An explosion shattered the night. Aina fell into a pile of snow in a shadowed alley. Bits of wood from the building landed next to her, making her flinch and bite her tongue as her ears began to ring. Screams and the distinctive crackle of flames sounded behind her.

The man helped her up. She took a step back, crossed her arms, and narrowed her eyes at him. He was younger than she’d first thought, hardly eighteen or nineteen. Something about him was familiar, but she couldn’t figure out what.

If he meant to hurt her now, she could try to run, or fight back like she’d had to do so many times on Kosín’s streets.

“Why did you help me?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I wasn’t the only kid in there.”

His smile faded slightly. “Because good things don’t usually happen to girls who come from nothing.”

Aina cast her eyes downward. She was already well aware of that.

He withdrew a dagger from a sheath inside his jacket. It was the sleekest blade she’d ever seen, with an onyx-black handle. A sharp breath stole through her at the sight. He waited patiently, holding it like a gift as she reached out to touch the handle with the tips of her fingers.

“Learn how to use this knife, and I’ll make you into something.”

SIX YEARS LATER

1

The baker’s final words were smothered by a whimper.

“You know how they say you should watch out for the quiet ones?” Aina’s breath fogged the blade of the dagger she held. “They were right.”

She took her time with the blade, heedless of his screams. Screams went ignored in Kosín’s slums. A gun would have been faster, but she preferred knives. In the hands of a trained killer, knives left less room for mistakes.

By the light of a single flickering candle, she’d waited in silence for the baker to return from the casino where he’d spent all his earnings. He’d entered and stumbled drunkenly toward his bed, where she’d pinned him.

The house smelled like salt and dough, and now blood. The coppery scent no longer bothered her like it had when she first became an assassin. The baker’s screams died, leaving the house ghostly quiet as he dropped to the bed with his throat slit like a red smile. Silver moonlight reflected on his blank, glass-like stare. There was no pulse at his wrist, no breath from his lips. Another death at her hands like all the others, and while she’d grown to feel nothing after a kill, this one was different. She’d known this man.

When she was younger and begging on the streets, she’d sat in silence outside his bakery, hoping that someone would drop a piece of bread into her hands. When the hunger finally made her dizzy, she tried stealing bread from a customer. The baker had beaten her with a rolling pin until she blacked out in the snow.