Rhiana Read online

  Rhiana

  An Urban Fantasy

  Ann Gimpel

  Contents

  Rhiana

  Book Description, Rhiana

  Books in the Circle of Assassins Series

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Book Description, Kylian

  Kylian, Prologue

  About the Author

  Also by Ann Gimpel

  Rhiana

  Circle of Assassins, Book Three

  Urban Fantasy

  * * *

  By

  Ann Gimpel

  * * *

  Tumble off reality’s edge into a twisted world fueled by lore and magic

  Copyright Page

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © March 2020, Ann Gimpel

  Cover Art Copyright © October 2020, Covers by Julie, JMN Art

  Edited by Kate Richards

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, e-mail, or web posting without written permission from the author.

  Book Description, Rhiana

  I’m one of the old ones. I’ve lived many lives, done many things. I’ve been called sorceress, witch, and far worse. Mortals have hung me, burned me, staked me out, and left me to die. What a pack of fools. I’m immortal, and their petty attempts were laughable.

  So were they when I stopped their puny, pathetic hearts. The thrill of ending someone never gets old, no matter how unbalanced the contest.

  When I want a break from everything, Dorcha—my bondmate—and I bide with the Circle of Assassins. I never mean to stay long, but the years have a way of slipping by.

  While I find peace within the Circle, Dorcha becomes restive. She never used to mind being the only unicorn, but she’s grown silent, withdrawn. The place within me where I feel her energy is often empty.

  We need a nice juicy assignment to get things back on track, a mission worthy of our skill. Excited by the prospect of free-flowing blood and the crusty stench of battle, I searched for her, but she was gone.

  Worse than gone, my link with her was buried beneath layers of unicorn enchantment. Could I find her? Sure, but she didn’t wish to be found.

  Books in the Circle of Assassins Series

  Shira, Book One

  Quinn, Book Two

  Rhiana, Book Three

  Kylian, Book Four

  Grigori, Book Five

  Author’s Note

  Between Covid-19 and the California fires, I’ve had a lot of time to dream up ideas for books. Watching too much Blacklist and Warehouse 13 and Stranger Things probably didn’t help. And the last season of Supernatural. I will miss Sam and Dean…

  Meanwhile, a concept shaped up for me. Assassins have always held a fascination factor. Death is a job for them, but what kind of people are they beneath their knives and guns and poison? Toss a few bond animals into the mix, and the bones for a darkish urban fantasy series took shape.

  Within its pages, you’ll discover men and women who found their way to an age-old profession. Every king worth his salt had a court assassin, and so has every ruler from olden times to modern. If you’re shaking your head saying such things can’t happen today, just take a look at “suicides” that are swept under a whole bunch of rugs. Oddly enough, the victims of those suspicious deaths had stories to tell, stories someone wanted silenced—forever.

  Rhiana has bigger problems. She’s lived so long not much excites her. Between boredom and a restive unicorn, she’s tempted to burn down a world or two.

  1

  1880 London

  Calliope music swelled through the huge canvas tent. Its harsh spirited notes usually excited me, but not today. Our act would be on in a few minutes. We were popular because of how real my unicorn’s horn looked. More than popular, we’d made a big enough name for ourselves we headlined every circus we were part of.

  Pfft. The horn looked real because it was. My challenge was making certain we snuck off under cover of darkness so no one ever saw Dorcha for what she really was. She had a cushy stall in the stables, but she never used it. My excuse was she needed special food. Delicate stomach, and all. No one questioned me since horses are notoriously prone to colic.

  Aye, it was a carefully balanced web of lies with me pulling the strings. I’d picked this spot, time traveling into the past to get away from everything. Dorcha was never on board with this particular plan, but I’d coddled her as days followed others, assuming she’d eventually stop bitching.

  I may have miscalculated. Her complaints were more strident than they’d been six week ago when we first arrived.

  “I’m done.” Dorcha stamped a hoof. “This is absurd. Demeaning. You’re an elemental mage. Why are you wasting your time entertaining stupid mortals?”

  Breath whistled through my teeth; I wound a long whip made of magic and moonlight around one arm. Dorcha understood it was part of my costume. I’d never dream of hurting her with it. If I did, I’d feel the bite of her horn. Unicorns are more lethal than I am. That horn can cut through damn near anything, leaving destruction in its wake.

  “Shall we talk about this after the show?” I added a smidgeon of compulsion to my question.

  “It’s what you said yesterday. And the day before that.” More hoof stamping.

  True enough. I’d made a point of taking us hunting after the shows in question. Usually fresh blood did the trick, mollified her, but she was canny and had my number.

  The canvas flap covering our lean-to next to the big top swung open admitting a blast of cold, sooty air. London has always been a dirty town, and all the coal stoves didn’t help.

  “Who the hell you talking to?” John stuck his shaggy head inside the flap.

  “Myself.”

  “Och, they say it’s the first sign you’re headed for Bedlam. You’re on in five. Get mounted up and ready.” He sidled closer and snaked a hand out to grab my ass. I pivoted beyond his reach.

  “Someday, you’ll appreciate me, darling. I’m who got you this special spot,” he reminded me like he did every time he got close enough to exchange a word or two. He had booted the previous occupant of the lean-to, but only because he was intent on seducing me. I gave it another few weeks. He’d tire of my excuses and move another candidate into position. Maybe she’d be more grateful than I’d been.

  “Yes, yes, now get moving.” I flapped a hand in his direction. My five minutes had shrunk to three. John limped away. His story was an elephant had broken his foot, but I suspected he’d fallen when he was drunk. Or tripped over something.

  I slid a long woolen cloak off my shoulders, draped it over a hook, and vaulted to Dorcha’s back. “We’ll get through this, and then we’ll leave,” I told her.

  Power stabbed me as she tested my words for integrity. I hadn’t been lying, but I’d be damned if I knew where we’d go next. After a quick glance to make certain my costume covered everything essential, I kneed her softly, and we trotted to our place next to the entry for pe
rformers. People milled this way and that, everyone cooing over Dorcha and giving her pats.

  She liked that part, but she’d rather die than admit it. Inky black with a lush mane and tail and delicate hoofs, she was beautiful. Her coat so black it shimmered with notes of blue when the light hit it at a certain angle.

  The leading strains of our signature song began to play. We galloped into the arena to cheers and clapping. I wasn’t under any particular illusion. Magic ebbs and flows around us. Mortals are drawn to the feel of it even though they’re not certain what the attraction is.

  I leapt to my feet and balanced on the unicorn’s broad back as we continued to canter around the big top. The ringmaster did his “ladies and gentlemen” gig announcing our act. The first fifteen minutes were ours. I went through a series of gymnastics atop the unicorn. Standing, kneeling, astride, sidesaddle position, handstand. My gauzy costume billowed. The many necklaces I wore clanked together, as did long hoop earrings.

  Dressed like the Romani in a colorful tunic and trousers, I even kept my feet bare like they did. Traditionally known as horse people, the Rom had magic too. Nothing compared with mine, but it made more sense than dressing up like a Mongol.

  Thundering hoofs announced the rest of the riders were joining us. They cantered this way and that, keeping Dorcha and me in the center of an ever-changing circle. I’d choreographed this particular number to maintain distance between Dorcha and the other horses.

  Mortals might not know what she was, but equines have sensitive noses. They understood damn good and well Dorcha wasn’t one of them. One of the other horses got too close. Dorcha bared her teeth and hissed.

  “You’re not a cat. Stop that,” I told her.

  “She will respect me.”

  “She probably has no idea what you are.” I left it at that. Some creatures have archetypal memories. Horses aren’t one of them. Nothing like Dorcha in their minds or memories to relate to. She might look like them, but they weren’t fooled.

  The music shifted to the final number. I jumped upright again. The crowd loved all of us standing on our mounts as they galloped wildly past, churning up dust and dirt.

  We swept by acrobats and a man on stilts as we exited the tent. I lowered my body until I straddled Dorcha, and we trotted across packed dirt to a river. She had a bridle and reins, which I held loosely. They were for show. I let her be as she sank her snout into the water and drank.

  “Why do you hate it here?” I asked.

  “Why do you like it?” she countered.

  Her question wasn’t rhetorical; she really wanted to know. “It’s different. A break from the Circle of Assassins and endless assignments. We don’t exactly fit in there, either.”

  “Better than here.”

  The unicorn straightened her graceful neck, nostrils flaring. I tossed a leg over her rump and landed next to her. Cold mud squished between my toes as I wound the magical whip around one arm and quashed its sparkling aspect.

  “Is she real?” A street urchin of maybe six or seven with dirt-caked clothes and a grimy, snot-streaked face crept close.

  Dorcha whickered and turned toward the little girl, ears pricked forward.

  “Real enough,” I said.

  “Ooooh. May I touch her, missus?”

  “Come nearer slowly. She’ll let you know,” I replied.

  Eyes wide with wonder, the child edged forward, clearly afraid but willing to brave the horrors of Hell if she could get close to Dorcha. My bondmate was in a generous mood because she stood quietly while the girl stroked her nose.

  “Wisht I had a carrot for you,” she murmured.

  I dug an apple from my trousers and handed it to her. “Feed her this.”

  “All at once?”

  I fished out a knife I keep strapped to my ankle, split the apple, and said, “Do it this way,” as I showed her how to offer food with an open hand. As soon as the apple was gone, the child slipped away, merging with lengthening shadows while afternoon ceded to evening.

  I’d have asked her where her parents were, but London teemed with street urchins. This one appeared resourceful. She’d probably land on her feet if she didn’t get sidetracked into a brothel.

  “Feeling better?” I asked Dorcha.

  “A little,” she admitted.

  Taking hold of her reins, I walked us to the small private enclosure where we’d waited for our turn to perform. The show was still going strong. If we were going to leave, now was as good a time as any. No one had touched my cloak, but I’d spelled it to burn any hand except mine. Grateful for its soft warmth, I tugged it around my shoulders and tied it into place.

  “How about a walk on the shore?” I asked softly.

  “Which shore?”

  “You pick.” I was so grateful her anger had run its course, I could afford to be generous.

  She sent images cascading through my mind. They made me smile, and I built a quick teleport spell that incorporated time traveling elements. A short while later, we came out on a desolate section of the Washington coastline with the Pacific Ocean on one side and the Strait of Juan de Fuca to the north. Crags, wind, and beastly weather effectively sealed this spot off from casual visitors. I’d kept us well in the past to avoid modern scourges like hang gliders, helicopters, and people with fancy climbing equipment.

  Dorcha cantered this way and that, tossing her head. The braids I’d put in her mane untwisted. She hated being decked out like the other show horses. For a time, I sat on a flat rock enjoying watching her kick up her heels. Salt spray scented the air with an astringent sweetness.

  The tide was coming in, waves crashing and booming. I raised a hand in greeting to my old friend, Arianrhod. I couldn’t see her, but she had to be in Caer Sidi, her special world, overseeing both tides and moon. I’d liked her earthy, no-nonsense approach, but most of the other Celtic gods were real pricks. Especially the men.

  I inhaled deeply, willing myself not to go there. I’d been enjoying Dorcha’s choice of beaches, and I didn’t want to sully it with nasty recollections. Instead, I shuffled possibilities. If Dorcha truly put her hoof down about not returning to London and the circus, where would we go next? I’d figured we were good for a few more months there.

  Timing was everything, but my clairvoyance skills have never been a strong suit. Something was bound to happen. It always did. Some random event would send us scurrying away from London. The last time we’d hustled out of somewhere had been because Dorcha killed a rude stallion who’d tried to mount her. It wasn’t funny—at all—but it still brought a smile to my face. I knew exactly how she felt.

  I’d have stuck around to defend her honor were it not for the impossibility of explaining how her horn—supposedly a prop—had exacted so much damage. We’d been in Prague then, around 1840. Eventually, we would run out of places and eras, but it wouldn’t happen for a long while. It’s only been since maybe 1970 that communications have become sophisticated enough to make starting over harder.

  A black unicorn and her five-foot-ten-inch mistress with matching flowing tresses exacted notice everywhere. I tone things down with a glamour to make me appear less exotic—and less threatening. It smooths the cant of my cheekbones, adds femininity to my frame, and turns my bronze eyes with their moss-green centers a deep blue.

  In times long past, those like me controlled every element. The Celts, damn their black souls, decided we wielded too much power, so they split new elemental mages into earth, air, fire, or water mages. They left the rest of us—the original elemental mages—alone, but none of us believed they wouldn’t come after us too.

  A flicker of anger licked at my innards. I ignored it. Revisiting the pyre of my fury wasn’t wise. I’d thrown my power against the gods. Best I’d achieved was a draw—until another of them showed up. Eventually, I’d tired of being slapped down. Besides, I’d have to hunt for them now to continue the fight. Most were long gone from Earth. No one believed in them anymore. Or in me.

  The specte
r of endless life weighed heavy.

  I’ve hit sketchy patches before. Ones like this where I flounder about hunting for meaning and not finding anything but a cosmic joke. Dorcha wasn’t happy, either. It ran deeper than the circus being a total waste of our talent.

  The water had taken on an iridescent quality, maybe from the sun’s downward trajectory. Regardless, it was alluring. Dorcha pawed at the sand with her front hoofs and walked into the water. Taking a dip in the sea held appeal. I slithered out of my cloak, trousers, and tunic, piling rocks on top of them to keep the wind from blowing everything away.

  Already on my feet, I ran lightly across the rocky beach and into the water, following Dorcha’s path. The bottom dropped away; I swam into the surf, welcoming the slap of waves as I cut through them. Living in the now, welcoming cleansing saltwater scrubbing away the smells of the circus, my world grew smaller and more manageable.

  Moments were important. Good moments like when Dorcha let the street urchin pet her. All we needed was to find a spot where there were more good moments than bad ones. A tall order. Even in the Circle of Assassins, mages squabbled with one another. Grigori, head of the supernatural hit squad, kicked folks out from time to time.

  A brisk whinny turned my attention to Dorcha treading water fifty feet away while Nereids crawled all over her. Faeries of the sea, they have gossamer wings, masses of hair in every shade of the rainbow, and fishtails like the mer-people.