Seppelitus was the first bodyguard-assassin in a long line of wizards. He had spent his youth sneaking out from under his father’s watchful eye, and away from his mother’s ambitions, away from the books and wands and endless incantations. Magic was easy; it came when he called—just not in the way his parents thought it should. Magic was a bore.

  The assassin’s guild had swiftly discovered he didn’t like killing enough to be as good at it as they needed—unless he was killing to protect. And that was a talent they could use, which was why Seppelitus was standing in an alcove trying to ignore what was going on six feet away.

  His current employer liked to think himself some kind of lover, and insisted that, if Seppelitus must accompany him, then he should stay out of sight and not interfere. Seppelitus had argued against it, but the guild had agreed with the client. The young Lord Haskelline was set to inherit half the city, and they would need his patronage when his father retired.

  Six feet away was still too far to save him, if he was attacked by anyone half-way decent, such as anyone his enemies could afford, and enemies he had aplenty. The men he offended with public put-downs or by out-maneuvering them in business—or the women he loved, left or cheated on; most of whom had brothers, and all of whom had fathers and overly vengeful mothers.

  Either one of the girls could murder his employer before he could stop them—if they had a mind to. Listening to the sounds from beyond the alcove, Seppelitus decided this was unlikely, but still… As much as he didn’t like it, he shifted enough to take in the chamber. He didn’t try to fathom what the occupants of the bed were doing, beyond ensuring no harm was pending for his master, and then he scanned the room once more.

  A shift in the air currents had him glancing toward the ceiling, the window, the door, scanning along the bookcases, the tapestries, the walls. The brief distortion that glimmered in front of a book case, and blurred the space beyond it, before rippling toward where his subject was sporting with the ladies, was enough.

  Seppelitus moved, putting two daggers to flight, before drawing his short sword and dirk from his waist. Darts whistled through the space he’d been, a crossbow quarrel thunked into the wall and quivered. Seppelitus called the magic, shielded his body with a layer of energy that none could see, danced two steps to the right, one to the left, paused, darted forward, and thrust with the larger blade.

  His master ignored what he was doing, or was oblivious. The action had caught him at the climax of his pleasure, and he was aware of nothing else. Seppelitus pushed aside the desire to kill Haskelline himself, and went after the creature he’d clipped with his sword. The single epithet it uttered was enough to identify it—Garitzik! But what were they doing this far south?

  Garitzik were a type of gargoyle, originating from an ice kingdom in the northern wastes, and often intermediaries for sorcerers and demons. The thought brought a chill to Seppelitus’s heart.

  Garitzik did not come, unless summoned. They did not come, unless they gained from the transaction, and Seppelitus knew the creatures did not value gems or gold. He also knew they could not enter one’s house, unless a member of the owning family invited them—and that meant there was a sorcerer close by, or a would-be sorcerer. Haskelline’s blood had been offered in return for their service, but what service had been bought?

  Seppelitus lost track of the rippling shimmer that was the magic-cloaked assassin, and he dived for the bed. Climax or no, his master had to be alerted to the danger. There was more than one garitzik, more than one assassin in the room—and then there was the sorcerer.

  The bodyguard landed on the bed. To give the girls credit, they hadn’t shifted their focus. Four sharp impacts hit Seppelitus squarely in the back, and he felt the shield waver.

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  Those might have hurt without his magic to block them. They would certainly have killed the man he was supposed to protect.

  Seppelitus extended the shield to cover his master, heard mewls of protest as the magic separated the girls from the object of their affections, and was not entirely surprised when at least one of those mewls disintegrated into an angry growl.

  “You’re being attacked.” Seppelitus said, kicking one girl off the bed, and not missing the fact she was rapidly transforming into something else. The leathery wings were a dead giveaway.

  “I’ll have your head!” Haskelline was still gripped by pleasure, and hadn’t grasped the reality.

  Seppelitus used his sword to block a blur of shadow, and felt claws scrape along the blade. Twisting the weapon in his hand, he jerked it free from the garitzik’s stone-lined grasp.

  “Not if they have yours, first.”

  “Are those garitzik?” Haskelline sounded shocked.

  Now he was getting it. Seppelitus would have breathed a sigh of relief, but a hand wrapped itself around his ankle. He had a second to decide, saw the air behind Haskelline shudder, and dropped his weapons, pulling the magic to him in a single, inelegant rush.

  A weight descended on his back, arms wrapping around his chest. Wings beat, and the grip tightened. Seppelitus took a moment to focus, and thrust the magic back out.

  As the garitzik took him over backward, he saw Haskelline’s startled face, as the magic took the lordling and pulled him out of danger. An angry snarl grated against the inside of his head, and the distortion that had been about to strike the lord leapt forward.

  Seppelitus scrambled to call the magic again, but the creature was upon him, stone hands clapping down over his ears, driving the call from him, and shattering the magical shield that cloaked his body—not shattering his skull, but only by the barest of margins.

  “Progeny of the hell-born’s backside,” the garitzik swore.

  Seppelitus tried to think of something witty in reply, but his head was ringing. The creature dropped its camouflage and wrinkled its lips in a smile.

  “Nothing to say, seventh born?”

  Seventh born. That had some significance, Seppelitus knew. He just wished his head would stop ringing long enough for him to recall what. Seventh born.

  With a rush of fear, Seppelitus realized the monster was referring to him. Seventh son of a seventh son in a long line of seventh sons. How his ancestors had managed that, he didn’t know; his father had always sworn he’d married for love. His grandfather said the same, and his great… So, what did the gargoyle people of the north want with a womanizing lord, and the seventh son of a wizard? It took him another long moment to work it out.

  Lord Haskelline had never been the target.

  Of all the hells and heavens, he hadn’t seen that coming.

  “Why…” he began, but the garitzik grasped him by the shoulders, and barked a single word.

  Seppelitus watched as the world distorted, wondered what interdimensional entity had demanded his blood in return for power, and could think of no way to avoid his fate. At least Lord Haskelline was safe.

  …or not, he amended, hearing Haskelline’s shout as the world settled to a day of ice-born reflections.

  The garitzik steadied Seppelitus as he swayed. It didn’t seem to notice the bodyguard’s shocked gasp as the cold hit him, biting through his insufficient clothing. Seppelitus closed his mouth, took another breath through his nose, coughed as the frigid air found his throat, as he forced himself to take note of where they’d landed.

  To his relief, they were not standing on the wild openness of a glacial plain, or on top of a hill. As cold as this place was, the spell had brought them to an intricately carved circle bounded by the stone walls of a private courtyard. Seppelitus looked up, taking in the five levels of balcony overlooking them, and then, remembering Haskelline, tried to turn.

  “This way,” his garitzik captor ordered, pushing him toward a stone arch at one end of the courtyard.

  The quick glance Seppelitus managed before he was turned away, failed to reveal the lordling he’d been trying to protect.

  “Haskelline,” he managed, as the garitzik pushed him again.

  “We will find him.”

  “But I heard—”

  “—his echo. We are tracking the spell path. It is more difficult than we anticipated.” It prodded him forward, and Seppelitus obeyed. “Something else we will discuss.”

  The archway led to a corridor lined by frescoes carved into sandstone tiles. Seppelitus touched one lightly, surprised to find warmth where he had expected to find nothing more than frigid ice and marble.

  “Look only,” the garitzik instructed.

  It laid a heavy hand on Seppelitus’s shoulder, claws indenting his leather jerkin.

  “You do not hunt often,” it said.

  “I…” Seppelitus stopped, as he caught the meaning in its words. “How do you know?”

  “Your masters say you do not like to kill.” The garitzik drew him forward.

  “My masters talk too much,” Seppelitus said, apprehension forming a fist in his gut.