing her off with ease. She landed hard against an alley wall. She bled too, her face scraped raw by brick. Out in the streets, the whistles and trumpets of watchmen echoed. Between a stampede and a dead man, they had their hands more than full.

“We’ve caused some trouble, you and I,” Sorasa gasped out, her eyes on the street. Her entire body howled in pain.

The alley echoed around them. The Elder sneered and checked the blood at his shoulder. “This is foolish,” he said, gritting his teeth. There was blood in his mouth too.

Sorasa’s pride flared. She gulped for air.

“I promise I will not harm you.” Again, the Elder reached out. “Come, Mortal.”

Death was a welcome friend to Sorasa Sarn. She and the goddess Lasreen had passed many years bound, hand in hand. One followed the other like night follows dusk. Sorasa had never felt her so close before.

Lord Mercury rose in her mind, white and terrible, his teeth sharp, his eyes distant. It was so like him, to give her a death this way. A death she could not outrun or outfox.

It was good Sorasa did not believe in absolutes. There was only opportunity, and opportunity could always be found.

“Come, Mortal,” the Elder said again. His fingers twitched.

“No,” she said, laughing as she bolted one last time.

Her sword lay forgotten in the dirt.

She landed in the chair hard, one foot propped on the taverna table. The other jittered on the floor, shaking with nervous energy. I look a wreck, she thought, noting the way the barmaid hesitated. She was covered in dirt and blood, one of her braids undone, hair spilling over her shoulder in a black curtain. A cut on her lip oozed. She licked away the blood. With a manic grin, Sorasa held up two fingers and the maid scurried to serve.

Sorasa was not the only patron of the port taverna who looked run through. There were a few battered men who she suspected had met her bulls. The rest were sailors half-dead in their ale. She recognized Ibalet sailors of the Storm Fleet, disheveled in their dark-blue sailing silks. They noticed her too and twitched fingers in hello, greeting a sister of Ibal.

She did not return the gesture.

Two tankards were set down in front of her a moment before the door opened, spilling light through the dark barroom. The sailors winced or cursed, but the immortal ignored them. He stood for a moment, framed in sunshine, his shadow stretching over her.

She did not move as he crossed the taverna and sat.

Without a word, she pushed the pewter tankard across the pitted table. He stared at the sloshing cup of ale, perplexed. Then, with oddly stilted motions, he took a gulp.

Sorasa kept still, her face blank. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

The Elder glanced down at the tankard, staring into its golden depths. His brow furrowed. Then he drank again, draining it dry. For a second, Sorasa felt a burst of unseen triumph. It faded as he stared at her, unblinking. His pupils went wide in the dim light, black eating up the green.

“Did you know the Vedera are immune to nearly all poisons?” he said slowly.

The Vedera. She tucked the strange world into her mind and exhaled the last of her hope. “What a waste of arsenic.”

Part of her whispered to grab for her dagger, her whip, the last powders in her pouch. Another poison, another cut, another opportunity. For any and all things that might save her, even now. She felt as if a hole had opened beneath her feet.

I must choose to jump or fall.

Her body ached. She took a deep draft of piss-water ale and wished it were ibari liquor. To die with the bittersweet bite of home on her lips. For I will die here, at his hand, and at Mercury’s, she thought. It was almost a relief to admit.

The Elder searched her face, his eyes snaring on the tattoos crawling up her neck. Sorasa let him look. He did not know each tattoo as she did, its meaning and weight within the Guild.

“Three times you’ve tried to kill me today,” he muttered, as if astonished.