Assassin's Apprentice Novels & Stories

“Guess you can see that for yourself.” I remained silent, my expression unreadable. I started toward the door, but Casey shifted, blocking my path. “You know,” he said, voice casual, “I’m actually glad he’s gone.” That made me pause. My eyes narrowed slightly, a silent demand for him to continue. Casey’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I knew what you were from the beginning. Assassin. A famous one, at that.” He tilted his head, watching me carefully. “I always wanted to warn Gerald, tell him exactly what kind of woman he was dealing with. But I didn’t, because I was afraid.”

Gabriel said, “I didn’t much want to be alive. Ten years of waiting, not knowing if the pull would ever lead anywhere. So I found the most dangerous work I could.” She waited. “I was an assassin, Honor. A professional killer. I took contracts — targets — and I eliminated them. That was my life for the better part of a decade.” She stopped walking. He stopped too, hands in his pockets, and let her look at him. Let her take the time she needed to put it together, to decide what she thought of it. He’d learned enough about her to know that rushing her to a reaction she hadn’t fully formed would only make it worse.

The light on my skin dimmed from a vibrant, living flame to a dull, bruised orange. Beside me, Rowan let out a sound that wasn't a roar, but a pained groan. His massive, ten-foot frame seemed to sag. The amethyst fire that usually rolled off his fur was being pulled toward the porcelain masks of the assassins, disappearing into the red slits of their eyes. He swung a massive claw at the nearest figure, but the assassin simply leaned back, the movement so precise it looked mechanical. The green needle in the assassin's hand hissed as it cut through the air, leaving a trail of poisonous vapor that made my lungs burn.

It was sent by the Junior Architects, the radical faction of the Father’s company that refused to accept the Council’s verdict. The blade was made of Anti-Data, designed to sever the connection between a biological brain and its "Glitched" soul. The Counter-Strike: The United Frequency The Assassin moved with the speed of a computer processor ($3.0 \text{ GHz}$), far faster than any biological reflex. But Elara wasn't just biological. She reached for the link she shared with her pack. In the "Embassy of the Void," the Feral Six acted as a Distributed Processor. Zane provided the "Grounding," absorbing the shock of the Assassin's strike.

“Oh my God, it’s that stripper from the club, right?” “Who?” I asked, feigning innocence. Katrina hissed. “You don’t know any other men, so it has to be him, the one from that club! The one who poured champagne on his—” “Okay, that’s enough,” I cut in quickly, heat crawling up my neck. “It’s not what you think. It’s business.” Cassie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re doing business with a stripper?” “An exotic performer,” I corrected tightly. “And yes. I hired him to pretend to be my boyfriend for the week.”

Finally, I turned to look at him. I let my gaze trail over his taper fade, the messy blond hair that refused to behave and those stupid innocent blue eyes that made people trust him instantly. He had the face of a saint, smooth lines, sharp cheekbones, a mouth that curled too easily into a smile that could make anyone feel safe. But Olek wasn’t safe. He was the Syndicate’s golden boy; the number one assassin, top of the kill board for ten damn years. I was fifth, which wasn’t bad considering I’d only been in the game for six years.

Upstairs, Alex was staring at the fake doctor. The man's smile never wavered. Neither did his eyes. Cold. Emotionless. Predatory. The assassin reached into his coat. Slowly. Deliberately. Alex's survival instincts exploded. He grabbed the bedside table and hurled it forward. The attacker cursed. The equipment crashed between them. Monitors toppled. Machines fell. Alarms immediately erupted throughout the room. The assassin lunged forward. Alex rolled off the opposite side of the bed. Pain shot through his injured body.

She places the call on speakerphone and we all wait when the click signals whoever it is has answered. “Hello Teagan, how can I help you?” My eyes go wide and I feel excited. I look at momma and she winks at me with a shit-eating grin on her face. “Hello Alessa. I need you help.” She says and I become giddy. The Mother’s Revenge are assassins and helped us get Rebel back. The Mother’s Revenge are fucking legends in both my world and the world of the MC.

It was the start of a new day. Winter was creeping closer, and the back lawn of Serenity Villa was already covered in frost by morning. Aspen had almost mastered the art of bone compression, and Andrew was ready to teach her real assassination techniques. He said, "A true assassin only gets one shot. If you can't take the target down in that one moment, you've already failed. And when that happens, you're left with only two outcomes." Andrew stood in gloves, his breath turning into mist under the icy wind.

Blood soaked through the bandages faster now, but he forced himself to crawl, one trembling hand after the other, toward the overturned stool in the corner. The assassin advanced slowly, like a predator savoring the moment. “You can’t run, old man. You were marked long ago. Tonight, it ends.” Zev’s trembling hand closed around one leg of the stool. With a desperate growl, he swung it upward just as the assassin loomed close. The wood connected with the attacker’s wrist, knocking the blade just slightly off course. Enough to save his neck. The edge grazed his shoulder instead, reopening a wound, blood dripping hot down his arm.