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SNUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON:

AND OTHER BOMBAY FAMILY BEDTIME STORIES

by

LESLIE LANGTRY

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ebook Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Leslie Langtry

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Table of Contents

Bombay, The Um, First Bombay—The Minotaur

Samaria & Assyria Bombay—Draco

Bavaria Bombay—The Dragon of York

Cairo Bombay—Elizabeth of Bathory

Stratford-Upon-Avon Bombay—John Billington

Versailles Bombay—Rasputin

Once Upon A Time, there was a family of Assassins, called the Bombays…

My name is Gin Bombay, and I’m a retired assassin. Because I’ve retired early and am a bit bored, I decided it was time to write down all the stories that have been passed down in our family for the last few millennia…the Bombay Bedtime Stories, if you will.

First of all, I’d like to make it clear that these stories have been passed down orally. Second, I’m not a historian or writer. So I may get some things wrong here and there. I’ve decided to write in my own voice, as if I were there, which I was not. If you are some jerk, Ivy League professor bent on pointing out all my mistakes – I may just have to come out of retirement for one more job, if you get my drift.

I’d like to dedicate this book to my wonderful daughter, Romi, who was born (through no fault of her own) into this crazy family.

These stories entertained me when I was growing up. I hope you enjoy them.

-Virginia Bombay

Bombay, The Um, First Bombay—The Minotaur

Island of Crete, 1256 BCE

I had to move carefully, I reminded myself as I knocked over a clay pot. Who had clay pots anymore? It was the Bronze Age, for the gods’ sake! Clay pottery was useless and would never again be worth more than the dirt it was mixed from.

The pot tottered precariously. My reflexes were pretty quick, though, and I caught it before it hit the stone road. After regaining my breath, I slipped into the shadows, away from the market, toward the outskirts of town.

My contact was nervous. An idiot. An Athenian. He did not like coming to Crete to meet me. But he had no choice. If he wanted me to get the job done, he’d have to come here. I wasn’t fond of sailing. Too many sea monsters and that overly sensitive Poseidon. I’ll keep my sandals on terra firma, thanks.

Let Codros take the risk. I didn’t know what he wanted me to do, but he promised me a lot of money. A noise from my left gave me pause. I froze, willing my body to blend in with the wall behind me. Nothing. Probably a bird or something.

At long last I reached the crossroads. Codros was there, twitching nervously, naturally. Fucking Athenians.

“You came,” he said as he ran his hand through his thick curls. He’d been my contact for the last year. It took him that long to stop staring at my breasts. Apparently, Athenian girls covered theirs – unlike Cretan women. And also, he’d never seen a pair before. Aside from the fact he was a moron and had no clue as far as Cretan fashion was concerned, he was passable to work with.

“Of course I came,” I snapped. “What do you want?”

Codros looked left and right, as if he didn’t trust me not to be followed. I rolled my eyes skyward and asked the gods for strength.

“We want to pay you three thousand gold coins to kill the Minotaur.”

“Three thousand?” I asked. Surely I misheard him. That was a lot of money. More money than I would ever see in my lifetime. Was this some sort of trap?

Codros nodded. He looked right and left again, which pissed me off, before reaching behind a rock and pulling out a bag loaded with something heavy. He tossed the bag at my feet.

“Here is half,” he said quietly. “Once you prove the Minotaur is dead, you will get the rest.”

I bent down to examine the bag in the fading light of dusk. My fingers slid past the rough material and closed on a pile of cold coins. I stood, leaving the bag on the ground.

“The Minotaur is a myth,” I said. King Minos was always messing with the Athenians. No such half man, half bull existed in real life. Did they really believe that? This had to be a trap.

Codros shook his head violently. “We have been told that we are to send seven Athenian girls and seven boys to be sacrificed in the labyrinth to this beast. If the beast is dead, there will be no sacrifices.” He stuck his chin out as if to make his point.

“Okay, say the Minotaur does exist, and I kill him. Why wouldn’t Minos just demand the kids anyway and kill them outright?” I mean, that’s what I would do. You didn’t need a man with a bull’s head to kill people.

“If the Minotaur is dead—” Codros slammed his right fist into his left palm. “—Minos will not ask for tribute.”

On Crete, we had a lot of jokes about Athenians. Named ironically for the Goddess of Wisdom, Athenians were rubes who believed in stuff like flying horses and minotaurs. How many Athenians does it take to milk a goat? Five: one to hold each of the four legs with the fifth one running off to find someone from Crete. Believe me, that’s a howler in my village.

“I can’t be responsible for what Minos does. If I take your money, kill this Minotaur, and the demand for sacrifice continues, your people will come after me.”

“No. You won’t be held responsible. And we will pay you once we have proof the monster is dead. Minos won’t demand the tributes. If he does, then he’s a fool.” Codros spat on the ground.

“All right, then.” I lifted the very heavy bag from the ground. “I’ll do it. And I’ll get you your proof. And I won’t be responsible for what happens after. We meet back here in four days. I’ll have your proof, and you’ll have the rest of my money.”

He nodded and slipped away into the shadows.

It took me longer to get back home as I dragged an extremely noisy bag of coins through the streets in the darkness. Once inside my little house, I barred the door and dumped the bag on the table. I froze for a moment from the loud sound of coins clanking together, exhaling only after I didn’t hear anyone beating on my door.

Why was I worried? I lived alone, with no friends or family on the whole island. People never noticed me. I could slip in and out of anywhere without anyone knowing I was there.

Now, why did I take this job? That confused me a little. I’d been a thief and a spy for most of my sixteen years. But killing? My eyes slid to the bulging sack. Well, clearly that was more lucrative. Besides, I wasn’t really going to kill anything.

The Minotaur! Honestly! Those Athenians would fall for anything. There was no Minotaur. What idiots. They couldn’t even mess things up properly. Sometimes, those bastards would sneak in and attempt to ruin some festival or another by setting all the goats loose or pouring honey on the streets—you know, the usual Athenian bullshit.

King Minos kept sending our navy to kick their asses, but this crap still happened. He even told the Athenians if they didn’t knock it off, he’d demand seven boys and girls every nine years to feed to his weird, made-up, man/bull thing, the Minotaur. But he doesn’t have a minotaur. He just says that.

I didn’t feel bad in the least for taking their money to kill something that didn’t exist. Athens was filled with people who took the “short chariot” to work. Their city state would never last. I give them one more generation before they’re completely forgotten.

The only problem would be evidence. How would I prove I killed something that didn’t exist? I shook my head and filled a clay cup with water. Damn clay. But with this kind of money, I’d be able to afford a bronze cup or two soon enough.

My parents died when I was two years of age. They were killed in a strange oxcart accident involving a duck and a single olive. This old guy, Deuteronomy, took me in and taught me the fine art of theft. I stole for the two of us while we lived quietly in this house. He died when I was ten. After a while, thieving bored me, and I turned to spying. When I was thirteen, I sold the Athenians a lie that strangely turned out to be true. Who knew Poseidon really did have a Kraken? The Athenians believed me, and, as a result, I’ve been taking their money (and selling them lies) ever since. But this…killing for money, was new.

I wasn’t terribly fond of Crete either. People ignored me completely. Maybe after this job, I could disappear—see the world. I was good with a knife and knew my way around poisons—Deuteronomy believed in a well-rounded education. I could take care of myself and had for years.

First things first. I carried the bag of money to my bedroom and yanked the bed away from the wall. After tucking the bag in a hole I had hidden there, I shoved the bed back and lay down on it.

It was hot, and the night was filled with the humid stench of animals, ripe olive groves and people. Yes, leaving after the job was done was a good idea. Wait until after I get paid the rest, and just disappear. I’d probably leave Greece altogether. What would be the point of staying? Maybe I’d even turn faux assassination into a little family business…train the kids and grandkids. Then I threw up in my mouth a little because that would require getting married. Greek boys were gross—always oiling up and wrestling in the nude. What the hell was that all about?

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew daylight flooded the room and someone was banging on my door.

“Who is it?” I asked in the gruffest voice I could manage.

“Codros sent me,” the male voice answered.

I only had two options: open the door and let him in, or keep it barred, grab the money and slip out the window. But I was curious about what kind of moron Codros would send, so I opened the door and dragged the man inside.

“Who are you?” I asked, shutting the door behind him. As I looked him over, my knees grew a little weak. This was an Athenian? He looked more like Apollo. Gold hair, gold skin and eyes as blue as the Aegean. He smiled, and my stomach flipped.

“I’m Sparta.” He gave a little bow. I wasn’t used to men treating me with respect. Basically, they didn’t look at me at all.

“Sparta? Like the city-state?”

He nodded. “Yes. My parents met there. So they named me after that place.”

“That’s kind of weird,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Yes. It is,” he agreed. “No one does that.”

We stood there, staring at each other for a moment. I motioned to the table and a stool beside it. “Please, sit.” I poured him a cup of water and stood back, studying him.

Why did that idiot send someone? And why is he so cute and nice? Is he here to spy on me?

“You said that Codros sent you…”

Adorably, Sparta blushed. “Yeah. I volunteered. I thought I could help you.”

“You mean spy on me.” I folded my arms across my chest. Sparta didn’t seem so cute now. Codros didn’t trust me to kill a mythological monster? That bastard!

Sparta rose from the stool and stepped close to me. He was taller than me. And just as gorgeous close up.

“No. I came because I can do things.”

It was hard to hear myself over my heart beating. “Really. What exactly can you do?” My guard was up now. Not only did this guy notice me…he actually talked to me. That didn’t happen.

“What’s your plan for killing the Minotaur?” he asked casually.

“How I kill him is my business.” My face was hot, and I could feel that vein pulsing in my forehead. I didn’t need some stupid Athenian following me around. I moved to the door and opened it.

“I think you’d better go.”

Sparta sighed and made his way out the door, which I may have closed a bit too loudly. He wouldn’t last half an hour in the village. Everyone here knew everyone else, and we didn’t like strangers. The boy would have to return home or get fed to the goats.

If I had someone spying on me, I’d need to act quickly. Maybe I could just behead a bull and present that to the Athenians? Would they buy it? I could say that he was too large to bring back so I just took the head.

How was I going to behead a bull? I mean, the biggest thing I’d ever killed was a bird, and it wasn’t too hard cutting his head off. But a bull? What about the horns? I could get the horns easily enough. But how would that prove anything to people who thought I needed spying upon? Obviously, this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

And that stupid Sparta! He probably wouldn’t go away. If he had half a brain, he’d hide in the olive groves. His blonde hair would really stand out. I’d have to shake him somehow. Or threaten him.

He’d asked what my plan was. I didn’t have one. This job seemed so easy last night. Now it just seemed like a mess…one that would bring the Athenians down on me like a sack of…um…Athenians when I failed.

I could go now. There were fifteen hundred gold coins behind my bed. That would make it easy for me to run away and live fairly comfortably somewhere. All I’d have to do would be to wait until the middle of the night and just slip away. I could bribe a fisherman at the beach to take me across the sea, in the opposite direction of Athens.

In a few days, I’d be in Italy or Africa, and no one would miss me. No one would miss me. Wow. That idea stopped me cold. The only people who knew I even existed were the Athenian morons and Sparta. My neighbors would be hard pressed to identify me as something other than “that weird orphan girl.” Even though it would be easy to fade away, I suddenly didn’t want to.

I wanted to prove I could do this. For some reason, it mattered that someone out there would remember who I was and what I could do. Slipping away in the night had merit. But it wasn’t the right answer. I’d have to go to Minos’ palace, Knossos. Then if Sparta was following me, he had to see that I was at least moving toward a plan (one that I really didn’t have).

I spent the day preparing for the trip. Deuteronomy had left behind a worn, canvas pack that I filled with dates, olives and bread. Two handfuls of the gold coins and a wine skin filled with water took up the rest of the space. In the early afternoon, I napped. I’d have to move out late at night. By late evening, I’d sharpened my four, bronze throwing knives that I’d stolen from a sailor two years past. They were good knives, and I could throw them with great accuracy. I could use them for self-defense and hunting along the way.

The sounds of the village slowed to a stop as the night grew darker. Finally, I gathered my pack, stuffed my knives in my pockets and headed out the door toward King Minos and his ridiculous, imaginary Minotaur.

The road to Knossos was quiet. There was no moon to highlight my form as I stole along the side of the road, keeping to the trees and shadows. It wasn’t very far—just one night’s travel on foot. My body slid into a memorized rhythm of soundless flight. I’d been to Knossos before and seen the king’s palace. I’d even slipped inside on occasion, unnoticed. I just had to get there. Once I did, I could find an inn and spend the next day in a room, developing a plan.

If Sparta followed me, he would know that I went to pursue my assignment. If he didn’t, well, that was fine too. Either way, just getting to Knossos felt like I was actually accomplishing something.

A light breeze stirred the trees around me, and I felt a little peace. Running away in the middle of the night did not frighten me. No one would be traveling at this late hour, and if they were, they would not notice me. It was like being invisible. I liked being invisible.

A twig snapped loudly behind me. On instinct, I slipped around the nearest tree and peered back into the darkness, waiting. He emerged soon after, his blonde hair practically glowing in the dark. Sparta worked his way past me on the road, neither looking right nor left. He seemed completely unfazed at walking alone. I waited to see if he would search for me, but he just kept going, staring straight ahead. If he hadn’t been following me, then he’d guessed where I was going. Which meant he expected me to complete the mission.

I smiled and kept to the trees, never taking my eyes off him. I had the advantage. And that made me feel better.

As dawn broke, Knossos was already crowded and busy. I lost sight of Sparta in the maze of people, but that was all right. Turning into a narrow alley, I found an inn that would be suitable, paid the innkeeper a little extra to forget I was there, and once inside my room, I collapsed on the bed.

I awoke hours later and panicked at first. I’d promised Codros four days, and I had less than three left. Getting to Knossos seemed like a big part of the plan, but the truth was I had no plan. None. Whatsoever. And Sparta was waiting out there somewhere. I had to pull it together.

After a quiet dinner of snail stew in a dark corner of the inn’s main room, I left the inn to explore the city. My dark hair and skin allowed me to fit in with the people of the city. I wore a gray veil around my head for additional subterfuge—it unnerved me to think there was someone out there looking for me. No one ever looked for me.

The palace walls surrounded the town, and I found myself drawn toward its center. The rumor was that a labyrinth, designed by Daedalus, dominated the grounds. And that was where Minos joked about keeping the Minotaur prisoner. I was hoping that being there would launch some sort of inspiration.

As I wove in and out of the everyday rabble, I heard snatches of conversation about the labyrinth. Workers bragged about working on the structure with such bravado I knew they were all lying. Daedalus was known for carefully selecting his craftsmen.

Still, there was a lot of community pride in the work, and I grew more anxious to see it. The streets were even more crowded now, and I felt like I was wrestling my way through the sea of bodies. At last I found a bench near a bright red wall and sat to gather my thoughts.

“You found it.” Sparta joined me on the bench, and I stared at him blankly. Where had he come from? Had he been following me all this time? Impossible! No one followed me.

“This is the opening.” He pointed to a sign that said, simply, Labyrinth. Huh. I thought it would be more dramatic than that. Oh well.

“I just waited here for you to show up.” Sparta smiled and cocked his head to the side. “I knew you would.”

I wanted to strangle him. I wanted to drag him inside and beg the gods that there really would be a minotaur inside that would eat him. Maybe bringing back Sparta’s gnawed-on carcass with a bull’s horn would be proof enough for the Athenians.

“So, let’s go,” Sparta said.

My jaw dropped open. “You don’t just go in! These things require planning!” I said as if I really knew. “And it’s not a tourist spot—you can’t just go in and have someone carve your likeness onto a stone tablet with your arm around the Minotaur!” Okay, I was flustered. This guy found me. Me! Someone who doesn’t get found. Someone no one knew or noticed or worried about. I was furious. I was impressed. I was terrified.

He nodded. “You’re right. What… are you just checking it out or something?”

“Of course I am!” I recovered quickly. “Why on Olympus did Codros think you could help me?”

“I already told you. I have some special skills.” Sparta looked a little pissed. And he was so attractive, I struggled with the urge to calm him down and make him happy.

“What skills?” I asked. “I mean, I think I should know, now that we’re here and all.”

“Soon,” he said.

Now I was pissed.

“Fine!” I snapped a little too loudly. “Then you stay here for the rest of the day, doing surveillance. Make note of anyone who comes or goes and what the procedure is. I’ll find you tonight.” I had no intention of finding him tonight.

“What’s surveillance?”

I threw my hands up in the air and stomped off dramatically. A few minutes later, I swapped my gray veil for a red one as I faded into the crowd. My thoughts were racing. Did that boy really think you could just walk in and kill a nonexistent creature? No! You needed a plan! You needed to be prepared!

That’s when I realized that I really didn’t know what I was talking about. Hell, I didn’t even know what surveillance was—in fact, I’m pretty sure I made that word up just now. As for planning, I’d never killed anyone for money before. How exactly did one do that? The idea of planning was a nice touch though. And clearly, I’d have to do that once I calmed down.

I skirted the labyrinth wall until I’d put a lot of distance between me and Sparta. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? A small part of the wall seemed to be shaded differently—like it was a fake door from a fresco. It wasn’t real…didn’t even look real. But I couldn’t resist running my hands over the stone.

Except that it wasn’t stone. It was fabric painted to look like stone. My hands passed through the material, and I realized that this was some sort of secret door into the maze. After looking around to make sure no one noticed, I slipped behind the curtain to the darkness inside. To my surprise, the curtain drew tight behind me, as if it were a door. How was that possible?

My wonder turned to worry once I realized that it was now pitch dark inside, and I had no idea where the cloth was to get back out. I could chew out Sparta about having a plan when, in reality, I was winging it.

Someone else was in the darkness with me. I could hear them breathing. Did they know I was here? My hands reached the wall, and I frantically slid them around to find the door I’d just stumbled through.

“Hello!” a booming male voice said only inches away. “Nice to have company!”

Uh-oh. There really was a minotaur. And he could talk. And he wanted a playmate. And I’d have to kill him and drag his stupid body all the way back to my village. And that would totally suck because I wasn’t sure I could even kill him, let alone get him out of here and get through Knossos with a huge, dead minotaur sight unseen.

“Come this way,” said the voice as a hand clamped down on my arm and dragged me away. “It’s so nice to have someone to talk to!”

This minotaur seemed a little too happy. But maybe he got that way when some idiot accidentally stumbled into his lair.

I didn’t fight as we moved together through the darkness. Mainly because I was in shock. It isn’t every day you come face to face with something you thought didn’t really exist. Maybe that’s how philosophers felt. I just allowed myself to be twisted and turned through a snakelike hallway. We stopped suddenly, and I saw a crack of light glimmering through some sort of door. My captor grunted and pushed, and the sound of stone grinding on stone filled the air.

“Have a seat!” my host said, and I saw to my surprise that it wasn’t a minotaur. Actually, I almost would rather it was. Instead, I was in the presence of none other than King Minos himself.

“It’s okay!” he laughed, pointing at an ornate chair with cushions on it. Once I sat, he sat and looked at me expectantly.

“Oh! Um, your highness!” I stammered. You didn’t just hang out with King Minos. That just wasn’t done. You had to be announced by a guy with a lute or something. Yes, I was pretty sure that was right. “I’m so sorry to have interrupted you! I should be on my way!”

It really was embarrassing. I was the girl no one saw or noticed. Now, in one day, I had this gorgeous Athenian actively looking for me, and I was expected to make conversation with my king—a man who terrorized the Aegean Sea with his navy. A man whose will was so terrible it made the gods tremble. A man who was rumored to be the son of Zeus himself.

I thought I was going to throw up.

Minos frowned. “Are you all right, girl? You’ve gone green!”

I shook my head vigorously. Throwing up in the presence of such a king would not do. “I’m fine, just, um, surprised to see you here, Your Majesty.”

“I guess that would be strange.” He stroked his beard before breaking into a huge grin. “Do you play Hide and Seek? The queen won’t play with me. And I love that game! Of course, as king, I get to do all the hiding…” Minos nodded his head hopefully.

“I should probably be getting back…” I rose to my feet on shaking legs.

Minos pouted and stuck out his lower lip. “At least talk to me or tell me a story.”

“Um, okay?” How could I refuse? “What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, I don’t know…not the weather. That’s so boring. Everyone always wants to talk about the weather around me. Why is that?” He seemed genuinely confused, and possibly insane. A little of each, maybe.

“Well, maybe they’re intimidated by you and figure that the weather is the safest topic?” He sure intimidated me. I could see how “look at those clouds” or “it might rain” would be preferable to anything that might end up with your head being removed.

“Intimidated?” Minos said, staring off into space thoughtfully. “What does that mean?”

I froze. This wasn’t good. You always heard about these tests from the gods and how if you answered the riddle wrong, or cut off the wrong Gorgon’s head, you’d end up deformed and guarding a golden fleece or something.

“I like bubbles!” Minos bounced happily into another topic. And that’s when I realized that my king, the sovereign of my land, was an imbecile.

“I like bubbles too,” I said slowly. “Your highness,” I said as an idea came to me, “what about the Minotaur?”

The king burst into laughter, rocking back and forth with glee. I took that to mean he wasn’t upset in an “off with your limbs” kind of way.

“Oh, that’s good! Really good!” Minos wiped away the tears that streamed down his face. “Minotaur indeed!” He clapped his hands joyfully, and I waited for the laughter to subside.

“So there’s really no Minotaur?” I asked carefully.

“No! You mean people really believed that? You must tell me how you heard it!” His breathing was slowing and he was starting to calm down from the laughing fit.

“They do…especially the Athenians.” I nodded to show that I really knew stuff.

“Yay!” Minos clapped his hands again. “I hate those stupid Athenians! They’re always ‘Athena is smarter than Zeus’ and ‘Our city-state is bigger than yours.’ I’m glad they think it’s real.”

I finally had a plan. “Your Majesty, they believed it so well, they hired me to come and kill it for them.”

“Did they?” His eyes were bright. “What did they offer you?”

“Money. A lot of money. But I have to bring back proof that I killed it.” On the one hand, I was relieved that there was no Minotaur. On the other hand, proof would be a bitch.

“Bah. I don’t want money. I could help you, and it would be great fun! But money is a silly thing to offer.” Minos wiggled his fingers in the air. I had no idea what that meant.

“Maybe your highness could help me come up with something…some sort of proof I could take back? If you don’t want money in payment, maybe there’s something else I could do?” Unfortunately I now was worried what a crazy man would want.

“I know!” he roared. “You can tell me your name! I’ll take that as payment!”

“Okaaaay…” For a moment, I weighed the thought that I should give him a fake name. But it was such a simple thing, and if this mad, jolly king was going to help me, it wasn’t much to ask at all.

“My name is Bombay.”

Minos scowled. “That’s a funny name. What does it mean?”

I shook my head. “Nothing, as far as I know. It’s just what my parents named me.”

The king froze for a moment, and I wondered if I’d been wrong about him. Maybe he was really smart, and there was a man/bull monster. How did I know he wasn’t the tyrannical and cruel dictator we’d heard he was? Had I made a horrible mistake?

Minos was still not moving. Was he processing what I was really saying? After all, I’d just admitted to treason with his arch enemy. It felt like my throat was closing, and I began to sweat. I was dead. Really and truly dead…

The king slapped his thigh. “Right! That will have to do, then! Now let’s see, what can we use to prove you did your job, Bombay the slayer of the Minotaur?” He looked around the room, poking cushions, lifting the tapestries, and basically acting crazy. Great. Even the king had nothing in the plan department. You’d think a leader of my known world could come up with something, right?

“Hello?” Sparta’s voice called out behind the walls.

Fantastic.

“Who’s that?” Minos whispered.

“That’s Sparta,” I answered.

The king pulled his gown up over his head. And he had nothing on underneath. Great. “The Spartans have breached the maze! What do we do?” Minos quivered like a column of pomegranate jelly.

“I can hear you!” Sparta shouted. “I know you’re there, Bombay!” The very next instant, he appeared, holding a torch and a spool of gold thread.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed. This guy could ruin everything! Why didn’t I just send him somewhere else?

Sparta shrugged. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He held up the thread. “I figured this would help me find my way back out.” He looked at the man-sized thing with the gown over his head. “Is that the Minotaur?”

Okay. So to sum up, I’m busted hanging with the king—who has the mental capacity of a toddler—while some supposedly stupid Athenian proves he’s not so stupid because he’s the first person ever to breach the maze. Besides myself, of course. (I thought the gold thread was a nice touch.) There was no way I could get myself out of this mess. I’d have to fess up and hope King Minos ordered Sparta killed on the spot just for starters.

Minos lowered his gown. “Oh. Hello. You don’t look like the Spartan army.”

“His name is Sparta,” I replied.

King Minos held out his hand and patted him on the back. “That’s almost as bizarre as Bombay here. I’m King Minos.”

Sparta looked at me, and I shrugged. He stared at the king for a long time. I waited for him to bolt—to run home and tell everyone in Athens the truth. I’d have to leave Greece altogether. Why didn’t I just kill him or trick him or something? Clearly this murder-for-hire thing had gone south.

He sighed. “Well, I guess there really is no Minotaur. Which I always suspected.”

I punched him in the arm. “You didn’t believe it either? Why did you offer to come along?”

Sparta smiled. “I hate Athens. Those people are morons. I’ve been following your work with them. Some of that intelligence you sold them was hilarious. That thing about Cretans being cannibals who preferred Athenian meat over all others? That was awesome!”

“Uh, thanks?” I responded weakly.

“I just think you’re cool. It was my idea to pay you to kill the Minotaur. The Athenian king is my uncle. He totally bought it.”

“Why?” It was the only thing I wanted to know. Why would he fool his countrymen and kin for me?

Sparta shrugged. “I like you. Always have.”

I didn’t expect that. No one liked me. They didn’t dislike me…just didn’t know I was there. It hit me like a thousand, worthless clay pots. Here was this handsome guy, and he’d been watching me all this time. He’d learned my tricks, and he liked me. What was happening?

“That’s nice!” King Minos stood, clapping us both on the shoulders. “But we still have to come up with your proof.”

Sparta laughed. “I told you I had special talents. Here is what we need…”

* * *

One month later, Sparta and I were in Syria, living it up in a house on the beach with a lot of money. I might have fallen for him. I’m not sure. But we had plenty of time. We joked that if we get married, we will have to hide under my name because he’s royal and all. We also joked that we’d name our kids after places, like him.

What happened? Well, turns out Sparta did have some special talents. He practices taxidermy. And attaching a bull’s head to a man’s body was his pièce de résistance. Of course both were dead. I didn’t ask Minos where he got the dead guy. It didn’t seem like a good idea.

So, Minos dragged the “Minotaur’s” carcass into the streets of Knossos and made a decree that the Minotaur was slain by an imaginary Athenian named Theseus who was in love with his daughter. He even threw in the part about Sparta using the gold thread. Spies got back to Athens so fast, Codros was waiting with my money when I got back to the crossroads. Sparta and I fled immediately after.

Syria is still too close. It’ll do for a while, but eventually we want to work our way toward Italy. That might be far enough away in case Minos changes his mind about me…or fully loses it. Besides, Italy is a quiet backwater. I don’t see it ever becoming an empire or anything like that.

I think Sparta and I have a future together. Turns out he’s pretty smart. And he has excellent taste in girls. As long as he doesn’t strip down and cover himself in olive oil and want to wrestle other boys, we might just be okay.

Samaria & Assyria Bombay—Draco

620 BCE, Aegina, Greece

“More rope, please, Ria,” I said to my twin sister as we slowly strangled the life out of the corrupt politician in front of me. Assyria nodded and loosened her end, which happened to be wrapped around a marble pillar.

Marble was so convenient. It was everywhere in its extremely useful column form. The man turning purple before me probably didn’t think so. But then, he shouldn’t have enslaved his neighbors and sold his daughters into brothels. Such a bad man. Well, he’d learn his lesson once and for all…the final lesson.

The victim finally turned blue and collapsed. I took up the slack and held it for a few more minutes, just to make sure. Assyria nodded, letting me know he was gone, and we gathered up our things and fled.

My name is Samaria Bombay, and my twin sister Assyria (or Ria as I call her) and I are seventeen years old and assassins. It’s all part of the family business, which we had no choice in entering. Not that there are many opportunities for girls around Greece. And it gives us time to work on music and poetry. Ria has mad skills with a lyre, and I write a mean poem.

Back at home, Mom joined us in the music room where Ria was laying down some keen riffs, and I was noshing on a bowl of grapes.

“Girls.” Mom looked great—she always looked great. Her hair was perfection, with cascading, shiny onyx curls, and her chiton was always pressed. Ria and I tried to emulate her, but our clothes always seemed more wrinkled and our wild, wiry brown hair did whatever it wanted. Don’t even get me started on the pimples…

Mom continued, “You have another assignment.” She handed us a sheet of coiled papyrus sealed with wax and paused, waiting for our whining to commence.

“What? No!” I stamped my foot. “We just got done with one!”

“It’s not fair!” Ria complained. “They think because we work together that they can give us twice as much!”

Mom rolled her eyes and left the room. She knew there was no way out. As a Bombay herself, she still worked the occasional assignment. Once a Bombay – always an assassin. There was no way out of the family business but death.

Ria pouted as she cracked open the seal. Stupid parchment. Papyrus was so old school. The Bombays were too old-fashioned. She read the instructions and then a devilish grin grew on her face. “OH. MY. GODS! This is soooo cool! You’ll like this one!” she said to me.

I snatched the information from her hand and read eagerly. “NO WAY!” I said loudly. “We get to kill Draco? AWESOME!”

Ria nodded, and the two of us held hands and jumped up and down, squealing with joy. Draco was an asshat. We lived in Athens—the home of asshattery, if you ask us—and Draco was the lawgiver and the reason we killed that dude earlier today.

Get this! In Athens, because of this jerk, the penalty for virtually any crime was death. That’s right. If you stole a stupid cabbage (although why anyone would steal or even buy a cabbage was beyond me) you were put to death. Why? Because according to Draco, you deserved it. I was personally hoping that once we killed Draco things would get better, right? I mean, who in their right mind would pick up where this jerk left off?

Oh right, back to the dead guy from earlier, Asp…something or other. Well, if you weren’t part of the aristocracy, and you were in debt to someone, even for as little as five obols, the person who loaned you the money could enslave you. If you were part of the one-percenters, they couldn’t do that to you, because, somehow, you were better than anyone else.

This douchecanoe loaned his neighbor one obol for a loaf of bread when they were at the store so his neighbor wouldn’t have to make change on a ten. As soon as they got home, BAM! Asparagus or whatever his name was served his neighbor a summons to be his slave and sold his daughters. And this wasn’t the first time Asparagus (I kind of liked calling him that now.) had done it either. But as a member of the upper class, no one could touch him. So he ended up on our assignment roster, and Ria and I happily took him out.

FYI—we’d rescued the daughters earlier and set them up on Crete with their own fashion design business. No girl was going to be a slave on our watch, and they made some awesomely cute sandals…

You might think it unusual that Ria and I can work together. Bombays don’t usually do that. But Ria and I are identical twins which is very useful in this field. We’d trained together and could totally read each other’s minds. The Council had no problem with us being a team. Unfortunately, that meant we ended up with twice the assignments everyone else did. Whatever.

Draco was a big baddie and a choice assignment! Of course this meant that this was also a tricky job. He was an official legislator and part of the ruling class. It would be impossible to get next to him. Unlike the other guy this morning—in which case we just walked right into his home when his family and slaves were at an outing (that we'd organized).

Ria and I were fantastic organizers! We could throw a party like nobody else. (This one time, we threw a kick-ass school party with gladiator games, a “design your own toga out of toilet paper” contest and we got the coolest singer in Athens—Justinius Beberius—to perform!)! And with two of us handling the hits, we were always successful.

“That rope from this morning ruined my hands!” Ria whined as she examined her skin and fingernails. She was the more fashion-conscious of the two of us. I was a bit more tomboyish. My nails were super short, and I had calluses everywhere. Our hands were the only way you could tell us apart, really.

“So,” I said, getting excited now, “how are we going to do it?”

Ria stopped examining her hands and looked at me with arched eyebrows (perfectly plucked, I might add). “Do what?”

I threw my hands in the air and rolled my eyes. “The job! Duh!”

“Oh, right.” Ria sprawled on the settee on her stomach, ankles crossed and in the air as her ponytail bobbed. “We need to think about that.”

I flopped down beside her. “It has to be an accident or natural causes. I don’t want us to end up victims of his stupid laws.”

My sister nodded absently. She was already scrolling through ideas in her head. I started munching on grapes. Grapes are my favorite.

After a while, she stood up and shook her head, her ponytail bobbing behind her. She looked good like that (which meant we looked good like that). “I’ve got nothing. Let’s head to the market.”

“Great idea!” I grabbed my bag and we were off. The market really was the happening place. You could buy anything there—in fact, they had a new shipment of silk chitons coming in this week. Maybe we’d get lucky!

Okay, so it’s not all about shopping. The market was also the place where you got the latest news and gossip. We would need to know Draco’s latest if we were going to take him out. Anyone who was anyone knew that.

The market was super crowded. It must have been delivery day—which also meant that it was a good news day. Bonus! I browsed the red ochre paste, looking to see if they had anything new for lips. Finding nothing, Ria and I made our way to the olive oil merchants.

We had horrible hair. I know most teens will tell you that, but ours was dark brown and wiry. Ria and I tried everything to tame it with no luck. We were hoping today there might be a new merchant with a miracle cure.

“This is the best oil for your hair!” a short, fat island man barked at us. He was covered with hair that went in every direction. Clearly his oils didn’t work.

“I don’t think so…” Ria said as we moved on. The next stall had a woman with gorgeous, glossy hair. We stopped.

“I used to have hair like you.” The woman was a knockout. She patted her glossy, bouncy curls and nodded. “Use some of my oil.” She looked from right to left and then whispered conspiratorially, “I add a special oil from Morocco to it. Works like a dream!”

I sniffed at the jar she handed me. The scent was luscious—and didn’t smell like food. I handed over five drachmas for a gallon of the oil. When you found something you liked, you bought in bulk. You might never see the merchant again. Especially under Draco’s laws.

“Where are you from?” Ria made small talk with the woman.

“Aegina. Beautiful island!” the woman said through thick, dark pouty lips. I needed to ask where she got her cosmetics. “If you come to the festival next week on Aegina, stop by my shop. I have a lot more than just this.” She spread her hands over her small stall.

“Festival?” I asked, my ears perking up. I liked festivals. Basically, they were parties with boys.

The woman nodded and handed us a card with her shop’s information. “And the great Draco will be there! He’s giving a speech in the Aeginatan Theater!”

Ria and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. A party, shopping, boys, and a chance at Draco! Perfect!

We thanked the woman and headed toward the center of the market. Neither one of us spoke—we didn’t need to. We could basically read each other’s minds since birth. The important thing now was to head to gossip central to get the deets.

The open square was flooded with people and the smell of roasted lamb, citrus fruits, and wine. I snagged some food while Ria found the perfect spot for us to sit. It was quite a coup to pull off, as you had to find the spot where the “in crowd” was, so you could overhear a number of conversations going on at once.

Ria zoomed in on a couple of legislators chatting to our left, while I focused on the desperate housewives on the right. To look at us, you’d think we were just two teen girls noshing and paying no attention to their surroundings. No one ever gave us a second glance, because they assumed teenage girls didn’t care what went on in politics or for the complaints of wealthy, middle-aged women. And I guess they were right about the second part. I mean, these women were really old—like twenty-nine or something. As if we’d be interested in them!

“Darling! You simply must go to Aegina for the festival! Everyone will be there!” a bored matron dripping in gold snake bracelets said.

“What are you going to wear?” a shrill, skinny woman with huge breasts asked breathlessly. Her hair was blonde, which screamed fake! Boy, we think our hair is unruly, but when these rich women used wood ash and lye soap to bleach out their hair, it would eventually have the consistency of straw. Served them right. I stifled a giggle.

“Well, I was thinking of wearing my new, violet cloak! It’s the softest wool you’ll ever touch!” Bracelets responded.

Fake Blonde nodded. “It will be the season. I wouldn’t be caught dead without my scarlet cloak. It’s probably heavier than yours.”

I continued to listen, rolling my eyes internally, as the group of women grew and chatted about their clothes and who had the best of whatever. Intel gathering can be so dull sometimes.

After an hour, Ria looked at me meaningfully, and we gathered up our things to go. We stopped at a few jewelry stalls, and I bought this fabulous jade broach before we headed home.

At dinner that night, we told our parents about going to the festival.

“It’s going to be educational too,” Ria said as she stared at a piece of bread shaped like a lyre. Our cook fancied herself a bit of an artist. “Draco will be speaking.”

I thought the educational pitch was a nice touch. But Dad wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know if you should go off alone to a festival on an island…” he said slowly.

“Mom!” I pleaded, “We can stay with Aunt Lydia—she lives on Aegina! And we want to do some shopping!”

Mom couldn’t really say no. She knew this was a job. But Dad didn’t approve of our entry into the family business even though he didn’t have a choice. (Those who married into the Bombays never did.) So we couldn’t go at it from that angle.

She laid a hand on Dad’s arm. “I’m sure if they stay with my sister it will be okay.” Mom used her soothing voice on Dad. “I’ll write to her and let her know they are coming. In fact, I’ll go with them. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Lydia.”

Ria and I tried not to smile. Dad couldn’t say no to that. And having Mom and Lydia, both trained assassins themselves, would be an extra bonus.

Dad sighed and shook his head. “You know I can’t argue with you. Go and have fun.”

“Thanks, Dad!” we said in unison as our cook brought out the fish and fruit. “You’re the best!” we threw in simultaneously for good measure.

Mom joined us later that evening in our rooms as we started packing. “You have Draco, don’t you?” Her arms were folded across her chest, and she didn’t look very happy.

My sister and I nodded.

“I’m not sure about that,” Mom said. “Seems dangerous to take out such a public figure.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like we have a choice, you know.”

“You of all people know that,” Ria finished.

Mom sighed. “I know. That’s why Lydia and I are going to help you.”

My sister and I stared at each other. This was a bit of a breach in protocol. We were the rare exception that worked together, but working in a team was a Bombay no-no. The family business had strict rules about working together. The idea was to train us independently as assassins so we didn’t have to rely on anyone else.

“And that is the end of the discussion.” Mom narrowed her eyes at us. “We leave in the morning.” And with that announcement, she left.

“I guess if we don’t tell the other Bombays,” Ria started.

“Then they won’t get upset about it,” I finished.

An hour later we were in bed. Staring at the ceiling, I began to think about the concern in Mom's eyes. If she was that worried, I started to worry that we might, in fact, need Mom and Lydia’s help. Which worried me even more. At seventeen, Ria and I were supposed to be working on our own.

“Sam?” Ria said quietly. “We’ll come up with something. We won’t need Mom.”

“My thoughts exactly. Night Ria,” I said with a great deal less confidence.

* * *

Aegina was a gorgeous little island with full sun and cute boys. Not that we had time for that. After arriving, we made our way to Lydia’s house, and after unpacking (you simply cannot have toooo many sandals!) the four of us made our way into town.

Ria and I told Mom and Lydia that we were going to check out the theater where Draco was slated to perform in two days. Only two days! Mom and Lydia decided to do some research.

The theater was the typical round-type arena. Boring. The crowd would enter from two locations, and Draco would already be installed in a dressing room at ground level. At the appropriate time, he would enter the stadium, and the crowd would cheer.

“You never told me what you overheard the other day,” I said to Ria as we headed back to the festival (with, I might add, no ideas).

“The big thing,” my sister said, “is that they are worried Draco won’t get a huge, warm welcome. He’s less popular than he was twenty years ago. They want him hailed as a hero.”

I nodded. “All I heard was what clothes everyone was wearing. Then they had a bit of a pissing match over who had the most colorful and heaviest woolen cloak for the event.” I rolled my eyes for effect.

Ria clutched my arm and stopped suddenly. “That’s it!” She threw her arms around me and squeezed. “I know exactly what to do!”

I frowned. What was it? A bunch of talk about how to get the people to honor Draco and the thickness of women’s cloaks? And then it dawned on me. Yes!

* * *

It took us a while to find Mom and Lydia, but once we did we dragged them home and told them about our plan.

Lydia and Mom looked at each other and burst out laughing. They weren’t twins, but were very close.  Maybe they could read each other’s minds too?

“That’s very imaginative!” Mom said as she wiped her tears of laughter away.

“What makes you think you can pull it off?” Lydia asked between gasps.

Ria shrugged nonchalantly. “You don’t have to do it with us.”

“We can do this ourselves,” I finished. “It’s just a matter of marketing.”

Mom and Lydia looked at each other, then leaned forward. “What are you planning, specifically?” they asked in unison. I guess they were a lot like us after all.

So we told them. And they started laughing. Again.

In this day and age in Greece, applause is so, so yesterday. The real way to honor someone is to throw your cloaks, tunics and hats onto the floor of the arena when they enter. It’s considered one of the biggest props you can show. Yes, it’s stupid. And how do you collect your clothing afterward? What if you really, really liked that cloak?

But the wealthy don’t care. They will do it to show that they can afford another cloak. And they want everyone to see them throw their cloak. That’s the important thing. We’d just use their vanity.

The Aeginian politicians would love this because it would honor Draco’s visit, and they want to show all of Greece that they revere the idiot who wrote those stupid laws. We’d just use their need for spin.

And hopefully, we would smother Draco to death under the weight of a thousand wool cloaks and hats before he even uttered a word. It’s brilliant really. You’re welcome.

It would be expensive. We needed to find a printer to make handbills to hand out to every one of the ten thousand attendees, encouraging them to send their capes to the theater floor. And we needed to volunteer at the theater to hand out the handbills so they went to everyone.

Actually, that was the easy part. Who wouldn’t want a pair of cute twins working for them? We told the management we were huge Draco fans (gross!), and they loved the idea. Mostly, they loved the idea that we were encouraging the guests to honor Draco. It would make them look great.

Of course we went to the theater in disguise as blondes. The wigs were pricey, but we’d had them for years just in case something like this came up. We couldn’t go as ourselves—what if someone figured it out? Duh!

Mom and Lydia, on the other hand, had their own tasks. As wealthy women, they infiltrated the bored housewives club and spread the word that the latest thing would be to take your heaviest, most expensive cloak to the theater that night and throw it away on the arena floor. You might think this would be laughed at – but it wasn’t. Word spread like wildfire, and outrageous competitions arose to see who would outdo whom.

“I hope this works,” Ria said as she paid five hundred drachmas to the printer. Again, we were wearing our blonde wigs and a bit too much makeup.

“If it doesn’t, we'll just have to do something else. The great thing about this plan is that it doesn’t seem to be what it is.” I had to be vague because we were in public. Ria knew what I meant.

Back at the house, Mom and Lydia were drinking wine on the terrace. Lydia had an amazing view of the sea, so we joined them and showed them the handbills.

“In honor of the visit from the Legislator Draco,” Mom read slowly, “please show your pride and appreciation by tossing your cloaks out of deference to this great man!”

“Cheesy,” Aunt Lydia said. “But the way the society matrons have leaped on the idea means it just might work.”

“What I like about it,” Mom replied, “is that there’s very little risk to you girls. It wasn’t like that when we were seventeen, was it Lyd?”

Her sister shook her head vigorously. “No it was not. If we had an assignment back then, we stabbed the guy and ran like Hades!”

Mom laughed. “Ah the good old days! Now—”  She pointed at our huge stack of fliers.  “ —it’s all spin and publicity.”

Lydia nodded. “Things sure have changed.”

Ria and I rolled our eyes. I mean really! Listening to them talk about the “good old days” was nauseating.

* * *

The next morning we were up at dawn and getting ready. Ria and I had to be at the arena early with our fliers. Mom and Aunt Lydia had rounded up everybody they knew and were going to tailgate in front of the stadium. They were even taking extra cloaks. So prepared!

I personally liked the tailgate idea. Mom thought a drunken party before the event would encourage people even more to throw their clothes. It was an epic idea.

It took a little longer for Ria and me to get ready. The wigs were hot and a total pain, but we wanted to make them look like our real hair. We added more makeup than normal to further disguise ourselves and even wore colored chitons. Normally, we just wear white. Two blondes were rare in Greece. Twin blondes would be a huge novelty—which would help with flier distribution. That was what we were counting on.

The tailgate party was in full swing when we set up at the arena. Ria and I each covered an entrance and both looked out at the front. Mom and Lydia really nailed their job. I think everyone attending Draco’s event was drinking out there. Good. Drunks made it all better.

Draco arrived with a huge entourage of Aeginian and Athenian lawmakers. He came through my entrance.

“One of the blonde twins.” The manager pointed me out, and I bowed in deference. Draco nodded appreciatively and took one of the fliers from my hand.

“What a stroke of genius!” Draco roared with glee.

“Thank you!” The manager bowed and scraped. I didn’t mind him taking all the credit. If it worked the way we wanted it to, he would be also saddled with the blame…sort of.

Draco put his hand on my arm and gave me a leering grin. It took all I had not to cringe and pull away. He had to believe I was his biggest fan—that was what we’d told the manager.

So I beamed and nodded. When he took his hand off me, I sighed with relief. I was sure I’d been forgotten moments later as they took Draco to his dressing room.

People began lurching through the doorway a few moments later, and I handed each and every one of them a handbill. I’d never seen so many expensive, brightly colored woolen cloaks! The local society was really doing their part! I made a mental note to thank Mom and Lydia later.

“Don’t forget to throw your cloaks out of respect when Draco steps onto the floor!” I called out as I handed out all my thousands of handbills. Everyone was having a pretty good time from the huge tailgate party out front. They rushed past me without giving me a second glance.

As soon as I handed out my last flier, I raced to the other entrance to join Ria, who was just handing out the last of hers. We looked at each other, then raced up into the stands to watch what would happen.

We had stashed our cloaks earlier underneath where we planned to sit. Sitting near Mom and Lydia would not be a good idea. We didn’t want anyone to connect us to each other. Besides, Lydia still operated on this island, and we didn’t want to endanger her turf.

Our work was done, really. All we could do was sit and wait. Have you ever been a teenage girl who had to sit and wait? It’s agonizing torture. Ria and I were so nervous we couldn’t even talk. What’s that about?

Time was passing slowly, and the audience was growing impatient. A new worry crept in. What if they started to sober up? What if Draco was a total diva and decided to be fashionably late? What if people threw their cloaks too early?

I’d only ever seen a cloak drop once. It was a kindly old poet from Sparta. Because it was the heat of the summer, people only threw light tunics. The poet was so happy he cried, which was cool cuz he seemed nice.

This would be different, if it worked at all, I told myself. I pinched Ria, who was examining her manicure again. She gave me a look that said, What can we do but wait?

The trumpets started up, and the crowd was on its feet. The moment had arrived! The fanfare ended, and at the far end of the arena, Draco stepped forward onto the floor, arms raised and a smile on his face. The crowd cheered and a few cloaks began to fall as Draco walked toward the center of the arena.

I held my breath, waiting to see if we pulled it off. The crowd began to roar as Draco stopped in the center of the floor, arms raised as he spun around.

Cloaks and hats rained down on the man like a wool thunderstorm. The sky was blocked by the thousands of huge, heavy rectangles of cloth that fell. It was more than I ever imagined. As more fell, the crowd got louder and rowdier.

On the arena floor, cloaks started to land on Draco. He laughed like a child, delighted in the amount of tribute. What an egomaniac. More and more clothes filled the air and more piled on top of him.

Draco laughed a bit more, crawling out from the cloaks only to be covered by more. He started to struggle with the weight of the material, and his smile began to fade.

The amazing amount of clothing inspired the crowd to roar louder as if they were going for a world record. To my shock, men around me began stripping to the waist, throwing as much as they could. Even sandals were starting to rain down.

“Well this is a bit much,” I mumbled to Ria, who seemed hypnotized by the frenzied mob. The smell of half-naked, sweaty and drunken men around us was dizzying, and the air started to fill with fuzz of all things.

On the floor, Draco was seriously struggling. After a moment, I lost sight of him entirely as more and more cloaks, chitons and tunics flew from the stands. The lump beneath the weight of material slowed in its struggling. It was alarming and fascinating at the same time.

The manager seemed to realize what was happening and started to run out onto the floor, shouting for the crowd to stop. They just buried him too—not fatally, I think.

Draco’s entourage started to run out to the floor, dodging the capes as they made their way to the middle. More clothing flew, and I worried that the people around me were now completely naked. I didn’t even look to see, but I thought I saw Ria turn.

The men on the floor were desperately trying to keep themselves above the material as they tore at the covered body of Draco. The crowd had gone completely berserker, seeming to forget what they were doing there.

Ria tapped me on the arm and I nodded. We fought our way through the crowd until we made it to the ground level. I was covered in bumps and bruises and half deaf before we made it there.

The manager had been knocked unconscious and was being carried out by a few men. Several of the entourage had given up and crawled out past us. The crowd was just starting to calm down. It was as if they were hypnotized, and I thought they looked like they didn’t know where they were.

The two remaining members of the entourage had finally managed to uncover Draco’s body. One of the men put his ear to Draco’s chest. The crowd seemed to sense that something was wrong and became eerily quiet. Within seconds, it had gone from a deafening roar to being able to hear a pin hit the earth below our feet.

Ria and I looked at each other. I felt her hand in mine. We held our breath and waited.

The man looked up at the other member of the entourage and slowly shook his head. Draco was dead. We’d done it! For a moment I almost high-fived my sister, but then I realized that with our job done, it was time to go. We stuffed the wigs and colored chitons in a bag we’d brought and slipped away. And yeah, it was that easy.

* * *

Draco’s death had a sobering effect on the rest of the festival. Ria and I stayed at Lydia’s with Mom, nursing our many bruises and quietly congratulating ourselves.

“That was a bit more dangerous than I thought it would be,” Mom said that first night. “Can you believe how that went down?”

Lydia shook her head. “I have to admit, it was extremely effective. The girls did their job. And it certainly looked like an accident.”

“Death by PR,” I said slowly.

Ria nodded. “That was an extremely successful hit. But the frenzy was terrifying.”

“I know, right?” I asked. “I didn’t see that coming. And I don’t think I’ll be able to wear a cloak again…ever.”

* * *

We arrived back in Athens to find Grandma Sicily waiting for us. Mom, Ria and I all exchanged glances. Grandma was not only our mother’s mom, but also the head of the Bombay Council. She was tougher than Hercules and shrewder than Hera. A visit from her wasn’t usually a good thing.

Dad ushered us into the library and wisely left, shutting the door behind him. We could hear him giving the staff orders to work on something on the other side of the house.

Grandma said nothing for a moment, and Ria and I twitched nervously.

“Mother,” Mom said calmly, “what an unexpected surprise.”

Grandma nodded and then narrowed her eyes at us before speaking. “A bit of overkill, was it not?”

I nodded. “It did get a bit out of hand.”

“And very expensive,” Grandma said with a little cough.

Ria chewed her lip, “Yes Grandmama. But we covered it out of our own pockets.”

Our grandmother looked away toward the window and sighed. It didn’t sound like a good sigh. Clearly we were in trouble.

Grandma cleared her throat. “Best damned laugh I ever had.” And then she started to laugh for real. “He was smothered,” she said between wheezing giggles, “by his own—” another cough “—self-admiration!” She started to cough so violently Mom went over and patted her on the back until she stopped.

Ria and I were frozen, not daring to say anything.

“You know,” Grandma said, “I was a twin too.”

Both of our jaws dropped open. We looked to Mom who only nodded with a small smile.

“Back then,” Grandma continued, “we weren’t allowed to work together. Not like you two. And twins run in the Bombays. Every other generation has a pair.”

“We didn’t know that, Grandmama,” I said. I wondered what happened to her twin. I’d never heard anything about it before.

Grandma rose to her feet very slowly. Mom helped her up.

“Good job girls,” she said. “The Council just wanted you to know you can continue to work together for as long as you want.” She made her way to the door and turned. “And we expect great things from you.”

As she went out the door, we heard her laughing again. “Suffocated by publicity! Hilarious!” And the door closed behind her.

Bavaria Bombay—The Dragon of York

700 CE, Northumbria

“What do you mean, I have to kill a magic dragon?” I stared at my mother, hoping she was out of her mind—which was highly possible in this family. She ran her fingers over the elaborately embroidered tapestry.

“Just what I said, Bavaria. Honestly, you shouldn’t question me so! The Council knows what it’s doing.” Mother straightened her long, pointed hat and adjusted her veil. “Besides, we’ve already been paid. You are to leave for Northumbria tonight.” She shooed me away and called for her minstrels. I knew that I’d get nothing further from her. Mother never did anything when she listened to her afternoon “stories.”

I nodded and bowed, as was befitting for a man to do toward a woman of my mother’s stature, and left the room to ready my things. Great. A magic dragon. Why couldn’t it just be a Danish prince or something? Hamlet was driving people nuts in Elsinore. My idiot cousin, Richard, took out Hamlet’s father a few months back and the kid was a raving lunatic. It’s so much easier to kill someone who sees ghosts. I could make it look self-inflicted while he’s all, “Alas, my poor father, blah…blah…blah…” But the Bombays didn’t make the contracts—they just carried them out.

There was no point in arguing when you worked in the family business, and that business was assassination. You took your assignment whether you liked it or not and carried it out to its usually bloody conclusion. That was that.

I kicked at a stone with my extremely soft, velvet shoe. The pain was excruciating. Wasn’t there a way to make stronger shoes? I didn’t want to wear my armor all the time. It was the eighth century, for crying out loud! The only good thing about killing a dragon would be I could use his hide to make some tougher shoes.

A dragon? I mean, sure, we’d all heard about them. There were a lot of dusty books in the library about them. Even part of the Bombay training included dragons and magical creatures. But as far as I knew no one had ever seen one, let alone slain one.

I’d had contracts to kill strange things before. I took out a witch in Wessex. Witches float you know, so if they sink, they aren’t witches. Turned out this one wasn’t, but you really can’t be too careful.

I was contracted to kill a cannibal in the Cotswolds once. He wasn’t a very good cannibal. Apparently he thought it rude if he didn’t ask permission from his intended meal first. Not surprisingly, they all said, no, so he was basically starving when I killed him, but he still made the peasants nervous, and that still counts. Then there was that giant in Godmundingham who was crushing folks who didn’t pay him not to crush them. I had to jump off a roof onto his back just to slit his throat. And there was that weird, dog-like thing in East Anglia who’d developed a taste for priests who didn’t wash their hands after eating mutton. But a magic dragon? Really?

Still, the tapestries that gave us our orders didn’t lie. And considering it takes the Council months and months to embroider them, they clearly have enough time to think about it and change their minds.

Judea was in my room waiting for me. He was my squire, and whether I liked it or not, my nephew. Turns out, I did like him, mostly because he didn’t talk much. We all start out as squires during our training. I’d squired for my Aunt Sicily. She was amazing in that she could kill a man with her embroidery needle, and they’d never find a mark on the bodies. I learned a lot from her. It was really too bad she was accidentally murdered by the Welsh with rakes and pitchforks. You really can be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“We’re going to Northumbria tonight,” I said as I sat down on a bench with a sigh. “A magic dragon of all things.”

Judea (or Jude, as I preferred to call him) nodded as if he heard this every day and began to pack my clothes. I sharpened my sword because I didn’t know what else to do. What is the best way to kill a dragon? And a magic dragon at that? What kind of magic did a dragon wield? How would I kill it if I didn’t know what it did to defend itself? What if it was invisible and could sneak up on me? Or what if it could set me on fire just by looking at me? I wasn’t prepared for that. So much to think about on the road.

I was not partial to Northumbria. They did have a few fetching wenches at the various inns in town. But for the most part, the people were ignorant and cold. If they weren’t covered in pox scars, it was some other hideous disease. And they were snooty. I hated that.

Jude helped me dress, and after a quick meal, we rode out. Even the trip was dull. Nothing but a few stiles and muddy fields filled with unimaginative cows. I was tired. And old. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, I was nearing the end of my life outside the castle. My armor creaked on my back. It would need to be oiled when we arrived. I shot a glance at Jude, who ignored me. I was pretty sure he rolled his eyes heavenward—whatever that means.

“How does one kill a magic dragon, Jude?” I asked my page.

“Depends on what kind of magic it has, I guess,” Jude answered.

“I’m a little sketchy on this. What kinds of magic are there?”

Jude stared off to his right, his shoulders slouched in a surly manner. “Well, I guess there are the fire-breathers…and I think they all fly…” His gaze slowly turned on me. “I heard of one once who mates with itself to produce more dragons.” Jude scratched his nose, slowly.

“That’s it?” I asked. “Are you sure that’s all they can do?” Because if it was, this might be easier than I thought.

Jude nodded. “One of the minstrels told me there was a dragon in Cornwall who could speak the King’s English and liked to tell bawdy jokes.” And then, as quickly as his chattiness had begun it ended. And Jude slouched back into silence.

That didn’t sound too bad. Flying and fire-breathing could be a problem…if the beast was awake. I’d have to catch it asleep somehow. I wasn’t too concerned about the possibility of it mating with itself—in fact, that could be a distraction that would help me kill it. My mind wandered through all the possible positions a dragon would take to mate with itself.

As to the talking, perhaps I could reason with the beast if it did that. If not, I might die laughing listening to its dirty jokes while it fried me. That didn’t sound too bad, either.

I rather liked my job, really. There was the travel, the women that came with the travel and a great deal of variety, what with killing a giant one year and a cannibal the next. And I was good with a sword and enjoyed fighting. As Bombays, our loyalties to any one lord were off-limits, and, for the most part, the current ruler understood this. The Bombay Family provided a valuable service.

But because of this, I was unable to join up with any army and fight—something I enjoyed doing. That doesn’t mean other family members haven’t tried. There are some rather unfortunate chapters of Bombays who fled the family to fight on one side of a war. This never lasted, because Bombays are ruthless at hunting down those in the family who go rogue. Why let an army have the fun of killing us when we will do it ourselves for free?

Still, life wasn’t all that great. Marriage was a difficult process. Your intended had to agree to the Bombay ‘lifestyle’ and to have their children raised as assassins. Men marrying women Bombays had to take on the Bombay Family name. Some were very successful in this. Mother seemed happy. My father was landed gentry and couldn’t care less what she or I did. He spent all his time reading books anyway.

I had decided early on that I wasn’t going to marry. This was frowned on in the family, because you were supposed to perpetuate the line. But I was getting older and hadn’t really met anyone I could marry and introduce to the assassin business.

Or maybe it was that the women I met were so…what’s the word? Vapid? They were all giggles and grins, with nothing inside their heads. It could just be that I knew they’d have no problem as long as I left them alone to embroider unicorns. I didn’t want a wife who was just… there.

It didn’t really matter anyway. Mother was upset, but she finally stopped fixing me up with every Aelfgyth, Beornfled, and Hrothweru. How many times can you take a woman to a Fleece Fair for fun?

We arrived at our destination several hours later. Riding into Northumbria was…anticlimactic. The muddy roads, twisted and charred buildings and the smell! Why would this place even have a magic dragon? We rode up to the Broken Man Inn, and while Jude took care of the horses, I checked in.

“So.” The fat innkeeper scratched one of his many chins thoughtfully. “It’s Bavaria du Bombay, right?”

I sighed and shook my head. “No, it’s just Bavaria Bombay. I’m not ‘of’ Bombay.”

“Why is it ‘du Bombay’ then?” He seemed confused.

“It isn’t,” I said through clenched teeth. “You made that up. There is no place called Bombay. It’s just my name.”

His eyes grew wide with understanding. “Ah, so it’s descriptive then! Like Beald means ‘The Bald,’ right? What does Bombay mean?” For a moment I toyed with telling him that Bombay means “kills nosy innkeepers.”

“It’s not descriptive, and it’s not a place. I just have two names. It’s a weird, family thing. That’s all. Can I see my room now?”

The innkeeper didn’t look like he thought it was okay, but wisely decided against arguing with me. Being a Bombay has never been easy. We’re an assassins guild, but it includes only family. We are ruled by the Council—a gathering of our family elders who hand down the assignments to kill someone—or in this case, something. It’s lucrative, and we have our own money so that we don’t owe allegiance to anyone.

“Utta will show you to your room.” the innkeeper said. “If she stays, well that’s extra.” He winked and nodded knowingly. Utta grunted. She looked like a six-foot-tall pig. No, I didn’t need company. And I certainly never had to pay for it in Northumbria of all places. Besides, this wasn’t the time. I had a job to do.

Jude sullenly joined me in the main room for a late repast. As we tore off chunks of bread to dip into our trenchers of stew, I took in the room. A whole lot of nothing. A few cutthroats and thieves, and I wasn’t sure if that thing in the corner was a dwarf or a dog wearing a dress. I needed information and wasn’t going to find it here. I toyed with asking Jude to get chummy with the stable boys, but that would be like asking a stack of hay to melt.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced to my squire. He nodded. Jude would sleep with the horses. A Bombay never lost sight of his exit strategy. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what kind of assassin Jude would make. In this family, you had no choice but to be good. Even my mother killed people back in the day. Her specialty was poison. She was quite good. I didn’t want to cross her. When I was a kid and had done something naughty, she’d always give me blood pudding, with a little wink that said, Eat this, and next time you’ll think twice about setting fire to my favorite unicorn pillow. And then I’d spend two days on the chamber pot.

The next morning I made my way through town. My thoughts were obsessed with the idea of finding and killing this magic dragon. First things first—I needed information. Always know what you are killing, and how to kill it. Our heralds had that put on a coat of arms once, but The Council had not been fond of it. They thought it was too obvious.

I decided it would be best to work the market. People talk if they think you’re going to spend money. I dropped a few coins on a table bearing greasy, dead chickens. The squat, filthy old woman took a break from wringing more poultry necks to talk to me.

“Oh, aye then. They’ve got a dragon up at the castle, they do.” She focused her one, cloudy blue eye on me. “That’s how they keep us all honest.” I noticed that she stuffed the coins inside one of the (what I hoped were dead) chickens, making sure her husband didn’t notice. Yeah. Honest.

A blacksmith farther down had a little more to offer. “The dragon’s magical. He can blow fire out his arse and control you with his mind.”

“Why would the Duke keep such a creature?” I asked, throwing down a few more coins.

The smith rubbed his nose, leaving a charred, black smear. “Well, he’d do it to make sure no one messed with his wife and daughter.”

This caught my attention. “Wife and daughter? He has a dragon to defend them?” Did whoever paid our Council for this job just want to kill the Duke, marry his wife and take over his lands? That didn’t sound like something we’d agree to. If we did that, there’d be new dukes every week, and we’d eventually kill most of them that hired us.

“That’s just what I heard,” the man said, looking left and right. “And because there’s gold up there.”

I shook my head as I walked away. That didn’t seem right. Bombays didn’t get involved in territorial spats. Was there more to this than I was led to believe? It was not like I could do anything about it. Once you unfurled a tapestry, you as good as accepted the assignment.

My mind was foggy, and I wasn’t paying any attention, which is how I ended up running into a woman.

“I beg your pardon!” I went down on one knee to apologize. “Please accept my regrets.” And then I looked up and swallowed hard.

“It’s no bother,” the dazzlingly beautiful brunette replied hastily. She looked angry. “I must be on my way, sir.”

“Shall I escort you?” I stood and walked with her. “To make sure you don’t encounter another misfortune?” This woman looked to be about my age, with icy blue eyes that speared me through the heart. Her hair fell in silken, wavy curtains around her shoulders. I’d never seen anything like her.

“No, really.” She pushed me away. “I’ll be fine.” Before I could stop her, she disappeared into the crowd.

Who was she? I had to know. But how? How could I even describe a beauty such as hers? And intelligence! She was brilliant—I just knew it! The only problem was her haste to get away from me. That might make getting to know her a bit difficult.

Jude appeared at my side. “That’s the Duchess.” It was the only thing he’d said to me all day. And where had he come from?

“She’s the Duchess?” No wonder the Duke had a dragon! I would too. Along with a cast iron chastity belt. And a couple of armed eunuchs.

My squire nodded and then lapsed into his usual quiet nature. I wasn’t a big believer in love at first sight. And the idea of courtly love always made me snicker. But something about seeing this woman seemed to change all that.

“Am I to kill the Duke too?” I mused. Jude shook his head. Oh, right. I had my assignment. Bombays didn’t do anything other than that. If you did, Uncle Essex had a lovely and very pointy iron maiden he kept in the basement.

“Fine.” I made my way through the throngs of somber folk, until I came to the door of the castle. It was time to get this over with. I didn’t mess with married women—it was a Bombay rule.

Jude sighed heavily and rapped at the door. A very old man answered. He looked…pinched somehow. Jude announced me as the Duke of Sicily (a ruse the family used a lot because who here was ever going to go to Sicily?) and demanded an invitation to dinner later that evening.

If I wasn’t going to get the girl, then I might as well just do the job tonight and head back immediately after. No point in lingering. That’s another Bombay saying.

That evening, as Jude dressed me, I asked him, “How did you know that was the Duchess?”

“The maid buying bread told me.” Jude said this without any emotion or affectation.

“You were gathering information?” This surprised me. But then again, Jude was a Bombay and in training to take over after my generation was either on the Council or dead.

“The Duchess never comes to the market, so the maid was surprised to see her,” Jude continued. “And no one’s seen the Duke in years. He stays up in the castle all the time.”

I graciously ignored the fact that my squire had garnered more information than I and from only one source. Women were known to gossip after all.

We rode our horses to the castle, dismounting as we came to the door. The very old man had been replaced with a very old woman, who looked even more pinched than he had. The woman seemed very surprised to see us and a bit hesitant to let us in. After Jude told her my credentials in a very bored tone, she relented, sending him to the stables before leading me inside.

I was wearing my best armor and clothing. My sword glittered at my side. I’d spent more time cleaning up than was usual and made sure my hair was combed. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t because of the lovely Duchess, but because I’m a professional. Still, my heart skipped a beat when the hostess joined me.

“Oh,” she said when she saw me. Her perfectly formed lips turned into a frown. “It’s you. Again.”

“Your Grace.” I bowed deeply and kissed her hand. “What a delightful pleasure to see you again! And thank you for inviting me for dinner, I…”

She dropped my hand as if it were on fire. I discreetly looked to see if maybe it was. Women usually liked me.

“I must apologize for this mistake. My servants had no business inviting you to dinner. My husband…” She faltered for a moment, glancing toward the huge, stone staircase. “My husband is not well, I’m afraid.” Then she turned and walked away.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. She walked away from me. Just like that. And how rude to withdraw the invitation she didn’t make to dinner! What just happened here?

“Sorry about Mummy,” a small voice said behind me. I turned to see a rather cute little girl standing behind me. She had long, dark hair like her mother and was missing her two front teeth. She gave me a crooked smile. It gave me an idea.

I knelt beside her. “It’s all right, my little lady,” I said gently. The child reached out her hand and I kissed the back of it. Unfortunately, she giggled and ran off. What was with the women of this household?

The ride back to the inn had me quieter than Jude. I was so close to the Duchess, and she brushed me off completely. Something seemed wrong. Why not just have the servants explain? It was a tremendous breach of etiquette but still could’ve been handled by her staff. And where was the Duke? She said he’d been sick. And no one had seen him in a while. Perhaps he had the pox? I shuddered. Even Bombays couldn’t fight the pox.

It was time to get this job over with and move on. A castle with disease was just as dangerous as a castle with a dragon, magic or not. I’d have to make my way in covertly—which meant I’d have to go later that night.

Jude helped me remove the armor and change into all-black clothing. I preferred stealth in this sort of situation. I no longer cared about the Duchess or who would want to kill the Duke’s dragon and not the Duke. This was none of my concern. I needed to take care of this and go home.

Sheathing my sword on my back, I climbed to the roof and made my way across town by hopping from roof to roof. At the edge of town, I climbed down and kept to the shadows as I made my way around the perimeter of the castle. There was always another way in, used primarily by servants. I might be able to slide inside unnoticed.

My answer came moments later as the cook opened a door and left with a huge bowl. I slipped inside and worked my way slowly through the maze of corridors. There were very few servants about. That was odd. A manor like this should have been packed with staff. Perhaps the illness had taken most of them. On the other hand, this was the Duke’s domain. Why weren’t the halls filled with servants? Of course, then I realized that it was to my benefit that the castle was largely unattended, and I stopped thinking about it.

The castle was built in the round. I wound around the outer perimeter before I found the entrance to the sub levels. The dungeons. I’d have to start there. That’s where I’d keep a dragon.

A dragon. I was supposed to kill a bloody, magic dragon. Unbelievable. Had the Council lost its collective mind? I was the first Bombay with an assignment like this. Why me? I stopped in my tracks. This line of thinking was useless. Just kill the damned dragon and get the hell out of Northumbria. For a moment I grinned. I’d have to have Mother embroider that on a pillow for me.

It was quiet and dark. Water seeped in, dripping noisily and making the walls cold and drafty. A damp and drafty castle…how original. I pulled a torch from the wall and waved it before me as I made my way down a flight of stone steps. My body moved into a mode of operation I was used to when stalking my prey. All of my senses were heightened to a sharpness that would allow me to carry out my mission. It didn’t matter anymore if it was a magic dragon, a giant goat or a three-headed cow with a hernia. A job was a job.

At long last, I came upon a huge chamber with two hallways—the one I came in through and another directly opposite. There was light in that hall. Clearly someone was down here and had lit torches to find their way. The chamber had a dirt floor and stone walls. There were two large wooden chairs in the middle of the room, with a small table between them.

A sound came from the hall and I ducked behind one of the chairs. Shadows played on the wall at the end of the hallway. It didn’t look human. By God! They really did have a dragon!

The shadow filled the corridor, long like a snake. It had legs in front, with long claws. A ridge of pointed spines ran down its back and as its great mouth opened, a long tongue snaked out. The beast was huge! It moved via its shadow as it grew closer. It didn’t look like the dragons I’d seen in books, sitting back on oversized haunches. Instead it had four legs and a long body in between. The tail alone had to be twenty feet long, I estimated as I stared at the shadow.

I drew my sword and stepped in front of the chairs. This was it. The beast was making its way toward me. My senses heightened as I slid easily into kill mode. My plan was to stab it through one of its eyes, driving the blade deep into the brain. I should be able to slay the beast and be back to the inn within the hour. Jude was there, with the horses, waiting.

“What are you doing here?” The little girl from earlier came from behind me and stood at my side. She smiled at me crookedly.

“Get back!” I shouted as I tried to push her away. Didn’t she see the shadows? Didn’t she know what was coming? The creature was so large it would swallow her in one gulp.

The child looked at my sword, then toward the hallway, and before I could stop her, she ran toward the animal!

“NO!” I called out, “This way! Back to me!”

But she ignored me and disappeared around the corner. I chased her immediately. I was supposed to kill the dragon, not watch it eat a child.

I rounded the corridor and stopped, dead in my tracks. The little girl was holding some sort of lizard in her arms. It was maybe two feet in length and it licked her arm as she giggled.

“You scared Eadgar!” she scolded. “Poor baby!” She stroked the lizard’s head gently. Eadgar made a small groaning sound.

“Eadgar?” I asked. Clearly the dragon had young! It must be the kind that mated with itself, like Jude said! And if the little girl was holding the baby, an angry mama could be right behind. “Stand back, behind me!” I shoved the girl and stood in front of her with my sword, ready to strike. We stood there like that for several minutes. Nothing came. Huh.

“But where’s the dragon?” I said, mostly to myself.

The girl laughed loudly. “This is him! He’s the dragon!”

I continued to hold onto my sword, wondering for a moment whether Eadgar’s giant mother would suddenly appear and eat us both. Nothing happened.

“What are you doing here?” The Duchess appeared on my right, and she looked really angry.

“I…” I tried to explain, but found that the words wouldn’t come. I was just here to kill your little lizard, but seeing he’s not a dragon nor magical, I’ll be on my way, just didn’t sound right. To be honest, this was a bit embarrassing.

“What exactly is going on here?” I asked instead.

The Duchess looked for a moment like she was going to kill me. Then she did something unexpected. She buried her face in her hands. After a moment, she looked back up at me.

“My name is Godgifu and this is my daughter Ebba. I’m the lady of this castle. Come with me, and I can explain.”

I followed her back to the room with the two chairs. And then I sat when she pointed to one chair. She looked like she didn’t want to tell me, and that she did want to tell me, all at the same time.

“Who sent you?” Godgifu asked. “Was it Alfred of Wessex? One of the other dukes?”

I shook my head. There was no way I could tell her, even if I knew.

The woman nodded, then took a deep breath. She’d decided to tell me something.

“My husband is dead. He has been dead for three years,” she said. “My daughter and I live here alone with a few, trusted servants.” She motioned to the lizard. “And the dragon.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Your husband is dead? Why the subterfuge? You could be married again and living in a house full of servants, not buried in this castle.” It didn’t make sense.

She shook her head. “I have no desire to be wed to whomever the king deems acceptable. I don’t want to be…anybody.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” I wasn’t sure. All a woman had was her means and her title. Why didn’t she care about that? Her life was comfortable and would be even better once she got out of this tomb.

“I hate running a household. I despise ordering servants around, and I loathe politics.” Godgifu said it in one long breath. “My husband was a good man, but he died. I know I won’t get another chance at that again. My next husband is likely to be fat, abusive and who knows what. This might seem like a prison, but Ebba and I have real freedom here.”

“But it’s damp and miserable,” I said. “And you can’t really go out.” What was the point of being a prisoner here? What kind of life was that?

Godgifu nodded. She was beautiful in her sadness. “I know. But I do not want to be sold like cattle to further a king’s gains.” She reached out to her daughter, who scampered into her arms, while still holding Eadgar.

“It’s okay, Mummy,” Ebba said. “The strange man here will keep our secret.”  She turned her big eyes and crooked smile onto me. “Won’t you?”

My head was spinning. Someone hired the Bombay Council to kill this dragon. As if he knew I was thinking of him, Eadgar flicked his tongue in my direction. Most likely, it was someone who wanted the Duke’s lands and possessions—including his lovely wife. Once word got out that the dragon was dead, it wouldn’t take much for people to discover that the Duke had been dead for years. Godgifu and Ebba would go to the highest bidder.

It was a miracle no one had found out before now, really. Servants gossiped. Maybe these servants were extraordinary, but eventually they’d let it slip.

It was the king’s right to distribute and redistribute titled lands at will. There was no way that even a Bombay could prevent that. As I looked at this mother and child, I realized that there had to be a way to help them.

And that’s when I got it. That’s when I came up with my plan.

* * *

That night, a horrible fire broke out in the castle, burning it to the ground. The people of the town found nothing in what remained but charred stones. I gave the servants a ridiculous amount of money to “relocate” to another region, leaving one servant left behind to tell the town that the dragon had ignited the castle, burning the Duke, Duchess and their little daughter to death.

We did not stay for the funeral. Jude, Godgifu, Ebba and I slipped away on horseback while the castle blazed. We returned home and, after showing Eadgar the Dragon to Mother, explained how the assignment had been a success. Mother was very taken with the lizard and even let him roam freely throughout the castle. Every now and then, you’d hear his feet slapping on the stones as he slowly meandered around.

Godgifu and Ebba were made comfortable as our guests. Mother was concerned about what to do with them. It was possible that someday a visitor from Northumbria might recognize our guests.

We spent weeks trying to decide what to do before an answer emerged. I would take the mother and daughter to another country—maybe Italy or Greece—and get them settled there. It would be far enough away, and I thought these two needed some Mediterranean sun after all those years shut up in a damp castle in the north.

I might’ve stayed on a bit longer than I was supposed to. We found a lovely villa on a Greek island, and soon our skin turned golden brown. Godgifu and I soon realized we had feelings for each other. Ebba told us—she’s a very astute little girl. Being a bachelor in soggy old England wasn’t nearly that interesting to me anymore. Being part of a family was.

After a few weeks, I wrote to mother, letting her know that Godgifu and I were married. Months later, I received her reply.

My Dearest Bavaria,

Congratulations on your nuptials. The Council knows where to find you, so don’t worry about setting down roots in our original home country. There have actually been some interesting developments in your part of the world, so I imagine we will have work for you soon. Please write often and make sure you come to visit with my little granddaughter, Ebba, (and any more grandchildren I’m sure you’ll have…soon) now and again. Oh, and I’m keeping Eadgar. He’s become very fond of my afternoon minstrels. So if you miss him, you’ll just have to find yourself another dragon.

Love,

Mother

Godgifu laughed as I folded up the letter and threw her arms around me.

“I don’t think we’ll be in the market for another dragon anytime soon,” I told her. Then I kissed her.

“We’ll just get Ebba a pet snake and call it a sea serpent.”

I could definitely live with that.

Cairo Bombay—Elizabeth of Bathory

August 1614, Cachtice Castle, Kingdom of Hungary

I was in the courtyard, playing with my Dodo birds, when the assignment to kill Elizabeth of Bathory arrived.

“Baggie!” I cried out to my brother as he was escorted to me by my manservant, Julian. I flung my arms around Baghdad Bombay and crushed him in an embrace.

“Good to see you, old boy!” Baggie clapped me on the back and handed me a rolled tube sealed with wax. “From the Council. Mum sends her love, of course!”

I knew immediately that it was an assignment. One I was eager to see as it had been too quiet around here lately.

“Um, say, chap,” Baggie said, his eyes focused on the two, squat but large birds in front of us, “what’s all this, then?”

I pointed to the two birds that were standing next to each other, eyeing my brother sideways with great suspicion. “This is Tristan and Isolde, my pet Dodo birds.”

Tristan grew bored with the introduction and waddled over to Julian with the hopes of securing some more fruit. Isolde flapped her tiny, useless wings indignantly and clacked her enormous bill at us.

“Couldn’t you just get a dog like anyone else?” my brother asked, never taking his eyes off the weird animals before him.

“Absolutely not!” I exclaimed. “These are much more interesting than a dog. I got these two on the island of Mauritius just last month. I’m trying to breed more of them. Apparently the Dutch sailors are eating them into extinction. We can’t have that.” I reached down and patted Isolde on the head, and she squawked at me loudly before waddling over to see if Tristan was receiving more than his fair share of figs from Julian.

“Come inside! It’s been ages…absolutely ages!” I steered my brother into the doorway to my sitting room, then removed my sandals at the door. It was hot in Cairo most days, but the brightly colored tiles on the floors and walls cooled the room considerably. I’d had them painted by a local family of artisans. It had taken ages, but as I always say, you can’t put a price on creature comforts.

Julian brought us hibiscus tea and couscous as Baggie and I caught up. It was lovely to see my brother again.

“What on Earth were you doing on Mauritius?” Baggie asked.

“I was actually on Madagascar first, collecting Tagena tree nuts. Fascinating poison really! They call it the Ordeal Bean of Madagascar, of all things.”

Baggie snorted. “And I thought England cornered the market on all trials by ordeal.”

“It’s the usual thing, I imagine,” I continued. “You see, the kernels of the nut are extremely toxic—disrupting the heart and breathing and causing instant, painful death. Years ago, if you were accused of a crime, you could choose to be speared to death or go through the trial by ordeal.” I could feel myself getting more excited as I explained. Rare poisons were my passion—the more exotic the better.

“They would feed you some chicken skin first, and then you would swallow the poisonous kernels. If you vomited them back up, you were innocent. If not, you were guilty, but it didn’t matter because you died anyway. Sort of a combined sheriff, magistrate and executioner in one easy step.”

My brother laughed, and I realized how much I’d missed my family. Which was strange because I had moved all the way to Egypt to get away from them. My name is Cairo Bombay, and I live in Cairo. Not completely by accident. As a young child, I’d been captivated by photos of my namesake; the vivid colors, the foreign plants, the vibrant zest for life so much the polar opposite to the dull, damp gray of England.

Speaking of which, the heat of the day was becoming oppressive. I had Julian escort Baggie to his room so he could change into the far more comfortable Egyptian cotton clothes I had adopted here. While I knew that Baggie’s velvet jacket, silk tunic and large hat were the height of fashion back home, they were ridiculous in a climate like this. While he was doing that, I took the rolled up tube into my office and broke the seal.

Unrolling the parchment, I found the traditional Bombay crest atop the page, a snake and a vial of poison upon two crossed swords with the motto, Kill With No Mercy, Love With Suspicion. Sigh. I really missed my family. Good thing Baggie was here.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory was my target. A copy of the most recent painting of her from 1585 was included. Even though this was 1614, her outfit was a bit dated for even 1585. I mean, who wore a cap with a squared, Elizabethan collar anymore? Dreadful!

Her crimes were more ghastly than her clothing. According to court records from several witnesses over a number of years, the woman had killed at least eighty young, Hungarian peasant girls. She lured them to her castle with the promise of gainful employment before imprisoning, torturing and killing these girls. There were those who insisted the number was more like six hundred girls, but I found it difficult to believe that rural Hungarian officials wouldn’t notice that many of their population disappearing.

Currently, and for the past four years, the bloody Countess had been a prisoner in her family’s castle. According to the Bombay’s information—which was rarely if ever wrong—Elizabeth was walled up in a room with no windows and only one door. This door had a slit only large enough to check on the prisoner and to pass food through. She was fifty-four years old which was positively ancient.

I leaned back in my chair and sipped my tea. If I had to guess, I’d say that the peasants and the Bathorys' enemies decided she hadn’t seen true justice and ordered the job. No matter. Bombays weren’t privy to the background of any assignment. We were merely to carry it out.

The real problem would be the language. I did not speak or understand Hungarian. I would need a translator. I called for Julian.

“Sir?” Julian arrived promptly, like a good English manservant. Tall, pale with sharp cheekbones, dark wavy hair and piercing blue eyes, Julian was the perfect Englishman. He’d been with me since we were boys and was the only person in the world besides Baggie whom I trusted. Bombays are not known for trusting anyone—even family.

“Julian, I will be traveling briefly to the Kingdom of Hungary, specifically the area around Cachtice Castle. Could you be a good chap and find me a guide?”

“Of course, sir.” He turned and left. If he recognized the name of Cachtice Castle for housing one of the most notorious women in history, he didn’t indicate it. Julian was the very definition of discretion.

Baggie joined me, dressed comfortably in a long, cotton shirt, breezy linen trousers and sandals. He looked much more content.

Tristan and Isolde chose this moment to also join us. Tristan probed the corners of the room with his bill in a rather unfortunate attempt to find hidden fruit. Isolde marched straight up to me and squawked, demanding a fig. Clever girl.

I fed the Dodos and asked my brother for the latest news from home.

“Do you remember old Rolfie?” Baggie’s eyebrows went up.

I nodded. Of course I did. We were mates together as kids and responsible for several unfortunate pranks that we were frequently caught and punished for. For your own information, it is never a good idea to fill a constable’s wig with lice, even if he is a priggish prude.

“What’s he up to these days? I thought I’d heard he’d gone to the Americas.” I’d always wanted to travel there. I’d heard stories of lush, tropical islands and warm sands. I wasn’t like the other members of the Bombay Family who preferred living in Europe. I liked the sandy, dust-swept mystery of Egypt and had lived here for many years. My isolation made it more difficult for the Bombays to get their assignments to me, but I really didn’t care.

Western Europe and especially England were just so, so…common. Boring. I don’t know what persuaded my relatives to call it home for so long. It was cold and damp, and the food was awful. Egypt on the other hand, was full of warmth, sunshine and fresh fruits. There were adventures and interesting discoveries around every corner, and never had I experienced a dull moment. And the people! Rare, exotic flowers with an enchanting culture! Why would anyone live anywhere else?

Of course, it helped that I was wealthy—as all Bombays are. And it helped that I was a man. Women would have difficulty here, although I did have a female cousin in India, and she was fascinating. But the other Bombays were dull beyond comparison.

I’d heard fantastic stories of tropical islands in the Americas. Sounded wonderful. Maybe someday I’d buy one and settle there. We could make it our home base instead of damp, chilly London, and I would name it Santa Muerta de los Bombays. (I had recently been studying the romance language from a Spanish explorer who'd found his way to Cairo.) Wishful thinking I guess. Maybe someday…

Baggie interrupted my thoughts with his reply, bringing me back to the news of my old friend. “Seems Rolfie’s married some Indian princess named Pocahontas.”

I slapped the desk and laughed. “Well, I never saw that coming! Good for Rolfie! I always thought he was a bit of a stick in the mud, but bravo!”

“And little Stratford has turned five years old. He's beginning his training,” Baggie continued. Stratford-Upon-Avon Bombay was my godson. An interesting little boy but entirely too serious. Baggie produced a small portrait of him, and I felt a twinge of guilt. The lad looked like a tiny Greek god with blonde curls and blue eyes. Living in Egypt had made being a proper godfather difficult. I reminded myself to write his mother.

After lunch, Baggie decided to have a lie-down, and I retreated to my office for more thought on the assignment. My study was built on the back of the house, which kept it out of the sun and made it nice and cool in the boiling heat of the Egyptian afternoon.

I wrote a letter to Stratford—well, to his mother anyway—and added a dashing silver cutlass to the package as a gift. Baggie could take it back with him to the boy. Maybe I should have him come out here in a few years for some training? I made a note in my calendar to remember this.

My desk had a secret drawer from where I withdrew my assignment file to study it again in solitude. The language issue was being competently dealt with by the ever-resourceful Julian. I rose from my chair and walked to the armoire in the corner, unlocking it with the tiny gold key I wore on a chain around my neck.

As the doors swung open, vials and jars clinked together on the shelves. I had to find just the right poison. If our intelligence was good (and it always was) that Elizabeth of Bathory was walled up in a room inside the castle where there were no windows and only one door fitted with slits to allow for ventilation and the passing of breakfast, lunch, dinner and I can only assume, tea, I would, in fact, have no direct access to her. Strangling her or any other physical methods of death would be impossible. I felt a bit conflicted that her demise would be so swift, considering the torture she had applied to her victims. While I wasn’t terribly keen on torture myself, I quite believed in making the punishment match the crime. Pity that wouldn’t work in this case.

So it would have to be poison, the easiest means of applying which would be to put it into her food. However, the family and staff would notice a tall, pale Englishman who wasn’t supposed to be there, so planting the poison in her food could be a problem.

Luckily, I had another idea. Living on and having traveled throughout the African continent, I’d seen a thing or two. African Bushmen sometimes used a special dart when hunting. The idea was fairly simple. I would employ a poisoned blow dart through the slats of the door. I would just need to lure her near enough to guarantee accuracy.

But what poison? It would have to be very lethal and act quickly enough to kill her, so that I could slip in and out between the delivery of her meals. And because it had to look like a clean death from natural causes, so as not to arouse suspicion, I couldn’t use anything that induced vomiting or the release of the bowels.

I tapped the glass jars. The poison would have to be something that would travel well. It couldn’t lose its potency over the time it would take me to get there. This was a puzzle.

There was a polite knock at the door. I quickly closed up the cabinet and bade them enter.

Julian opened the door slowly, in case I needed to hide whatever I was doing. Such a thoughtful servant. He entered the room, followed by a young boy I had never seen before. In fact, he bore quite a resemblance to my godson, which immediately tugged at my familial longings again.

“This is Stephen,” Julian explained. “The boy is an orphan from Hungary. He’s been in the service of Lord Allen’s household for six months.” He looked at the boy, who in turn nodded to me. “He also speaks French and English.”

The child had a head full of gold curls. His blue eyes held mine almost defiantly. How very interesting.

“How old are you, Stephen?” I asked in English.

“I’m twelve years old, sir,” the boy answered with a darling tenor voice. Twelve? He was so small! Stephen looked like he was more seven or eight than twelve. He looked more like a small cherub than a young man.

“Lord Allen is abroad for the next several months, and most of his household has gone with him,” Julian spoke up. “He is ours on loan, should you choose to take the boy on.”

Stephen did not look too sure of this. He sized us up beneath his thick lashes. Clearly he wasn’t sure what to make of two Englishmen dressed as Egyptians.

“I’m going to Hungary for a brief visit, and I need a guide and interpreter,” I said to the boy. “I will pay you a great deal more than you are making with his Lordship. Are you interested?”

Stephen tried to control his eyes, but the light shining in them at the mention of Hungary was difficult to disguise. The boy clearly wanted to go back home. But he was smart enough to hold out for more information. I liked him immediately.

“You will need to dress differently…” Stephen said. “But yes, I’d be interested.”

At that moment, Tristan and Isolde waddled into the room, most likely to pirate some figs. They spotted Stephen, and to my surprise, leaped into his arms and began nuzzling the boy with their bills. Stephen giggled and squealed as Isolde scolded him, then ran her bill through his hair, looking for parasites. From that moment on, the pair of birds followed the boy everywhere, even sleeping with him at night. It was quite charming, really.

I instructed Julian to make the arrangements and to set Stephen up in the guest bedroom. If Julian was surprised that I wasn’t putting the boy in the servant’s quarters, he did not show it. Of course, Julian occupied the second-largest bedroom in the house, so he’d have no reason to complain.

I was quite pleased that I now had my translator and guide. I just needed a plan—something that would get us into the castle, the correct method for the assassination, and means to escape. And I needed to do it all without Stephen finding out what we were actually doing in Hungary.

Baggie took his leave the very next day. I begged him to stay on, but he said he had an assignment waiting on him back home. Something in France. I did not question him further as it was strictly forbidden to know what other Bombays were working on. I had enough to think of on my own. I embraced my brother and sent him on his way with the package for little Stratford. I promised to visit when Rolfie came home with his new, Indian bride. I was sorry to see my brother go.

While Julian made the necessary arrangements for our journey—travel, packing and so on—I picked Stephen’s brain for information on the culture and landscape we would soon be breaching. The boy was very forthcoming with information, and I sensed that he was desperate to go back home.

“How did you come to be orphaned, Stephen?” I asked during one of our discussions a few days later. I was becoming quite fond of the child, and he seemed eager to please.

“My parents were killed in an Ottoman attack when I was seven, sir. I lived here and there until Lord Allen found me and brought me back here with him.” Isolde sat in his lap and he petted her. Tristan was nibbling gently on the boy’s toes. Maybe he thought they were figs.

“Do you like working for Lord Allen?” I asked. The aristocrat had the reputation of being a hothead. Two wives had died under his care, and two more had abandoned him. He had no children, and I wondered if this was why he’d taken on young Stephen.

The boy squinted warily at me, and I realized that he was worried I might tell Lord Allen what he’d said. Clever boy.

I shook my head. “I have no intention of saying a word to his Lordship. I barely know the man. And you do not have to answer that question.”

Stephen was silent for a few moments. “He’s all right, I imagine. He has a bit of a temper though.” The boy looked at the door, and then back at me. “You really won’t tell him I said that?”

“No. I really won’t,” I promised, wondering what the boy had been through.

Over the course of the next few days, Stephen reviewed maps with me. To my surprise, he was very familiar with Cachtice Castle, where Elizabeth was being held.

“My mother used to work there as a cook,” he explained. “I played in the hallways as a boy.”

I was about to remind him that he still was, in fact, a boy, but something in his eyes stopped me.

“I don’t recall the Ottomans breaching Cachtice. How did your parents fall into their hands?”

Stephen frowned. “My mother got a job on the border with Turkey, cooking for the troops. My father was a soldier there, and she wanted to be near him.” He didn’t say another word, so I didn’t press him.

“Are you familiar with the Bathorys?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

Stephen sniffed. “They seemed nice enough. Except for that woman. I knew one of the girls she killed. Her name was Marie, and she used to look after me when I was little.” He looked so sad I wanted to stop him from saying another word. “The Countess told her she could be one of her ladies in waiting,” Stephen continued, a note of sorrow in his voice. “I never saw her again.”

I dismissed Stephen and sat at my desk for a long time, thinking of my method to get to the Countess. It was quite a happy coincidence that the boy knew the inside of the castle well, but the success of this mission still rested on one thing—the delivery of the poison. I had decided on a plant-based poison and narrowed it down to five possibilities: curare, lily of the valley, monkshood, Star of Bethlehem and Tanghinia, otherwise known as the Ordeal Bean of Madagascar.

Julian had managed to acquire for me a small blow dart tube and a couple of tiny darts. You really could find anything in Cairo these days. True, we were no longer on the Silk Road, but merchants came from all over three continents to trade here. The darts and gun would be impossible to trace.

I frowned. But that would mean I’d left something behind to trace. How ignorant of me! I’d found the method and means of delivery, and planned so that it would look as though the Countess died of natural causes, but I’d forgotten that I’d be leaving a dart behind!

This would not do. I needed to remove the dart before the body was found. But how? I couldn’t very well walk through walls to go and get it—although that would be fabulous. I could wait for the guard to bring Elizabeth her dinner and overpower him—but then there was a witness. And leaving a dead body behind was evidence. Killing an innocent was against the Bombay Code and could bring unpleasant repercussions from the Council.

“Sir?” Julian appeared in the doorway with a platter of figs and wine. I nodded, and he placed the tray on my desk.

“What is for dinner?” I asked absently.

“Sea bass,” Julian answered. “Will that be all, sir?”

An idea quickly formed in the recesses of my brain and I smiled. “No. Could you send someone to the market to pick up the strongest silk thread they can find?”

Julian nodded. “Of course, sir. Any particular length or color?”

I shook my head. “Color does not matter, but I would like several yards if possible.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll have it for you within the hour.” And with that, Julian took his leave.

It was the sea bass that gave me the idea. Fishing! I just needed to tether the darts to my person. After deploying, I could then retrieve the dart via the silk thread and—voila! Nothing left behind! I’d use silk because it was the strongest and most durable material, and I was certain it would not break when retrieving it. Brilliant! Once again, Julian had helped me without knowing it. I really must see to his care if something were to happen to me. Not that I planned on that happening, but the Bombays were nothing if not prepared.

Stephen and I made ready to leave the very next morning. Reluctantly we donned traditional Hungarian clothing in hues of blue and saffron, complete with heavily ornate dolman jackets with slit sleeves. The heat was stifling, but once we crossed into Southern Europe the weather would relent somewhat. I wasn’t fond of the costume. The Hungarians were a bit dated in their fashion sense. Still, what could I do?

Julian had the carriage ready to take us to the sea, where we would board a boat to cross over to the Ottoman Empire. Tristan and Isolde seemed to sense Stephen was leaving and clutched his feet, squawking their displeasure. I wondered if they thought they were his parents. Stephen seemed sad to part with the Dodos, and Julian gently extracted the fat little birds from his feet.

We didn’t say much in the carriage or on the boat. I’d made it clear to Stephen that no one was to know where we were going, and he was very fastidious about keeping up his end of the bargain. Upon entering the Ottoman Empire, I spoke because I knew Turkish. As soon as we made our way into Hungary, Stephen did the talking, and I became mute.

The night before we reached Cachtice Castle, Stephen and I sheltered in a small cave only a short mile away. It was primitive, and I missed my modern conveniences. Sigh. The things I do for my job!

“I used to hide in here all the time,” Stephen said quietly as we unpacked and set up our dinner for the night. “No one has seen us, so no one knows we are here.”

His revelation startled me. The boy was taking to this secret life a bit too easily. And while I admired him for it, it made me uneasy. I worried Stephen might be just too clever for his own good on this mission. I tried to shake off the feelings of discomfort, but as we drew closer to our target, it slowly became clear to me just how much I needed the boy to help me carry out the plan. I didn’t speak the language or know the layout of the castle like he did. Which had been fine when he was a simple hired translator. But I suddenly realized that through our discussions I had given far too may clues away as to the nature of my visit to Hungary. And Stephen was far too clever to dismiss them. However, according to the Bombay Code, you couldn’t include outsiders in your assignment unless you planned to frame them for the assassination. Or kill them. If I involved Stephen I would have to dispose of him. No loose ends.

I thought about this disconcerting fact as we lay down to sleep that night. Listening to the boy’s gentle snoring made me realize with a heavy heart that I would, in fact, have to dispose of him when this was over. He would simply know too much.

This was the main reason that I’d kept Julian in the dark all these years. No one outside the family was supposed to know we were assassins. It had worked quite well for thousands of years. Who was I to break the rules now?

Tears sprang to the corners of my eyes. I didn’t want to hurt Stephen. And yet, that was exactly what I had to do. No one would know. No one would care. Lord Allen would certainly understand. Though I was sure Tristan and Isolde wouldn’t.

This was truly terrible! I could no sooner kill this sweet boy than I could be happy toiling away in the dull gray of England. My stomach began to ache, and I was working my way up to a violent headache.

Pushing these thoughts from my mind, I focused on the job. My complete lack of knowledge of Hungarian and the castle made it crucial for me to employ Stephen. At this point, I had no choice. Doubt tried to slip through the cracks in my logic, but I shut it down. We were too close to back out on the job, and it wasn’t like I could do that anyway. I would have to take this one step at a time. That was the only way I’d make it through this.

In the dark, early hours before dawn, I woke Stephen and explained that I had an assignment for him. I needed him to enter the castle, find Elizabeth of Bathory’s prison, observe the movements of the guard throughout the day and report back to me here, in the cave. I made it perfectly clear he was not to be seen, and he was not to mention me or the cave in any way.

To my sorrow, the boy was eagerly excited about the mission. He reminded me of myself and Baggie at that age. This was a lark for him. It was murder for me.

The day passed with agonizing slowness. It was cool and damp in the cave, but no one came near me. I was tormented by grief at the thought that I had to kill young Stephen. He reminded me so of my godson Stratford. If only it were Stratford. Then he’d be a Bombay, and this would merely be a training exercise.

The minutes were achingly long. I ate from our rations for lunch, teatime and dinner in solitude. And for the first time, I felt the sharp pang of loneliness. I tried to head it off by preparing the poison and darts.

The Tagena tree nuts were easy to transport. Using a stone, I smashed the nuts carefully and pounded the kernels into a white mash. Adding a little water to keep the substance together, I scooped the substance into a glass jar and screwed on the lid tightly. The stone, on which I pulverized the nuts, I tossed deeper into the cave.

Carefully I withdrew the darts and tied a few yards of silk thread to the back of each one of them. Back in Cairo I had honed my blow dart skills, and I was certain I could hit the Countess with great accuracy even if she was moving. I packed up my weapons and waited.

I knew I couldn’t kill Stephen until we were done. I needed him at least until I came to the border. Whatever I did would have to be quick and painless. The boy would have earned a quiet death. My heart burned at what I had to do.

Sometime after evening had fallen, Stephen returned to my cave and my stomach dropped at the sight of him. He carried a stick with him, and after I offered him some food, he began to draw upon the cave floor.

“The castle wall is circular,” he said happily. He drew an inner corridor to a small staircase that went up about twenty steps. At the top, he drew a room. “This is where she’s being held. There’s only one door and no windows.”

Stephen drew a door with one slot about one third of the way down from the top. The slot was the width of a fist, and I was certain I could both aim and hit my target through it.

“There is one guard, but he is only there to serve her food. He doesn’t stay between meals. I guess they figure since she’s completely bricked in with an iron door that she isn’t going anywhere,” Stephen said.

“How do we get into the castle unseen?” I asked the boy.

Stephen grinned mischievously. “I know a secret way. There’s an old, unused privy tower here.” He pointed to a spot on the wall. “It’s a short but easy climb to get up and through.”

He must have caught the look on my face and he laughed. “Don’t worry. I cleaned it while I was there. Not that there was much to clean. It hasn’t been used in years.”

My heart broke that very instant. He’d cleaned the old privy entrance for me. How was I going to kill him?

“And there’s a room here.” Stephen pointed to a small indentation inside the wall. “I think it used to be for storage or something, but the wall crumbled a bit, and they don’t use it anymore. We can hide there.”

“Brilliant,” I said without enthusiasm. “When is the best time to go see the Countess?”

Stephen sat back and frowned at this. “You’re not going to break her out, are you?” For the first time he realized there must be a reason for this trip.

“No,” I said softly. “I have no intention of setting that monster free.”

Stephen seemed to accept this as a cue for him to not ask any more questions. Instead, he shrugged and continued on. “I think the best time to go would be soon, since it will be a long time before the guard comes with breakfast. The light is low, but I think we can manage. They keep a torch burning overnight just outside her door.”

I nodded and organized my things. We would be taking a small pack with us and leaving the rest behind in the cave, hidden by rocks. Stephen wasn’t to speak unless we were confronted. At that point, he was to say that we were mere travelers, looking for a safe place to stop for the night. I didn’t think we’d be caught since it was the middle of the night, but you can never be too certain of these things.

Stephen led me to the castle wall. The darkness provided cover as we climbed the wall up to the privy hole and lifted ourselves through. I did everything the boy signaled, and we made our way to the stone stairs where the Countess’ prison was above.

The boy motioned for me to stay at the bottom of the staircase while he went up to make sure there was no guard. He re-emerged a moment later with a grin on his face.

“Stephen,” I whispered, holding the boy’s shoulders. “I need you to stay here. Do you understand?”

He frowned. “But I want to go with you. You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?”

Icy fear washed over me. He knew. The boy knew. He’d just sealed his fate and didn’t even know it.

“You need to stay here and keep a sharp eye out. If someone comes, you have to run up and let me know.”

Stephen nodded, and I patted him on the shoulder. He beamed with pride. Good lad, I thought sadly.

I slowly made my way up the stairs, careful not to make a sound. At the top of the stairs, a single torch illuminated the dead end. The iron door was on my left. Quickly I assembled my dart gun. After opening the jar of the poison paste, I generously ground the tip of the first dart into it. Carefully, I inserted the dart into the opposite end of the tube, backwards. The silk thread doubled up inside, dropping back out the front of the tube. The other end was tied to my belt.

“Elizabeth…” I called softly into the slot. “Elizabeth…” I repeated and was rewarded by the sound of rustling silk skirts.

“Who is there?” a bitter female voice demanded. Clearly she was not afraid. That was good.

“I’ve come to help you,” I lied. “But you need to come to the door.”

Dark eyes flashed in the slot, eyebrows arched into an evil grin. “I knew it! I knew someone would come to fetch me!” Arrogance seeped out of every pore. I’d have no problem dispatching her.

“Stand up and be ready to run out this door when I get it opened,” I said.

Elizabeth nodded and gave a sinister chuckle. She stood, and I found myself face to face with her neck. She was standing and waiting. The slot was the perfect height.

“Just a moment,” I said as I prepared the dart. “This will be a bit tricky…”

“Oh hurry up, damn you!” the monster howled.

I pressed my lips to the end of the tube and blew hard, launching the dart straight into her jugular vein. The point went deep, and I had no doubt the poison would work quickly.

Elizabeth choked and clutched at the dart before falling to the floor and clawing at her throat. A quick jerk of the thread and the dart was out. I pulled it through the slot and watched.

My victim writhed on the floor in painful spasms. It only took minutes, but as the paralysis kicked in, her breathing labored, and then her heart came to a complete stop.

I made it back down the stairs in a couple of leaps and grabbed Stephen. The boy nodded, and we raced back through the way we came, ending with a thud on the ground as we dropped through the old privy.

My heartbeat slowed as we made our way to the cave and collected our things. We were at the border of Turkey by morning, and we paused to eat and drink. Stephen grinned broadly at me. My heart sank. Every step closer to that border was one step closer to the boy’s impending death. I was completely miserable, but I had no choice. Anger flared inside me as I imagined Stephen’s face at the moment of his death… at my hands. I didn’t think it was possible to feel such torment and agony. He was only an innocent boy! He’d lost his parents and had a cruel master waiting for him.

“We make a good team!” Stephen grinned as he took a bite of an orange. “What you did back there, whatever it was, I’m sure it was amazing!”

He looked at me with pride and admiration. And I slipped into a deep, dark depression punctuated by an unending headache.

“We have to get going,” I said gruffly as I packed things back up. I lifted him roughly to his feet, refusing to look him in the eye. Stephen’s face was confused, and hurt. He was trying to imagine what he’d done or said to upset me. The figurative knife in my heart twisted cruelly. Was I really going to act like a bastard to this poor boy? Should his last thoughts be that I betrayed him? This was too painful. Why wasn’t there something I could do?

“Wait.” I held him back. If I was going to do this, I needed to do it now, before I lost all courage.

Stephen smiled hopefully. “You know, I wish you were my father.” His words hit their mark, a bullseye on my soul. I shrank away from him in horror. And then, the most amazing idea came into my mind…

* * *

A few months later, when Lord Allen returned, I visited him. He was very unpleasant, but agreed to my terms and the extremely generous amount of money I gave to him. Within a week I was heading back to England.

“So,” Stephen said from the back of his Arabian horse next to mine, “you’re my father now?”

I nodded. “You are now Stephen Bombay. And as my adopted son, we are heading back to see my family in England to begin your training.” I knew I’d have to change his first name to that of a geographic location, in keeping with tradition. I was thinking of calling him Mauritius, after the island where I got the Dodos. But that could wait. We had left that morning. Julian was staying behind to pack the belongings and sell the house. He would join us later in Oxford.

A large bag tied to the saddle next to Stephen’s thigh began to squirm and squawk before two Dodo heads popped out. They cawed at me irritably before nuzzling the boy’s leg. Tristan and Isolde were going too. There was no way they were going to be parted from Stephen after the fuss they made when we returned to Cairo. I was bitten several times, and they spent hours combing the lad’s hair for possible parasites that undoubtedly attached themselves under my clearly neglectful care.

Oddly enough, Stephen, the two Dodos and I were a family now. I would miss Egypt, but having a son seemed to be more of an adventure than just settling down in any old exotic place. Besides, old Rolfie and his new bride, Pocahontas, would be home for a visit soon. Maybe it was time I started thinking about a visit to America. Yes…I thought that was just what we needed.

Stratford-Upon-Avon Bombay—John Billington

1630 Plymouth Colony, The American Colonies

It was dark, like it was every night in this godforsaken colony where no civilized man such as myself should have to set foot. John Billington stumbled around the woods, drunk on beer (sadly, the only spirit we had here) and cursing at the branches. He cursed at people too, in fact, not any differently than he did inanimate objects. I once watched him spend half an hour cursing at a stone. It was quite a creative use of words. Not sure how you can call a rock a “bastard from the bowels of hell,” but he did, and he did it with flair.

It was my job to follow him. It was my job to kill him. And I still didn’t have any idea how I was going to do that. No matter—a contract was unbreakable. And I would be stuck here, on the other end of the world, until I accomplished it.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t mind traveling for the day job. At the age of twenty-two, I still had all my teeth. That was something. And I’d yet to need a blood-let by leech. So I suppose the travel kept me young. It was just…well, this was way farther than any Bombay had traveled before. My Aunt Persia even offered me some amulet to protect against sea monsters. It looked like a regular stick. Aunt Persia wasn’t always right in the head. I took it anyway. Who knows? Maybe it was a magic stick.

I wasn’t one of the original pilgrims, or “strangers,” who came over on the Mayflower ten years ago. I came a couple of months ago as a laborer on an entirely different ship, bringing supplies to the colony and a secret assignment to carry out from my family back in England. London…what I wouldn’t give for those filthy, cobblestone streets right now.

I’d settled into the colony—a single man and laborer. I made sure that I didn’t stand out in any way. The rate at which these colonists died from various diseases meant men came and went constantly. The colony had grown in the last ten years. I was a nobody, and no one noticed me. My name was, for all intents and purposes, John Newcomen. I know the Governor thought himself pretty damned clever when he gave me that last name, ‘Newcomen.’ I didn’t complain. It was better than Stratford-Upon-Avon Bombay. Way better. Mum was a bit of a loony about Shakespeare.

I’d spent the last few weeks studying my victim. He was a real asshole before he left England and had made a lot of enemies, incurring a great deal of debt. He’d gotten worse since he arrived here. I guess his first idiot son, Francis, almost blew up the ship. The second one, John Jr., wandered off like a moron and had to be returned by Indians. Indians who laughed at us.

John argued with everyone. He was punished over and over for instigating trouble. His wife was even whipped for her sharp tongue. People avoided them like the plague. Which brings up an interesting point. Typhus tore through the colony the first year, and the Billington Family was one of a very few households that didn’t lose anyone to the deadly disease. Maybe assholes were immune, because no one wanted to spend enough time with them to spread the disease. That’s my personal theory anyway, and it very possibly could be true. Of course the prevailing theory was that the Billingtons practiced witchcraft. I didn’t really believe in witches, but what anyone here thought mattered little.

None of that was important to me. I had to make him pay for his sins in the motherland. John had made some serious mistakes back home, crossing all the wrong people. He owed money to most of them, and, in some cases, had stolen more than coins and more than just mistreated people. It didn’t really matter. He pissed off the people who give Bombays assignments.

It wasn’t my job to question the assignments. I just had to do them.

So, for the past week, I had followed John around, under the cover of darkness as he stumbled and railed through the woods. He was an angry man. And angry men often died badly—something that was always good for business.

I just wanted to be rid of this contract. I was tired of living here. I should be back in the civilized half of the world, chasing women, sleeping in, and drinking something other than boiled water and stale, warm beer. Not here with a bunch of holier-than-thous taking care of their “problem.”

Oh sure, it’s considered "glamorous" to be a colonist. Why in the bloody hell was that? The winters are harsh, disease is rampant, there are far too few women (and those who are here won’t play footsie in the haystack), and the Indians hate us. I can’t blame them. I hate us.

I only had about a week before the next ship sailed for home. And I still had no idea what to do. It’s not like you can get a ship out of the colonies anytime. Passages were few and far between. And I didn’t want to stay here one moment more than I had to.

There were times when I wished I was more like my godfather, Cairo Bombay. He was such an adventurer. But I hadn’t seen him in years—not since he left with his son and Dodo birds to sail to Asia. He’d hoped to find another way to the New World. I hoped he’d at least made it. Maybe they’d already heard from him back home. This was yet another reason for me to finish up the job and go back to England.

“Curse you, John Newcomen!” I froze. Did Billington see me? Could he see in the dark? Maybe I should’ve brought Aunt Persia’s stick.

No, he was just railing about like he always did. He’d been on my case lately over the idea that I’d crossed into his property line. This pissed me off, because he complained about it publicly. Sooner or later he’d file a complaint, and then my name would be on record here. I didn’t want that.

Don’t get me wrong—this Massachusetts Bay Colony was okay. I just didn’t fit in with the work-yourself-to-death-every-day mentality. I kind of enjoyed a little leisure now and then. But the only day of rest was Sunday, and we weren’t allowed to do anything but go to church all day, sitting on uncomfortable wooden benches, bored out of our minds, praying for something interesting. Like an ill-timed Indian attack.

And then there was the disease. People fell ill and died all the time. It was ridiculous. Because of my solitary nature and devotion to sanitation and hygiene, I was fine. But this was just silly. If your neighbor has the plague, don't go visit to see! But people always did, and they took the disease home with them, infecting everyone around them. I spent a lot of time on burial duty. A lot of time.

Of course, if you survived that, there were the Indians. Some were friendly. Most wanted to roast us on a spit and eat us. I was pretty sure I’d feel the same way if I was them. But they were basically screwed. Bows and arrows were nothing against guns. Still, they outnumbered us in ways that could make you lose sleep at night.

Being here was just plain crazy dangerous. I’d give it another ten years at best before everyone here packed it in and went back to England. This whole experiment was doomed to be nothing more than a failed footnote in English history.

I followed John Billington home along the path he always took. I’d have to be more careful. If he caught me following him, he’d really raise a racket—something, again, that I did not need.

As I lay on my straw bed later that night, I realized my risk was becoming greater the more my intended victim railed about me. The more he talked, the more likely I’d be the first suspect in his death. Maybe I could pay some Indians to kidnap him and take him away? Could I convince them that their gods demanded that John Billington should be sacrificed? Probably not. I wasn’t the most creative person in the family—in fact, they teased me all the time about being entirely too serious.

The Indians, even the friendly ones, didn’t really trust us. And I couldn’t guarantee they would kill him. That man weaseled out of everything. He’d been behind several mutinous plots—all of which he denied, and once got out of punishment by begging forgiveness on his knees. The punishment would’ve had him tied up, ankles to neck. I was kind of rooting for that one out of professional curiosity. You never know when you’ll pick up something you can use later.

I was running out of time. If John was calling my name out at night, he was close to saying it out loud in the daytime. And I couldn’t have that.

I was up before the rooster crowed. The plan came to me in a dream (and, sadly, not the one about the buxom widow down the lane who always winked at us lads). I now knew what to do.

And so it was that John Billington found me tearing out a tree on the disputed property line. Okay, I was a little more on his property than mine. And it was a tree he liked (I found it amusing he liked a tree, but not people). But I needed to step things up.

“What are you doing, man?” Billington thundered at me.

I gave my most innocent look. “Why, what do you mean, neighbor? I’m just getting rid of this pesky tree.”

Billington’s face turned purple with rage, and he hopped from one foot to the other, shaking his fists at me. “That tree is on my property! I planted it myself when we arrived, ten years ago!”

I knew this. I also knew the tree was the only reminder he had of home. It may have seemed cruel, but 1) I was out of time and 2) I didn’t really care.

I stood up and wiped my brow. It was warm for September yet.

“I don’t think so.” The tree was completely down, and the shattered trunk lay at my feet. “This is my tree, and it’s on my land. I want it down, so I can put in a potting shed.” Okay, it was a lame excuse, but it was all I had. Potting sheds are no joke in my family. Where else can you grow poisonous plants out of public view?

Billington stepped so close to me I could smell the stale beer on his breath. “I’m going to get you for that, you bastard!” He gathered up the wood in his arms and stormed off.

“Hey!” I called after him. “Where are you going with my wood?”

He did not stop.

With a sigh, I shouldered my axe and walked across the road to the governor’s house.

“I cut down that wood with my own two hands,” I protested to the governor of the colony. “It took me an hour, and then he took the wood!” I used my most innocent face as I sadly shook my head. “He reeked of beer, too, and threatened me.” This wasn’t much of an allegation. Everyone here drank beer. They thought it was safer than water. Schmucks.

Governor Bradford pushed back from his chair and let loose a long sigh. He nodded. “It’s John Newcomen, isn’t it?”

I nodded, pleased that he wasn’t entirely sure who I was, and didn’t even remember that he gave me that name. The goal was that when this was over, people might remember my name, but no one would be able to remember anything else about me.

The Governor shook his head. “John Billington has been a problem since we set sail.”

“I am sorry, Your Lordship.” I did not make direct eye contact, trying to make sure he remembered my story but not my face. “But I am frightened for my life.”

The official nodded and waved me away. “I’ll see what I can do.” And that was it. I left the room and made my way back to my one-room house.

Part one of my plan was initiated. Now came the trickier part. I tried to consider all angles as I boiled water in a cauldron in my fireplace. These people didn’t trust the water. I tried to explain about boiling out the impurities, but they looked at me like they might start screaming “witchcraft!” so I left it alone. I’m really not fond of being hanged, and slightly less so of being burned alive.

The Bombays have known how to make water safe for centuries. It’s just science. We just came through the Age of Reason! Helllloooooooooo! These people drove me crazy. If you tried to make your own soap or simply brush your teeth with a frayed twig, they’d start imagining that they saw you dancing naked in the woods with demons. No. England, even with its civil war, was much safer. I had to get back there.

I would have to be careful from here on out. In order to make this work, there could be no mistakes. Blowing out the candles, I slipped quietly out the door, bolting it behind me. Within moments, I was sitting behind a haystack outside of Billington’s home. Clouds shrouded the moon, making the light spotty at best. I waited. Depending on how early John started drinking, that’s when I could move again.

There was a slight breeze, lifting up the scents and sounds of the night. Livestock grunted here and there. A twig snapped in the distance every now and then. But no one came out of the Billington home.

Normally, this would be a good thing. The joke in the colony was no Billington was a good Billington. But I was getting worried. It was late and yet lights still burned through the oilskin windows. Sure, the haystack was comfortable, but I had a task undone. That drove me crazy.

The creak of wood caught my attention. Venturing a peek from behind the hay, I saw John Billington stagger out the door, cursing at someone inside the house. He was carrying his blunderbuss. Swaying violently back and forth, he lurched into the woods, leaning on his weapon for support. He was heading away from my home. Was he so drunk he thought he could hunt at this late hour?

I waited until he was out of sight before following him. It’s pretty easy to follow a stumbling drunk through an empty forest at night. People battened down the hatches, worried about getting lost or running into Indians.

Billington muttered to himself as he lurched around trees. I didn’t really think he was going anywhere in particular. During the day he was usually clearing his fields, starting fights with neighbors and yelling at his family. But it helped to know his movements.

The clouds began to lift and the moon cast shadows around the trees. This kept me back, farther from him, but by the time I followed him back to his home, I knew what I had to do to complete the next phase of my plan.

To be perfectly clear—I’m not all that into grave robbing. But I was less into killing an innocent person to suit my goals. A young man about the same size as me had perished earlier in the week. He had the same hair color and had died with no marks on his body. I was pretty sure he’d eaten the “wrong” berries, due to the small smudges of red around his fingernails. But I said nothing, because they are suspicious of such things. They pronounced him dead by act of God, and that was it. No one knew him. He was a single guy like me. It was sad but very helpful.

The grave was hidden—we did that so the Indians wouldn’t know about our deaths. The Pilgrims had lost so many people since they arrived, they didn’t want the Indians to say, “Hey wait just a minute! Look at all those gravestones! I count two hundred at least! Those bastards are fudging their numbers so we won’t attack them! Get ‘em!”

I didn’t follow John Billington the next night. Instead, I dug up the poor, young man, carefully replacing the dirt to look like a reasonably fresh grave and covering the tracks I’d made. The man was not heavy, but the job was disgusting. Working with decaying bodies is not a lot of fun. But his hair was longer than mine and he needed to be wearing my clothes when found. Cutting the hair wasn’t a problem. But have you ever undressed and dressed a dead man? I don’t really recommend it. Sure, it has its useful applications, but his clothes stank, and his body was stiff as a board.

Rigor mortis. I’d forgotten about that. According to my plan, the body would be found fairly quickly after his “murder.” This man’s fingers, arms and feet were completely rigid. I’d have to soften him up. Another disgusting job.

Oh, I knew what to do. My family trains us for all kinds of weird stuff that you hope you’ll never need to use, and yet somehow always do. Once, back when I was still pretty new to this whole assassin thing, I poisoned my target with arsenic. Unfortunately, I used a bit too much, causing the dead man’s skin and lips to turn blue. He was supposed to die of natural causes, so this was a bit of a problem. I won’t tell you what I did to make him look in the pink of health, but I will never, ever do something like that again. I still shudder when I think of it.

Basically, fixing rigor mortis boils down to joint and muscle manipulation. It is hard, repetitive work, and I don’t recommend it. After a couple of hours of this, I was at last able to finish dressing the poor bastard. Even though it was dark, I could tell that he would pass for me. That almost made it worth it.

I managed to carry the body to the edge of my land, at the very border of John Billington’s. It was very late. I waited.

It didn’t take John long to stagger my way. He stumbled over roots and rocks, cursing as he went. Clearly, he was far more drunk than usual—which was very useful. Once he got close, I snuck up behind him and pinched a nerve in his neck. It’s a secret move, so I can’t tell you about it. The man went down like a sack of potatoes.

I took John’s gun and aimed it at the dead man’s head—close enough to blow his face clean off. I fired. That would be heard. I posed John with the gun and fled back to my cabin. I did not go inside; my belongings would have to stay behind. I rolled up the dead man’s putrefying rags and stuffed them into a small pack I’d left hidden in the woods and turned south.

It being an unusually warm September, I was able to spend a few days living in a cave, a mile away from Plymouth. I had stocked the cave with food and clean water and was pretty sure I could live there a few days at least. At dusk, I would hide in the trees near town and listen to the gossiping sentries who guarded the gates. The leaves had not fallen, and they provided me with enough cover to hear that John Billington was going to be tried in the murder of John Newcomen.

Just to make sure, I hung around a little longer until I was certain it was over. Thanks to a couple of women out gathering mushrooms a few days later, I found out that on the thirtieth day of September, John Billington was hanged by his neck until dead. My job was over.

I’d booked passage back to England in Boston, under a new name, and made it there before the ship sailed. After several weeks of horrid autumn weather, the ship docked in England, and I found my way back home. The Council was pleased with my work, which was good, and I even managed a little holiday in Italy.

When I got home I was thrilled to find out that Cairo Bombay had arrived in the New World safely. He’d discovered some small island far south and west of where I’d been. According to his letter, his son Mauritius and he were planning to turn it into a private home for the Bombays. He’d named it Santa Muerta, and there were no other people there. Cairo’s letter said the sunsets were beyond fabulous—whatever that means.

I should probably write to them. Maybe they needed help fixing the island up. No one would remember that I vowed never to set foot in the New World again…right?

Versailles Bombay—Rasputin

December 1916, Petrograd, Russia

“Oh, bugger,” I hissed through my clenched teeth as Rasputin staggered into the courtyard of Moika Palace. Please tell me they haven’t decided to finish him off here, on the streets, with witnesses. How did those idiots screw this up now? Honestly, I should never have asked men to do this. Men were not that smart. Assassination was a woman’s game.

Morons. I was working with amateurs. This whole thing could’ve been wrapped up yesterday, but noooooo. This is what happens when you leave a job up to a room full of drunk, arrogant men. Make that men in general. I was not terribly fond of men as a rule. There had never been a man in my life who had not let me down—and there were no women who had.

I wasn’t really a man hater. Just not a man prefer-er. They were silly, puffed-up things who needed their egos stroked constantly. Women were far superior intellectually. There was the women’s suffrage movement going mad in England. I was anxious to get home and apply myself. But first, I had to deal with Rasputin—who was, very inconveniently, still alive.

Bloody hell! Women were so much more cooperative. If you killed them, they remained thoughtfully dead.

I slid from my hiding place and raised my Browning pistol to fire. Dmitry emerged from the doorway and began shooting. He acted like a bloody cowboy, firing rapidly—too many shots that didn’t hit their mark. I tried not to roll my eyes as I aimed my pistol and fired, hitting Rasputin in the back. This made him stop, and allowed me to drift back into the shadows as Dmitry then shot the bastard in the head.

Dummy Dmi, as I liked to call him, didn’t even notice that I was there or had fired. What a git. I watched as the man kicked Rasputin in what was left of his head. Really? What good did that do?

Felix came out the door, and I grabbed his wrist. “You fool! Get the Mad Monk inside before the police arrive!” I vanished again and watched as Felix and Dmi dragged the bloody body of Rasputin inside. They forgot to shut the door. Wonderful.

Felix and his servant Buzhinsky came out onto the courtyard and whispered to each other about the possible methods of blood removal (due to the rather unfortunately large stain on the ground), when a policeman came into the courtyard asking about the shots he heard.

Tell him you heard it too, but don’t know where it came from, I thought fervently in their direction. I mean, the policeman had already arrived and heard shots. Denying that there was such a sound was sure to look suspicious.

But Felix just shrugged. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Buzhinsky nodded limply. Idiots.

The policeman identified himself as Vlassiyev and asked again for the source of the noise. He was not convinced.

Both men shrugged, saying nothing. Vlassiyev frowned but didn’t move. Bugger.

I slipped around the bushes and approached from the street. Upon seeing the three, I walked over as if I was a stranger.

“An auto backfired,” I lied in perfect Russian and pointed south. “Over there.”

Felix’s eyes bulged at the sight of me. I didn’t want to have to give myself away. Only Felix knew about my existence. But the policeman was not leaving, and I still had a body to get rid of.

“Thank you,” Vlassiyev laughed. “That makes sense.” He left and I went the other way, in the direction I came from, and slid back through the door of the palace.

Felix (who was earning his Twit of the Year status) entered the hall and immediately attacked Rasputin’s body with a two-pound cast iron dumbbell. What was he doing? Blood splattered his clothes. Was he nuts? I could do nothing but stare, doing my best not to faint as the sight of all that blood. As far as Dmi and the others were concerned, I was Olga, a mere servant in the household. Most of the others had been sent away for the evening except for me and Buzhinsky. And Buzhinsky just thought I was filling in. I don’t think he even noticed that it was me who came up to them a few moments ago.

How did this go so wrong? It was an easy job! Everything should’ve gone smoothly!

Maybe I should start at the beginning. My name is Versailles Bombay, and I was in Petrograd for an assignment. It was supposed to be simple. Usually, when the Council who hands out the assignments says that, it isn’t easy and usually requires months of planning and research. But they said this one would be, because everyone hated the victim. I wished they were here now so I could show them how “easy” it really wasn’t.

I was chosen because I could speak Russian. My mother was Russian and brilliant. My father was a Bombay and a trained killer. It didn’t matter that I was a woman, because in our family those things don’t factor into any equation, which is good. And in my humble opinion, with no offense to my father, men weren’t as good as women when it came to killing people. They were just too forthright. Stick a sword in him and leave him dead. Where’s the finesse? Where’s the craftsmanship?

I’d spent three months freezing my arse off in Petrograd (which was three months too many if you asked me), lining this whole thing up. I’d convinced a low-level prince that Rasputin was the devil and had to be disposed of. It wasn’t hard. Rasputin was a dirty old man hiding under the robe of a cleric. He slept with every aristocratic woman he could, drank and ate too much and wandered around town with the royals like he was bloody brilliant. Russians hated and feared him. It was supposed to be a no-brainer.

All Bombays have a specialty—whether it’s poison, ice picks, pistols, whatever. We all have our favorite methods. My specialty is getting others to do the work for me. I had sort of a gift of gab that allowed me to persuade anyone to do almost anything. I didn’t usually handle the knife that was plunged into the heart, or even load the dueling pistols with bullets. Not my thing, really.

Okay, to tell you the truth—I’m squeamish. The sight of blood, or even a splinter, makes me faint. Can you imagine growing up, trained by a guild of assassins, and being afraid of blood? Yeah, they thought it was funny too—especially my stupid, male cousin Leeds. The bastard. So I developed another way—the way of persuasion.

In the past this might have been frowned upon by our family, but with the recent introduction of Scotland Yard’s ability to pick out a person by reading the prints their fingers left behind on a murder weapon, the Council had shifted their thoughts on just how hands-on a Bombay had to be in their work.

It takes a certain kind of skill to talk others into doing your dirty work for you. The Council thought I was useful, although jealous cousins now and then liked to bring up that I didn’t actually kill anyone directly. It didn’t matter—the Council liked what I accomplished. That was all that mattered.

Rasputin was a large man with sharp, beady eyes, greasy hair and a tangled forest of beard. What did the empress see in him? I mean, Alexandria was Queen Victoria’s granddaughter! She should’ve been smarter than that.  She was part English and a woman, for crying out loud!

Granted, the rumor that Alexandria was an imbecile had floated around for quite a while. My spies said she liked shiny things and couldn’t answer simple one-word questions without shouting, “There’s a platypus in my pantaloons!” But Rasputin was gross. No, as long as I lived, I’d never understand her interest in him. It was clear the tsarina wasn’t going to fire him anytime soon, and according to my contract, it was time for Rasputin to go.

But this team of men I’d organized for the job tonight! Everything might have worked out okay, had they not been stupid enough to let Rasputin walk out the door just now. I had no confidence that they could accomplish the job. If they botched it in front of witnesses, they would end up in prison, and Rasputin might be saved. While I didn’t care about these gits all that much, things were getting messy. I didn’t like messy. The Bombays didn’t like messy. They were a bit bitchy on that point.

The worst part was that I’d failed at this same mission two years ago. It was a miracle the Council didn’t have me killed. But I can be pretty crafty, and I managed to talk them out of it on the condition that I didn’t fail this time. It was close. But they agreed, providing I didn’t tell the other Bombays. There was no way I’d let my cousins know about the failure. Leeds Bombay is a misogynistic arsehole who’d drop me if he knew the half of it. Doesn’t everyone have a cousin like that?

Back in 1914, Rasputin first came across my assignment list. I spent weeks recruiting one of his crazy, female followers, Guseva. Rasputin liked wandering aimlessly about Russia—on foot. Why? Who knows. Of all the countries I’d consider just walking around in, Russia would be at the bottom of the list. It’s enormous with thousands of miles between goat farms, and the winters were bloody awful. But since he was considered “mad” I guess it’s just who he was.

Anyhoo, he was going to visit his wife and children in Siberia. I set it up so Guseva would jump out and stab him. Guseva was a loon. Totally nuts—but I still thought she could pull it off. Originally a follower of the Mad Monk, she later claimed abuse at his hand. She was the easiest mark I ever turned.

She gleefully gutted Rasputin, then stood there and watched as his intestines spilled out, screaming, “I’ve killed the Antichrist!” That’s right. I’d told her he was the Antichrist. Don’t judge me. It worked…somewhat.

Except she hadn’t killed him. After stuffing his guts (mmrph—sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little) back in and some miraculous surgery I didn’t think even existed in Russia, Grigori Rasputin was just fine. Damn it. That should have been my first clue to be more particular in whom I recruited.

But this was some seriously creepy stuff I could not have anticipated. Rasputin, stuffed his innards back in, was sewn up, and survived. If this didn’t add to his spooky factor, nothing could. The man was like a ghost or something. On top of it all, this only added to his claims that he was divine. And that was bad.

This time, he wasn’t going to survive. It’s bad enough when your target doesn’t die the first time, but the second? No Bombay has ever missed his or her mark. I’d go down in family lore as the assassin who screwed up twice. And then they’d hunt and kill me. (Leeds would probably volunteer for the job.) I needed that like I needed a hole in the head…a hole that Rasputin currently sported in his big, smelly head.

So this time I’d recruited Prince Felix Yusupov, and he recruited his loudmouth friend Dmitry Pavlovich to take care of things. Felix was an idiot who liked to dress up like Lillie Langtry, with full makeup, and sing show tunes. Dmitry was a loudmouth member of the Duma—Russia’s version of Parliament. They added Dr. Lazavert to the group and a plan was hatched…mostly by me.

Dmitry and Lazavert never knew that. Felix was the only one in contact with me. The others didn’t know I existed. Felix’s ego immediately seized upon my plan as his (which was the intention, of course), and the other two fell in.

It was such a simple idea. Rasputin had a thing for Felix’s gorgeous wife, Irina. Felix would imply that Irina wanted to have sex with Rasputin and that he’d organize it. Once at the house, the doctor would lace food with cyanide, and the evil holy man would drop dead. The boys would drop his body in the river, and that would be the end of that.

Only it wasn’t. Not even close. Sigh. The things I do for this job!

Problem number one: the men chose December for the deed. Really? December…in Petrograd? I chose Felix for his palace’s proximity to the Moika River. All they had to do was open a window and dump the body in it in the middle of the night. What they hadn’t thought of was that because it’s December in Petrograd, most bodies of water were frozen over.

I tried to get them to wait until summer, but they were so excited about getting the job done that Felix stopped listening. That led to an impromptu drive all over the city this morning where they tried to find a river that wasn’t totally iced over. A different river. A not-the-Moika-that-has-easy-access River.

Problem two: Felix Yusupov. Felix was married to the tsar’s niece. I thought that was rather hilarious because Felix was a well-known homosexual. But whatever—to each his own, right? Felix got it into his head that he should prepare for the murder. He took it upon himself to arrange a meeting with Rasputin through a close friend under the guise of needing some help with chronic pain. The ditzy socialite happily obliged, and Felix met Rasputin at Rasputin’s apartment for some “therapy.”

The problem with this was that Rasputin was drawn to Felix’s handsome features, and, for whatever reason, Felix was drawn to Rasputin’s “methods." And so he became a regular at the Mad Monk’s place, acquiring the nickname “Little One,” and becoming familiar with Rasputin’s daughter, Maria, and the staff.

Word on the street was that he and Rasputin were now lovers. Felix kept seeing him in opposition to my instructions, stating simply, “Nonsense. I always use the back stairs.”

Which led to problem three: Rasputin. The man was a complete gossip and braggart. He couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. The bastard bragged publicly, at length, about the naughty things he’d been up to and with whom. Felix was convinced Rasputin would keep the staged rendezvous with Irina a secret.

Except that he didn’t. Rasputin told his daughter, Maria. He informed his servants, “Little One is picking me up at midnight to pleasure his wife.” He even called a few friends and let them in on the secret. Hell, for all I know he took out an ad in the papers.

I was working with idiots.

And it didn’t get better after that.

The morning started desolate and freezing. I was to hide in a section of the palace that was closed off for the winter. Felix came and reported that the Moika had frozen solid—what should they do?

“Find a spot that isn’t frozen,” I replied. I didn’t like hanging out in the abandoned wing. It was bitterly cold, and the assassination wouldn’t even take place until midnight.

Felix nodded. “Okay. Hey, you warm enough?” He cocked his head, and I thought about strangling him.

“I’ll slip into the kitchen to warm myself and get something to eat,” I assured him, controlling my anger. The simpleton grinned and ran off.

A few hours later, Felix found me in the kitchen, sitting in front of the fire and eating his best caviar. He raised an eyebrow, but the look on my face must have dissuaded him from saying anything. You can’t really get good caviar back in England. Since I was here, I might as well help myself.

“We found a spot in the Malaya Nevka River.” Felix reached for the caviar, but I slapped his hand away.

“But that’s not the plan. You were supposed to find a hole or make one in the Moika!” I sputtered. What was the point of even using this damn place if we couldn’t use the river next to it?

“Oh, and, um…there’s one other thing…” The prince turned away from me. “Irina won’t be here.”

“What!?” I slapped my hand down hard on the table. “Are you serious? She’s the bait! Don’t you think Rasputin will notice she’s not here and think something’s up?” I’d pinned my hopes on Irina—the only other woman in this plot. She didn’t have to get horizontal with the disgusting monk, but she did have to be there, smiling prettily and catching him off guard.

Felix raised his hands and shook his head, “Don’t worry—Dmi and I have come up with a brilliant plan.”

Uh oh. The clock on the wall now showed we were well into the afternoon. I could come up with a plan on short notice, but I wasn’t sure these guys could. I wondered if we should cancel the attempt.

Felix motioned for me to follow him out of the kitchen, down the hallway and a set of stairs to a private dining room. The room was tiny, with windows high up at street level. One end held a small, round table and wooden chairs, and the other end seemed to be some sort of area for entertaining.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Oh, this is where various Yusupovs have entertained lovers over the years. It’ll be perfect.”

I sighed. “And just how will this be perfect without the potential lover?”

Felix nodded. “I know what you are thinking. But we have it figured out! Dmi and the doctor will be upstairs making noise in a parlor. I’ll tell Rasputin that Irina is entertaining unexpected guests, and while we are waiting for them to leave, he will eat the poisoned food and drink!” He grinned like an idiot who thought he had it all figured out.

I wasn’t sure if it was false hope or temporary insanity. But I thought this might work.

Felix pointed to a screen halfway across the room. “You can hide here to make sure it works out. And it will. Dmi is a genius at these things.”

I was about to ask him how many assassinations Dmi had planned and successfully executed (my personal record was forty-seven) but changed my mind. It was getting late, and there was work to be done.

Back in the kitchen, I started to make the tarts and cakes that would hide the potassium cyanide. After a few hours, the sun had gone down, and I had several platters of various sweets. I added a bottle of red wine to the tray with two glasses and made my way down to the small dining room.

Dr. Lazavert barely noticed me. And why should he? Servants were ignored, and this was part of the plan. The doctor would add the cyanide to the baked goods and wine, making sure to add enough poison to kill a man without it tasting obviously of poison. I set the napkins and cutlery, watching the doctor work.

He was nervous and wearing rubber gloves. I stoked the fire and stood aside, presumably awaiting instructions, but actually observing. The doc seemed to know what he was doing, even though he was perspiring heavily. He added poison to all the platters but one and told Felix to make sure only to eat from that tray. Then, the man stripped off his rubber gloves, and, to my absolute shock, tossed them into the fireplace.

The smell hit first, followed by an unnatural smoke that quickly filled the low-ceilinged room. I grabbed the fireplace tongs and removed the burning gloves. The doc was trying to open the tiny windows.

I couldn’t chastise the idiot doctor—I was merely a servant. I wanted to kill him, but I didn’t do that either because we still needed him. Instead I merely seethed as I tried to fan the smoke out of the room. The smell of burning rubber would be very hard to explain to anyone, let alone a suspicious Rasputin. Rumor had it that he had foreseen his own death recently and had become quite paranoid. I silently cursed the doctor and vowed never to take a job in Russia again. Was it possible to suddenly forget a language I’d known my whole life? I’d have to give some serious thought to that one.

“What’s that smell?” Felix entered, holding his nose. I didn’t answer, so the doctor nervously explained what had happened—except in his version, I was the one who had thrown the gloves in the fireplace. I steeled myself and gave Felix a deadly look.

“Um, okay, that’s fine,” the prince said as he waved away the stench. “We have to leave soon, Doc, to pick up our special guest for tonight.” He actually wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Dr. Lazavert nodded and fled the room, leaving me to deal with the mess. Sigh. How typical.

The smell of burnt rubber is certainly a force to reckon with. The windows were open and the fire was blazing but that horrible smell hung in the air, refusing to budge. I raced upstairs to the kitchen and searched the cupboards until I found some sage branches. Returning to the small dining room downstairs, I burned the ends in the fireplace and waved the smoking branches around the room, feeling a bit silly. It worked though. I’d used burning sage before to mask other odors during my assignments, but to use it to erase such a strong, chemical smell was new. I was just closing up the windows when Felix led Rasputin down the stairs and into the room.

“Irina is entertaining some guests from America!” Felix said way too loudly. “She will join us when they leave. Aren’t Americans tiresome?” The prince gave a garish smile. What was he doing?

Rasputin said nothing. He grunted and turned his attention to me. His eyes were truly hypnotic and a bit crazy. I cast my gaze to the floor and curtseyed like a good maid.

“That’s Olga,” Felix shouted. The Mad Monk wasn’t hard of hearing. “She’ll fetch us whatever we need.”

I nodded and curtseyed again, and after both men were seated, I stepped behind the screen. It was a Chinese screen with a lot of complicated carvings on it. There were spaces that I could see through, so I could observe what was going on unnoticed.

“How about a pastry?” Felix practically screamed as he slid one of the poisoned platters toward his guest.

Rasputin did not move. “No,” he said. Maybe he was unnerved by Felix’s shouting.

“What?” The prince’s voice went up an octave. “Why? I…I thought you liked these…” he sputtered. The man was losing it already. All he had to do was be patient. Rasputin would eat, I was sure of that.

“Too sweet,” Rasputin grunted.

Felix stood and poured his guest a glass of poisoned claret. Then he filled his glass. With the poisoned claret. I wondered if he would drink it.

“No.” Rasputin pushed away the glass. Apparently, he didn’t want to eat or drink yet.

Assassination is basically a game of hurry-up-and-wait. I understood this. In the case of poisoning someone at dinner, especially, you don’t want to push your victim into it. Let him decide when to drink and eat. Being pushy would only raise suspicions.

Unfortunately, Felix Yusupov had the patience of a fruit fly. He started to perspire. His face turned red and, again, he loudly insisted Rasputin eat and drink.

“No,” was all Rasputin said. I was starting to wonder if that was the only word he knew.

“Um, I’ll just…check on things…” Felix stammered and vanished up the staircase. Smooth. If I was Rasputin, I’d find this suspicious. What was that stupid prince doing?

I stepped out from behind the screen and tidied up the table a bit, even though nothing had been touched. Something told me that my presence might allay Rasputin’s suspicions. Unfortunately, it did.

I felt a sharp pinch on my arse. Son of a bitch. That nasty bastard was flirting with me! I had to keep it together. Turning and deftly stepping out of Rasputin’s reach, I tried to giggle flirtatiously.

“You are pretty,” he grunted and reached for me again. I giggled unenthusiastically and stepped out of his way. Upstairs, someone put a record on the phonograph and “Yankee Doodle Dandy” blasted. For the first time, I heard laughter and murmurs. I guessed they were finally getting started on the Irina-entertaining-Americans ruse.

Felix returned back down the stairs, looking pale but acting gracious. “Irina’s guests are upstairs,” he managed weakly, his loud voice now gone. He sat down at the table and picked up a pastry from the non-poisoned tray and started nibbling at it. My guess was Dmitry told him if he ate something, Rasputin would. Felix then raised his glass of the poisoned wine. I moved quickly to stand behind Rasputin and shook my head vigorously.

Felix’s eyes bulged as he remembered the poison in his glass and replaced it on the table without taking so much as a sip. For a moment I thought I should’ve let him drink it. But while potassium cyanide took a few moments to work, Rasputin would certainly become suspicious if his host clutched his chest and fell to the floor.

Rasputin grunted and finally reached for one of the pastries. He took a large bite and seemed to swallow without chewing. Pale, flaky crumbs littered his dark beard. One more bite and he finished the pastry and reached for another. A few minutes passed and he’d eaten four, washing it down with a gulp of wine.

I slid behind the screen and allowed myself a small smile. The amount of poison he’d just ingested would’ve killed an ox. We just had to wait now for it to kick in.

Felix relaxed somewhat and began chatting amiably. He did most of the talking, and most of it was silly gossip about the most beautiful ladies in the court—one of Rasputin’s favorite subjects. The monk grunted his agreement here and there but said little. He seemed comfortable and at ease.

Time passed. A lot of time. Rasputin ate four more poisoned pastries and drank two more full glasses of poisoned wine. Nothing happened. Did the doctor screw up? I could swear I saw him load the pastries with the poison. The bag he used was clearly labeled cyanide. He was a doctor and surely knew where to get the real stuff.

My heart began to pound. Yes, assassination is a waiting game, but it had been half an hour. Rasputin had ingested more poison than you’d use to kill off a dinner party of twenty people. (And, yes, I speak from experience.) And yet here he sat, perfectly fine. That weird, creepiness he exuded worried me. Was he immune to potassium cyanide? I’d never heard of such a thing.

Rasputin pointed at a guitar in the corner. “Little One, do you play?”

Felix nodded shakily. Clearly he was anxious about the fact that Rasputin wasn’t dead yet. I was inclined to agree.

“Play something for me!” Rasputin ordered. I stepped from behind the screen, and after retrieving the guitar, I handed it to Felix. He searched my face with a what-the-hell look, but I gave him nothing and returned to my spot behind the screen.

The prince found his courage and began to play one of several Russian folk songs. The music clashed with the constant, loud, repetitive playing of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” upstairs (Seriously? Did they only have one song?), but Rasputin didn’t seem to mind as he began to hum along to the music, closing his eyes and tapping his feet.

After several songs, Felix stopped, rose to his feet and after setting the guitar down said, “I think I’ll see what’s keeping Irina.” He vanished up the stairs.

I emerged from the screen and returned the guitar to its spot in the corner. Rasputin rose to his feet so I could clear the now dried-out pastries from the table. He wandered over to an ebony cabinet against the south wall and began to examine it.

Rasputin had eaten two trays full of poisoned food and drunk an entire bottle of poisoned wine. He should be dead and writhing on the floor. Instead, he seemed completely and unnaturally healthy. Footsteps came down the stairs, and I wondered if I had a second to warn Felix to calm down a little. All these disappearances were suspicious.

Rasputin ignored the sounds, fascinated with the cabinet. To my shock, I saw that Felix was now carrying Dmitry’s gun. Was he insane? The police station was down the street! We’d agreed no guns because that might cause some unwanted attention.

Before I could cross the room, Felix Yusupov stepped up behind Rasputin and aimed the gun at his back. “Grigory,” Felix said as he saw the monk studying a crucifix in the cabinet, “you would do better to look at the crucifix and pray to it.” Felix then fired the pistol into Rasputin’s back and watched as he fell to the floor.

Dmitry and Dr. Lazavert came flying down the stairs to see Rasputin lying on the floor. I wanted to strangle all of them—, Dmitry for giving Felix his weapon and Lazavert for screwing up the poison somehow. I also wanted to beat Felix for his stupid little monologue. We have a strict rule in the Bombay family—don’t give speeches, just kill them. You’d be surprised how many times the bad guy gets away because some moron decides to give a speech.

“The rug!” Felix howled. For a moment, I thought he’d regained his senses. Yes, we should roll him up in the rug and move him before a bloodstain forms.

“Get him off the rug!” Felix shrieked. “It’s polar bear!”

I stared at these idiots as they moved the body off the rug so that it wouldn’t get stained.

Rasputin’s body began to twitch, convulsing on the carpet, before going completely still.

“That’ll do it then,” Dr. Lazavert confirmed—without checking the body. I watched in surprise as the men patted each other on the back and celebrated.

“Come on!” Felix roared with the first shadow of confidence I’d seen all night. “Let’s go upstairs and toast the death of the monster!”

The three men left the room, laughing as they mounted the stairs. I heard them call for Buzhinsky and champagne. I examined the body, trying not to look at the blood. Rasputin was stiff and cold. I couldn’t find a heartbeat. This was good news. While the men waited for it to get later and dark enough to dump the body, I took the trays of poisoned crumbs, the wine glasses and empty bottle upstairs to dispose of them.

It was finally done, I thought. I cleaned the platters thoroughly three times, the last time with bleach. I did the same with the wine glasses and bottle before taking it all out to the garbage.

The wind whistled through the bare branches outside, and I slid back into the shadows of the trees in the courtyard, letting out a huge sigh of relief. It had been a very long night. We still needed to get rid of the body, but that should be the easiest part of the plan. Rasputin was dead. I’d finally gotten the job done. And it wasn’t easy.

Maybe I needed to rethink this idea of getting others to do the work. We barely made it through this murder. Maybe the other Bombays were right to just do the job themselves. If anything, the screw-ups this evening were a good sign that it was time to go solo.

To my amazement, even though nearly every aspect of the plan had gone wrong, these guys actually did what Guseva couldn’t a few years ago. They had managed to kill Rasputin. The Mad Monk was dead. And he was running into the courtyard…wait, what?

Which brings us back to where I started…with Rasputin’s caved-in face and bullet in the head on the carpet in the hall, Felix holding cast iron dumbbells in each hand, splattered with blood.

I helped the men roll the carpet around the now certainly dead Rasputin. We secured it with rope. Dr. Lazavert assured us this time the man was dead. I watched as the men, with the servant Buzhinsky, carried the body to the trunk of Felix’s car and drove off into the night.

I was mopping the blood up from the foyer, pretending it was wine so as not to get lightheaded, when I heard Buzhinsky re-enter the room with Dmitry.

“Do you think the policeman believed the story of a backfiring automobile?” Dmitry said somewhat sarcastically.

Buzhinsky nodded. “Maybe.”

Dmitry said nothing for a moment as I wrung the last of the blood—er, wine—into the bucket and went into the kitchen to pour it out. When I returned with a cloth to dry the floor, I found the policeman Vlassiyev standing in the foyer with Dmitry. What was he doing here? Maybe he didn’t buy the story and had returned?

“Thank you for coming,” Dmitry said as he rose to his full height and puffed out his chest. “I appreciate it at such a late hour.”

Wait…what? Dmitry had called him? To come here??

The policeman nodded and waited.

I stared openly at Dmitry. What was he thinking? I had Vlassiyev convinced it was nothing! But Dummy Dmi summoned him back? Did he not notice the huge pool of blood in the courtyard!?

Dmitry introduced himself to the policeman and asked if Vlassiyev had heard of him. Of all the egotistical bullshit! This was not the time to throw your weight around as some sort of political celebrity, Dmi!

“I have heard of you,” Vlassiyev replied.

“Have you ever heard of Rasputin?” Dmitry waited for the policeman to nod—which he did. I broke out in a cold sweat. What was happening?

“Well,” Dmitry continued in a proud voice, “Rasputin is dead. And if you love our mother Russia, you’ll keep quiet about it.”

My mouth hung completely open. This idiot just told the police that we’d murdered the tsarina’s favorite Russian!

“Yes, sir.” Vlassiyev nodded and left.

Dmitry clapped his hands and laughed. “Well, that’s that! We won’t have to worry about him!” His tone was smug and self-congratulatory. I had just witnessed the stupidest thing I’d ever seen. If I moved quickly, I could kill Dmitry before the others got back. I didn’t care if anyone saw me do it. I could get out of Russia before they even looked for me. Maybe I should kill Felix, Dr. Lazavert and Buzhinsky too. My mind was whirling, and I was lightheaded, unable to think straight. Maybe I could make it look like they all committed suicide so they wouldn’t get caught? I took a step toward Dmitry just as Felix and the doctor burst through the door in a triumphant mood.

“We did it!” Felix said as he raised one of the bloody dumbbells into the air. “We threw him in the river!” He handed the bloody dumbbells to me for cleaning and smiled dopily.

I stared at the weights. The weights that were supposed to be tucked inside the carpet just before they tossed Rasputin into the water. The weights that were supposed to make the body sink so it wouldn’t be found. The weights I held in my hands.

I closed my eyes and used every ounce of will that I had to not attack Felix with them.

When I regained my senses, I heard Dmitry finishing his story about how he masterfully handled the policeman. Felix clapped his friends on the back, and they decided the deed was done, and they all went their separate ways.

I was sitting in the kitchen an hour later, still trying to wrap my head around the events. By now, Rasputin, if he wasn’t dead before, would have been dead almost an hour from hypothermia. I felt fairly confident about that.

Didn’t I?

The bottle of very expensive champagne was empty next to me; I’d just finished the last glass. Two empty tins of Felix’s best caviar sat beside me. I spared no expense. Fuck Felix if he was pissed. The man barely pulled it off.

He hadn’t come down to see me—choosing instead to take Buzhinsky with him to help clean himself up. I’d waited in the kitchen, so I could yell at him or kill him. But he never came down. I’d like to think that’s because he knew he’d screwed up and that I’d be mad. I was more certain that it was because he thought he’d done a great job and went to bed.

How had everything gone so wrong? And by everything, I mean everything! It was as if the prince and his merry band of misfits went out of their way to make every comic error they could think of.

I shook my head. Maybe the policeman really did decide not to tell anyone. Rasputin was vastly unpopular. And the policeman would have blackmail material enough to make himself a very rich man. Perhaps I was over-thinking it. I was definitely tired and starting to feel the results of the champagne.

I left everything out so Felix could see what I’d done, and, instead of the chilly west wing, found a nice, warm guest room and passed out.

I awoke a few hours later to find Felix shaking me. My head was spinning. What time was it? Why was he waking me up?

“Um…” he said slowly, as if that would help. “...we may have a problem.”

Somehow I pulled myself together. My mouth tasted like the Dead Sea, but I managed to show up dressed downstairs. Buzhinsky met me and led me into the courtyard, where I found the prince standing next to a dead dog. A gun gleamed in his hand. My gun. How did he get my gun?

The poor dog was clearly dead, shot once through the head. My heart ached for it.

“You shot a dog?” I said, my anger barely contained.

Felix handed the gun to Buzhinsky, who spirited it back into the house. I didn’t even want it back. I would never have shot a dog.

“I had to. We couldn’t get rid of all the blood.” Felix looked at me like I was an idiot.

“So,” I hissed through clenched teeth, “you shot a dog?” I was furious! I loved dogs! How could he do that? And with my gun?

Bombays weren’t supposed to kill anyone we weren’t assigned to kill, but I thought I might scrape by with an exception here.

Felix rolled his eyes. “Of course! I had to make it look like one of my guests from last night shot a dog! That would explain the blood.”

Oh sure. That made perfect sense. Of course.

I knelt down to touch the poor beast. It was one of Felix’s own Borzois. What a bastard.

“And what on earth made you think that one shot to a dog would cause this much blood?” I tried to control the rage that bubbled up inside of me. I was interrupted by the arrival of the police. Perfect.

Vlassiyev arrived with four other officers. Clearly he never meant to “not tell anyone.” I stepped behind Felix and kept my face down.

“We are investigating the murder of Rasputin, sir,” Vlassiyev said. “What do you have to say to that?”

Felix shrugged. “I have no idea what you mean.”

The five policemen looked at the enormous pool of blood and at the pitiful body of the dog lying in the middle of it.

“Would you care to explain this?” Vlassiyev pointed at the ground.

“I had a party last night. One of my guests thought it would be funny to shoot one of my dogs.” He didn’t say any more.

Vlassiyev knelt down and examined the dog. “Only one shot to the head.” He straightened up. “That would not account for this much blood.”

Felix shrugged again. I realized that this had been his defense most of his life.

“And we’ve had a call from Rasputin’s daughter,” Vlassiyev continued. “She said her father never came home last night. She said you picked him up and brought him to your house, and he hasn’t been seen since.”

Felix nodded smugly. “Rasputin was not one of my guests. I’ve never met the man.”

My fingers curled into fists. Was he kidding? The police just said Rasputin left with him last night. It wouldn’t take much to find out Felix had been one of his patients for the last two months. Was he insane?

Vlassiyev cleared his throat. “And one of your guests summoned me to the house last night to tell me Rasputin was murdered here and not to say a word about it.”

“I’m sure you misheard him,” Felix said simply. “Was Rasputin murdered?” His voice dripped with hope.

“Yes,” the officer said, “we found his body this morning. He is dead.”

I braced myself in case Felix did a little jig in front of the officers. At that moment, a Count Something-or-Other appeared in the courtyard and, completely ignoring the police, walked over and shook Felix’s hand.

“Just heard! Well done, my fellow! I always hated that damned monk!”

I went inside and gathered my things. Before anyone noticed, I’d packed up and fled Moika Palace through a side door. It took days to catch a train to Finland. I’d read a newspaper in Sweden that said the tsar hushed the whole thing up and sent Dmitry and Felix to the Western Front. Whatever.

The Rasputin Assignment became famous in the Bombay Family. For years, my relatives expressed sympathy for the job, and they all said they were grateful it wasn’t assigned to them, which made me feel a little bit better.

After all we went through with this greasy bastard—the poison, the shooting, and the bludgeoning—the autopsy showed that Rasputin had died of the one thing I hadn’t planned on…hadn’t even considered as a means of execution.

Rasputin was poisoned with potassium cyanide in his food and wine. He was shot in the back and shot in the head. His face was bashed in with weights. But that wasn’t what got him in the end.

Rasputin died…of drowning.

But at least this time, he really was, totally and completely, dead.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I hope you enjoyed these stories from the historical files of the Bombay Family of Assassins. As a history geek, I enjoyed writing them. Especially the John Billington story. I’m a direct descendant of this man who came over on the Mayflower and was also the first person hung for murder in the American Colonies—and it was fun killing off my 11th Great Grandpa (in a weird way).

If you haven’t read any of the Bombay books, I suggest you start with ‘SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY. You can find more information on my website: www.leslielangtry.com

If you have read them all, watch for a special Christmas short story coming out for the holidays of this year: FOUR KILLING BIRDS, which will be part of an anthology by the Killer Fiction Writers.

~ Leslie Langtry

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About the Author

Leslie Langtry manages somehow to write from her home in the Midwest, where she lives with her two fabulous kids and terrific husband. She has never assassinated anyone – and wants to make that perfectly clear.

To learn more about Leslie Langtry, visit her online at

www. leslielangtry.com

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Enjoyed this Greatest Hits Mystery?  Check out these other humorous, romantic mysteries from Gemma Halliday Publishing!

Table of Contents

Bombay, The Um, First Bombay—The Minotaur

Samaria & Assyria Bombay—Draco

Bavaria Bombay—The Dragon of York

Cairo Bombay—Elizabeth of Bathory

Stratford-Upon-Avon Bombay—John Billington

Versailles Bombay—Rasputin