Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

abandoned all pretense at silence. Any underestimation of Haern’s skill was gone. He stepped back, hoping to go on the defensive to see if Haern made a mistake. Instead Haern lunged, his sudden aggressiveness startling Dustin. More dagger cuts lined his legs, which already throbbed with pain.
    “Have her,” Dustin said, backing toward the window he’d entered. “You can have her, just fucking kill her afterward, all right?”
    This only seemed to enrage Haern further. Dustin turned to run, knowing the boy would never let him leave. He took only two steps, and then spun. His knee slammed into Haern’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Before the boy could dart away, he followed it up with a vicious elbow to the side of his face. He felt grim satisfaction at the sight of blood spurting across the carpet, blood that wasn’t his.
    “What is your problem?” Dustin asked as he knelt down. Haern was on his stomach, his dagger lying several inches out of reach in the kitchen. He grabbed Haern’s leg and pulled him closer, determined to remove the mask. He had his suspicions about the boy being Aaron, but needed to know for sure. If it was Aaron, he’d leave and let Thren dole out whatever punishment he felt appropriate. If it wasn’t, well…
    He readied the mace in his other hand.
    “Let’s take a look, eh?” Dustin said as he spun the boy onto his back. When Haern rolled, his leg shot upward, kicking Dustin in the chin with his heel. Haern used the momentary confusion to continue his roll, breaking free of Dustin’s grip. The mace missed and struck the carpet, breaking the wood floor underneath. The boy lunged for the dagger, scooped it up in his hands, and then whirled.
    Dustin’s jaw dropped as the dagger flew through the air and buried itself in his chest. Before he could react, Haern was already chasing it, his foot slamming into Dustin’s throat. Dustin retched as he fell. His mace smacked the floor twice, never once hitting flesh. Haern straddled him, his knees pressing in against Dustin’s elbows. Dustin felt the dagger yank free of his chest, then press against his throat.
    “You can’t kill her,” Haern said.
    “Your father will figure it out, Aaron,” said Dustin, hoping his guess was right and the boy’s real name would startle him.
    Instead his whole face darkened, a frightening gleam in his eye.
    “I’m not Aaron,” he said. “Not when I have a choice.”
    The dagger stabbed downward, and then Dustin saw the gleam no more.
    Haern sheathed his dagger and tightened his mask. He was bleeding from the nose, where Dustin had elbowed him, and, with nowhere else to go, the blood was seeping into the mask and running down his lips. His stomach felt like it had a terrible cramp from his being kneed there. Sniffling, he stood up and held in a shiver.
    Now he’d actually killed Dustin, he had no clue what to do with the body. He thought about leaving it there for the old lady to clean up. Surely she knew some younger men to help deliver it to proper gravemen.
    Haern frowned. That wouldn’t do. If Thren found out one of his men had died on the job, he’d send another to finish it. He never left things undone. He needed Dustin gone; that way he could claim the kill for himself and act as if Dustin had never shown. Thieves went missing all the time for a million reasons. Surely he could think of one that sounded convincing.
    His stomach heaved again, and he fell to his knees. When he vomited he saw blood, hoped it wasn’t something serious. His heart was pounding in his head, and once more he looked to the dead body, as if to confirm it was still there. Amid his pain, he heard the padded footsteps only a moment before something blunt struck the back of his head. His vision swam with dots, and his whole body lurched to one side. He spun as he fell, just in time to see something large and black come swinging in at his face. Right before he was knocked out cold, he wondered how many days until his father forgot he’d ever existed.
    “Stay back, Delysia,” said the old woman, holding a heavy iron pan. “These vermin are dangerous even at a young age.”
    “Don’t be silly, Gran,” said Delysia. “You hurt him bad.”
    Gran stood over both bodies, wielding the pan with both hands as if it were an ancient weapon of legend. She gently prodded the young man’s body with her bare foot before stepping back into the kitchen.
    “He dead?” Delysia asked.
    “Don’t look like it,”