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threshold, gave the warrior one last lingering look, and disappeared over the threshold.
    The latch fell with a click, and Vladimir asked, “What have you learned?”
    “Not much.” His gaze fixed on him, Henrik palmed a tankard from the marble mantelpiece. Something cold moved in thewarrior’s eyes as he swirled the wine then raised the cup to take a sip.
    Vladimir clenched his teeth, disliking the blatant show of disrespect. The urge to draw his sword—and Henrik’s blood—almost overwhelmed him. Self-preservation prevailed, however, stilling his hand. The man standing before him was no lightweight. A full-blooded assassin trained by the old man, Henrik could no doubt kill him with naught more than his little finger.
    “Then why the hell are you here? Couldn’t find someone else’s servants to screw?”
    “You’re selection is good, Vladimir,” he said, his bored tone somehow laced with enmity. “But not so fine I’d travel cross-country to bed one.”
    The crass bastard. How dare he come here empty-handed then disregard his authority as though his position held no importance? His hand tightened on his cup. “Then I’ll ask again...why are you here?”
    “Rumor has it you’ve hired Xavian Ramir.”
    “What of it?”
    “I like to know when I have competition.” Interest interwoven with menace sparked in Henrik’s strange golden eyes. “Hedging your bets?”
    The hostility embedded in the assassin’s voice swirled in the space between them, and the muscle roping Vladimir’s abdomen twisted, tying his stomach into knots. He forced himself to relax and, affecting a manner of unconcern, swirled the wine in his goblet. “I want her found...two working on the problem is better than one.”
    Henrik prowled toward him, his movements predatory, his feet soundless as he skirted a plush daybed. Trailing a fingeralong the top of a silk pillow, he stopped a few feet away and flicked the gold fringe on the tasseled cushion. “Is it?”
    Vladimir shifted against the sideboard, aware he clung to his perch by a fingertip. He must tread carefully. Henrik was unpredictable at best, violent at worst. If he showed weakness, the animal in the assassin would sense his disquiet and go for his throat. Icy fingers brushing the nape of his neck, he waved the comment aside, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. “What do you care?”
    “He is a comrade, of sorts.”
    Of sorts? What the hell did that mean? Had Ramir been trained by the Halál as well? Vladimir knew so little about the man, had heard about him through a string of associates. ’Twas said the warrior-assassin single-handedly won the Battle of Posada for Basarab, the new ruler of Wallachia. If rumor held true, Ramir massacred half of the Hungarian army and sent the other half fleeing for their lives.
    Vladimir raised a brow. “Is he as good as I’ve heard?”
    “Better.”
    With a soundlessness that unnerved him, Henrik ghosted around an armchair, drifting within striking distance. Alert to the possibility of attack, Vladimir held his breath then let it out when the assassin moved away, toward the blaze roaring in the fireplace.
    “Better than you?”
    Henrik’s mouth quirked at the corners, but he said naught.
    The subtle evasion bothered Vladimir. Why was Henrik so interested in Ramir? What did he know that he wasn’t telling? Whatever the cause, it signaled trouble, the kind he didn’t like. Who he hired was no one’s business, least of all Henrik’s. But assassins were a strange bunch. He’d learned that truth the hard way, had yet to recover from his folly...from forcing theencounter and Ramir’s subsequent attack. Hell and damnation, his knee still ached and the meeting had taken place well over a month ago.
    He breathed deep, trying to calm himself. Ramir was the rarest sort of savage. Skilled precision coupled with a cunning Vladimir admired but seldom saw. He clenched his teeth. If only Ramir had taken the coin. He’d wanted to give him