She froze in the sudden dark, her lips pressed to his. The tension in his frame showed he was listening.

She listened, too.

Not only that, she eased out tendrils of her consciousness. Not as far as she’d like. Certainly not as far as her great-grandmother could, apparently. Ghwenn had only a fraction of the ability, and she sensed nothing. Not a single whisper of thought, which could mean only one thing.

“Assassins,” she hissed. Their mind dampeners could foil her power. “Untie me.”

There was no hesitation. He severed the tie and placed himself in front of her. “Stick close to me, pixie.”

Only if it kept her safe. She’d learned the only person she could truly rely on was herself.

Despite the field dampening her power to influence, she still held a mental chant. “Invisible.”

It couldn’t hurt.

She didn’t hear a thing, and yet Abrams suddenly moved. She felt the passage of air as he threw himself to the side. The crack of something colliding.

Then the grunt of exertion.

Move. She gave herself a mental order and ran, away from the noise and the dampening field. Hands held out in front of her, she fled as quickly as she could, bumping into walls, her breathing harsh.

This blindness of eyes and spirit panicked her.

The lights came on in a sudden flood, and she blinked. Blinked and yet the assassin dressed in black, the swath of fabric around his face revealing only blue jewel-like eyes, didn’t disappear.

Oh dear. Even worse, he wore a circlet at his brow, a personal emission field. It scrambled her attempts to control him.

So she kicked him instead.

The protection at his groin meant it didn’t do much to hurt him. He lunged forward to grab her, and she ducked, dropping to the floor, spotting the sheath inside his boot. Her hand darted for a quick grab, the blade she retrieved short and yet sharp. She stabbed at the fabric over his knee.

It hit the flat edge of a protective plate. He twisted his leg, and she followed, dragging the blade until she felt an edge. She shoved, piercing between.

Not a sound emerged. A true assassin, silent no matter what. She wasn’t, however, when he tangled a fist in her hair and pulled.

“Ow!” Outrage and pain combined.

There was a bellowed, “Get your fucking hands off her,” then a wave of emotion. Foremost, rage.

Then it was her own admiration as Abrams attacked the assassin with no weapon but his fists.

Wham. Wham. He hammered over and over, striking the body armor and yet not flinching. Nor slowing. The assassin staggered under the assault. But this was no amateur.

The assassin recovered, spinning away from the devastating fists, emerging from that twirl with a knife that he flung.

Abrams didn’t even try to avoid it. The knife hit him in the arm, sank into flesh. She gaped as she saw a red stain blooming from the site.

What did the fool man do? Cracked his knuckles, the sound loud, the smile louder. “Thanks. I needed a snack.” The hilt of the knife suddenly fell to the floor minus the blade.

And then Abrams threw himself at the assassin. The circlet dampening his thoughts—preventing her influence—was knocked off.

This was her chance to read his… Nope. The body suddenly went limp.

Abrams cursed. “What the fuck? I barely touched him.”

“Suicide,” she stated, noting the clouding of the assassin’s eyes.

“Suicide? Seems rather extreme given we would have simply jailed him.”

“Capture is not an option.” She knelt and pulled the scarf from the head, noting the tattooed features.

“He’s an elf like you.”

“Nothing like me,” she stated, getting to her feet. “No one is. That’s the problem.”