Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

“No,” she said, her voice contorted and deep beneath the mask.

The barkeep gripped the edge of the counter. “You—you’re back,” he said quietly, as more heads turned. “You escaped.”

So he did recognize her, then. She wondered if the new owners held a grudge against her for killing Ioan Jayne—and how many bodies she’d have to leave in her wake if they decided to start a fight right here, right now. What she planned to do tonight already broke enough rules, crossed too many lines.

She leaned on the bar, crossing one ankle over the other. The barkeep mopped his brow again and poured her a brandy. “On the house,” he said, sliding it to her. She caught it in her hand, but didn’t drink it. He wet his lips, then asked, “How—how did you escape?”

People leaned back in their chairs, straining to hear. Let them spread rumors. Let them hesitate before crossing her path. She hoped Arobynn heard, too. She hoped he heard and stayed the hell away from her.

“You’ll soon discover that,” she said. “But I have need of you.”

His brows lifted. “Me?”

“I have come to inquire after a man.” Her voice was scratchy and hollow. “A man who recently earned a large sum of gold. For the assassination of the Eyllwe princess. He goes by the name of Grave. I need to know where he is.”

“I don’t know anything.” The barkeep’s face turned even paler.

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a glittering fistful of ancient jewels and gold. All eyes watched them now.

“Allow me to repeat my question, barkeep.”



The assassin who called himself Grave ran.

He didn’t know how long she’d been hunting him. It had been well over a week since he’d killed the princess; a week, and no one had even looked his way. He thought he’d gotten away with it—and had even started wondering whether he should have been more creative with the body, if he should have left some sort of calling card behind. But all that had changed tonight.

He’d been drinking at the counter of his favorite tavern when the packed room had suddenly gone quiet. He’d turned to see her in the doorway as she called out his name, looking more wraith than human. His name hadn’t even finished echoing in the room before he burst into a sprint, escaping through the back exit and into the alley. He couldn’t hear footsteps, but he knew she was behind him, melting in and out of shadows and mist.

He took alleys and side streets, leaping over walls, zigzagging across the slums. Anything to shake her, to wear her down. He’d make his final stand in a quiet street. There, he would take out the blades strapped to his skin and make her pay for the way she’d humiliated him in the competition. The way she had sneered at him, the way she’d broken his nose and tossed her handkerchief onto his chest.

Haughty, stupid bitch.

He staggered as he rounded a corner, his breath ragged and raw. He had only three daggers hidden on him. He’d make them count, though. When she’d appeared at the tavern, he had immediately taken note of the broadsword hovering over one of her shoulders and the assortment of gleaming, wicked-looking blades strapped to her hips. But he could make her pay, even if he only had a few blades.

Grave was halfway down the cobblestone alley when he realized it was a dead end, the far wall too high to climb. Here, then. He’d soon have her begging for mercy before he cut her into little, little pieces. Drawing one of his daggers, he smiled and turned to the open street behind him.

Blue mist drifted by, and a rat scurried across the narrow passage. There was no noise, only the sounds of distant revelry. Perhaps he had lost her. Those royal fools had made the biggest mistake of their lives when they crowned her Champion. His client had said as much when he’d hired Grave.

He waited a moment, still watching the open street entrance, and then allowed himself to breathe, surprised to find that he was a little disappointed.

King’s Champion indeed. It hadn’t been hard to lose her at all. And now he would go home, and he’d receive another job offer in a matter of days. And then another. And another. His client had promised him that the offers would come. Arobynn Hamel would curse the day he had rejected Grave from the Assassins Guild for being too cruel with his prey.

Grave chuckled, flipping his dagger in his hands. Then she appeared.

She came through the fog, no more than a sliver of darkness. She didn’t run—she just walked with that insufferable swagger. Grave surveyed the buildings surrounding them. The stone was too slippery, and there were no windows.

One step at a time, she approached. He would really, really enjoy making her suffer as much as the princess had.

Smiling, Grave retreated to the end of the alley, only stopping when his back hit the stone wall. In a narrower space, he could overpower her. And in this forgotten street, he could take his own sweet time doing what he wanted.

Still she approached, and the sword at her back whined as she drew it. The moonlight glinted off the long blade. Probably a gift from her princeling lover.

Grave pulled his second dagger from his boot. This wasn’t a frilly, ridiculous competition run by nobility. Here, any rules applied.

She didn’t say anything when she neared.

And Grave didn’t say anything to her as he rushed at her, swiping for her head with both blades.

She stepped aside, dodging him with maddening ease. Grave lunged again. But faster than he could follow she ducked and slashed her sword across his shins.