Lair of the Deadly Twelve (Storm Phase #2)

Prologue

You can buy this book and the rest of the STORM PHASE series at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, iBooks, and Smashwords. 

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Tucked into a remote valley in the western Orichomo Mountains lay the Temple of Winter. For centuries people had traveled many leagues to worship there, but fearful devotion to the wintry gods of the Ancient Cold and Deep had long ago fallen out of fashion. The once-thriving temple had withered into obscurity. Those few souls who remained fanatically guarded their single treasure.

A crimson-leafed maple drooped over the temple compound’s north wall. The autumn wind gusted as a k’chasan qengai leapt into the tree. The limbs trembled and leaves rained into the courtyard. But neither the guards patrolling the grounds nor those at the door noticed her. A charcoal bodysuit and a scarf mask hid the assassin’s features, except for a hint of downy fur around a pair of catlike amber eyes.

Iniru crouched, perfectly still, and waited. Her tufted ears twitched to catch every sound: leaves tumbling, a loose shutter banging, a guard wheezing from a cold. The bright moon bathed the compound in silvery light. She just needed — there! A cloud swept across the moon. Iniru sprang down and weaved through the shadows. Not a single leaf crunched underfoot. Her mother would be proud.

The moon peeked out. A guard turned his head. Heart pounding, she surged forward. Iniru didn’t have time to neutralize them, and she didn’t want to have to kill them. She ducked around to the backside of the temple. 

None of the guards reacted.

Iniru laughed silently. She lived for this rush. Nothing else made her feel so ... alive.

The stone building, four stories tall and topped with a blue slate roof, loomed before her. Fractures from earthquakes and two thousand winters webbed its surface. Perfect. She flexed her hands. Claws popped out from her fingertips and toes through holes in her leather gloves and shoes. Jamming her claws into the cracks, she scaled the wall.

Glass windows, closed and shuttered, dotted the second and third floors. She ignored them. A window on the fourth stood open. 

She peeked in. 

A puddle of light, broken up by the shadow of a guard in the hallway, spilled out from under the only door. Iniru scanned the room looking for her target. So many antiques cluttered the bedroom that she almost missed the small figure curled up on the massive bed, lying atop the covers.

The Winter Child. 

Sleeping in a room with an open window. The people running this place were amateurs. Missions from the Sacred Codex just didn’t get any easier. This was a thousand times less dangerous than helping Turesobei recover the Storm Dragon’s Heart. 

Not that it made up for what the prophecy asked of her.

She couldn’t think about it. She had a job to do. Nothing else mattered.

Iniru slid through the window and padded over to the door. Regulate breathing, ease the lock into motion, move with patience ... The bolt tucked into place without a click. From her belt, Iniru drew a sickle-bladed dagger. She crept up to the bed. 

Hair as white as snow fanned out on the pillow. A bare arm clutched a knitted rabbit doll. The Winter Child was eight years old. Her skin was an ash grey like any zaboko’s, but her hair was white instead of black. A plump cheek twitched. She snuggled her knitted rabbit tight against her chest.

One cut. Then this would be over. The prophecy fulfilled. The world a better place. Iniru could return home and forget this mission ever happened. Or try, at least.