Back to the River
Kali Shodh dawned gray and cloudy. The sky looked heavy with a promise of rain, but well after sunrise the streets remained dry. The sun hid behind a thin veneer of clouds so bright it hurt to look at them. The contrast of weather, combined with the stifling and humid air, fit Prem’s mood perfectly. The Golden Way was cordoned off for the procession to the river. The long street led from the gates of the Ooncha Mahal all the way to the Genja nearly a mile away. In spite of the venerated holiday—or maybe in defiance of it—Bhai Mandwa still hummed with activity: trains still chugged in the distance and traffic continued unabated in the streets beyond the security barriers.
The line of bluecoats blocking access to the Palace for so long had dispersed earlier that morning. Now, a large crowd of worshippers—men and women, young and old, wizened grandfathers and wide-eyed infants—were gathered outside in their place. Most wore white clothes, the color of cleanliness, purity and knowledge. It was a common belief that the Genja was a gateway to the spirit world, so many wore a dark, greasy tikkal smeared upon their foreheads, hoping to protect themselves from evil Kushin as they bathed in the river.
The palace steps were decorated with paper lanterns of white, saffron, green and yellow, hanging from long chains draped across the courtyard. The white stone elephants standing guard were draped in white and green silk with lit braziers hanging from their gold-capped tusks, the gold caparisons on their heads polished to a near-blinding sheen even on that gray, cheerless morning. Flags hung from tall poles at the edge of the steps, alternating between Jaira’s blue and gold, and the Royal family’s golden star on a crimson field.
When the Rani’s procession emerged from the breezeway and descended the steps, an unprompted cheer rose from the crowd as they beheld their new monarch. The Rani and two of her sisters walked together, all clad in white, hoods pulled down low over their heads to shield their eyes from the bright glare overhead. Behind them came a row of the Royal Guard, nearly a dozen in all, looking imposing with their hard faces and fierce glares, scanning the multitude for any possible threats. On that day they wore traditional headgear, dark black caps with a round brim pulled far down over their foreheads and hard eyes, each decorated with a crimson and gold stripe. All wore a sheathed talwar in their belts on one side, holstered revolvers on the other. Kurien had surrendered his zaghnal for the occasion, but he didn’t look too happy about it.
As the gates opened the Guard exited first, fanning out, pushing back an eager, rapt crowd of reporters and photographers taking pictures and shouting, scribbling down notes at a furious pace. Outside the gate stood a group of representatives from Parliament, flanked by policemen. Most of them were in uniform, but some wore their coats over plain white clothes, trying to balance duty with religious devotion. Kunaia stood at the forefront, looking positively radiant with long, dark hair loose down her back and a cream-white sari with matching ghagra choli, gold thread and pearls sewn into the fabric. Her clothes were far nicer than the simple white saris that the Royal sisters wore with pale, silk tunics, but that fit Kunaia’s character, always needing to put on a show.
“Namak, Rani Priya,” Kunaia said, pressing her hands together and dipping her chin. Around her, other worshippers did the same, echoing the greeting, some bowing especially deep.
“Namak,” the Rani said, hands forward, head bowed. Her voice was quiet, perhaps even a touch nervous. As the others bowed with her, they could hear nearby photoboxes clicking like muffled gunfire.
“You know President Nasari, Speaker Arunly, Chairman Amid, Chairwoman Thota.…” Kunaia named about a half-dozen more, motioned to each person in turn, and they all bowed their heads in greeting. “They’ve come to bear witness to this solemn occasion today.”
Prem spotted Mariander out of the corner of her eye, standing several rows behind his mother. He wore white that morning, but she couldn’t look at him for more than a second before turning away. Her lips throbbed as she took a calming breath, but no amount of breathing could block out her own thoughts, memories of that day in the Police headquarters, and the feeling of his tongue against hers. She forced such thoughts out of her mind, unwillingly—with no telling where or when the attack would come, Prem had to stay on alert.
“Shall we go?” Kunaia said, motioning with one arm in the direction of the Genja, far in the distance. The Rani nodded, so Kunaia bowed her head again and offered an arm for the younger woman to take, all while showing off her brightest smile for the photographers. Together, monarch and minister walked through the crowd. The people parted way for politicians and Royals together, and the guards in both red and blue who followed behind them. The photographers took as many pictures as they could manage, each hoping to take the perfect shot for one of the evening papers.
The solemn procession began the long walk to the Genja. They could see the river in the distance, soft and pale, a physical reflection of the mournful sky above it. Policemen stood watch at each intersection where barricades blocked off the connecting streets. The red-coated Royal Guard was out in force, down nearly to the last man and woman—some of the Guard patrolled the main route, while others watched over the streets from nearby windows or rooftops, but they all numbered far less than their blue-coated compatriots.
As the crowd walked to the river, some onlookers watched from a distance. There were people on their way to work; street-toughs; shoe-shiners; paper-boys and -girls standing perched atop piles of broadsheet copies to sell to passers-by. Cyclists stood and waited for the pious to pass. Some doffed their hats or caps as the Rani walked by, while some even clapped or cheered. Most seemed content to stand and watch their new ruler and the crowd in silence.
The Rani and Prime Minister continued on, their retinue and protection following just behind. The Guardsmen and women kept weapons at the ready, but had orders only to draw them as a last resort. Prem was nervous and excited at the same time, casting her eyes about from one side of the street to the other, to any empty window or exposed roof that she could see. The assassin could strike at any time from any direction, and Prem had to find a way to take her down, but for now it took all of her self-control to keep breathing, to put one foot in front of the other, to play her part in this show she’d concocted with her sisters.
Tradition said that a person should make the walk in silence and prayer, for that day belonged to the gods, who’d seen fit to usher the world into another year. The Kushin were also close at-hand, and some said it was an ill omen to speak too much on that day, allowing any unwanted spirit an opportunity to slip into an opened mouth uninvited. That didn’t stop the Prime Minister, however: “I’m sure it does the people’s hearts glad to see you out and unafraid this morning, Rani.”
“I hope so.”
“Your father showed such strength. It’s good to know that you share that with him.”
Listening to Kunaia talk about their father made Prem want to strangle the woman, but she kept her breathing slow and her steps steady. The crowd continued to swell behind them, but the mysterious assassin seemed content to stay hidden. The Royal Guard standing on the street always came to attention as they passed.
“You’re very kind to say so, Prime Minister.”
“We were so close once.” Kunaia sighed. “I knew Oam from when we were children, back when your grandfather Rhitanshu was still Raj.” The smile on Kunaia’s face was small, almost pleasant. “Sad to think what might’ve been, but he was very dear to me… Very, very dear.” Prem had to admit that the way the Prime Minister walked looked very composed, even elegant—her outstretched arm never wavered or trembled, and every step seemed measured and precise. Prem could see how her father might be coerced by a woman like Kunaia Rao. Just a few minutes in and the woman was chatting away like an old friend.
Prem kept looking upwards, spying for any open windows or uncovered sightlines, but she knew it was a fruitless effort, that no one could cover all possible vantage points. Short of putting Priya in a lead dress, it was impossible to protect her with absolute certainty. With any luck, the combined show of force between the Guard and the Parliamentary Police would scare the assassin away—a flimsy hope, but it was the only thing Prem had left.
“I was surprised to hearing your insistence on participating this morning,” the Rani said.
Kunaia continued smiling, keeping her head high as they walked. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Your father would have never forgiven me.”
“That may be true. My mother probably would’ve preferred your absence, however—if she was still alive.”
The Prime Minister’s face remained composed, but there was a twitch at the corner of one wrinkled eye. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about that.” For the first time, a crack showed in Kunaia’s mask, and her smile looked the faintest bit forced.
“I suppose not. You’ve said plenty of kind things about being so close to my father, which is convenient…considering the only person who might disagree with you just happens to be dead.”
Kunaia almost caught her toe on an uneven cobblestone in the road and saved herself at the last instant. “This is no place to argue about such useless trifles,” she said with some heat in her voice, matching the glower in her eyes. “Have some respect for the dead, child.” But even her anger sounded forced to Prem. The Prime Minister stole a quick look up towards a squat apartment building to their right at the nearest intersection, opposite a tall office building with shining glass windows.
“Well, what can you expect from some wench whose tramp of a mother couldn’t keep her legs together?”
The Prime Minister’s head spun around, her eyes gone wide. When she opened her mouth to protest and tried to pull away, it was Prem, not Priya, who held Kunaia’s arm in a tight grip.
“Or was I the royal slattern?” Prem added, leaning in close. “Refresh my memory.”
The two women—Kunaia Rao, the Prime Minister, and Prem Marantha, hooded imposter standing in her sister’s place—paused in the middle of the street, and the rest of the crowd shuffled to a stop behind them; there was a loud hum of protest, of shouted questions and confused voices. By that point the older woman was shaking with anger. But Kunaia also looked increasingly nervous, unable to tear her eyes away from the squat building on their right, over Prem’s shoulder.
Something twinkled in the air over their heads, drifting in a fast arc, nearly lost against the blinding gray sky. Kunaia’s eyes followed the tiny thing, then she yanked her arm out of Prem’s grip and covered her head just before a great fireball exploded. Across the street, the office building’s windows shattered with a ear-splitting crash. The crowd screamed, pushing and shoving away from the explosion while waves of broken glass rained down from above. The Prime Minister vanished into a sea of white-clad worshippers, keeping her head covered as she ran.
People shouted and ran in all directions, but Prem heard the sound she’d been waiting for: the metallic whistling of chakram in the air. “Get down!” she yelled, pushing away anyone close enough for her to reach—including Priya, standing behind her, disguised in a Royal Guard uniform. The white-robed figure on her right—Prem’s stand-in—crumpled to the ground with three of the round blades stuck through her chest, and a fourth protruding from her forehead like a twisted imitation of a horn.
“On the roof! There!” Kurien shouted. What followed was the rapid staccato of small arms fire towards the corner building, the one Kunaia kept staring at. A figure on the roof lobbed another glass container like a grenade, sparkling like a falling star as it fell straight towards them.
“Anash!” Pranay said.
The body on the street, skewered with bloody chakram, melted into white mist and shot into the air in the blink of an eye. The jinn’s shapeless mass consumed the bottle of incendiary liquid and hung in the air for a brief moment. There was a bright flash of orange and white inside the cloud, followed by a muffled explosion like a cannon firing underwater, while the spirit’s body bubbled and bloomed with the color of burning flowers.
“Watch after Priya,” Prem ordered. She tore off her hood and untangled herself from her long sari, leaving a pile of white fabric in the street. She was dressed in her culottes and a short-sleeved choli already spotted with sweat, since the morning air was uncomfortably warm and getting hotter by the second.
“Prem, what are you going to do?!” Priya said.
“I’ll figure something out!” Prem darted across the street, ignoring the jagged shards of glass that crunched under her sandals. The cloudy mist that was Anash began to ascend towards the bomber’s perch, dodging or ignoring more chakrams being thrown at him. Prem didn’t have the advantage of flight in order to follow, but using Vati’s strength, she leapt from the street at a full run, kicked off a first-floor window ledge and managed to grab onto a second-story molding. She kicked off her footwear and scaled the rest of the distance as quick as she could manage, grabbing hold of the crumbling brick masonry, fingers slipping into the cracks of the old brickwork. The demon’s magic made the climbing child’s play as she pulled herself up before hoisting herself onto the roof, rolling onto her back as she cleared the edge.
She saw a humanoid shape coming towards her, heard a woman’s cry of attack. Prem rolled out of the way just in time to hear the crash of a saber strike the stones where her head had been just an instant earlier. She came up, poised onto her bare toes to leap again, tucking into a rolling flip over the woman’s head, dodging another swipe of the assassin’s weapon. Prem’s leap was good and she timed the distance right, coming down on the balls of her feet within arm’s length of her opponent. Spinning around, Prem thrust out with her palm to the woman’s back, knocking her off-balance.
The attacker stumbled, swinging her weapon around to catch her balance. She carried a tegh, a curved sword with a wider blade than the narrower talwar and a curved guard to protect her fingers. She also wore a wide leather belt around her waist, modified to hold tiny glass vials, each containing a clear liquid—pyroglycerine. It looked like she had more than a half-dozen left, at least. The light in her eyes shone just as Gomati described them, burning bright from the spirit inside of her—it was a spirit of Tejah, a fire demon. She was still clad in gray, but now her head and face were uncovered; dark hair was bound tight behind her head, save for a few strands that hung about her face in thin ringlets.
“I thought it might be you,” Prem said.
“In the flesh.” The woman wasted no time, leaping forward with another attack.
Prem dodged one swiping cut, taking a large step to her right, then dancing back the other way. Her subterfuge during the parade meant leaving her kukris behind, but Prem had a single bichawa—a short, curved dagger as long as her hand—secreted into the waistband of her shorts. She pulled it out, took a fighting stance with both clenched fists below her chin like a musti-yuddha boxer, and sized up her opponent. Prem was shorter in stature and had the shorter weapon, but seeing how the woman’s eyes darted back and forth, how she stepped forward and then back again, the way she set and changed her stance several times—it made her look uncertain or inexperienced in spite of the zealous gleam in her eye and the excited smile on her face.
“You’ve been following me.” Prem circled away from the building’s edge, walking carefully in her bare feet across the rough concrete surface of the roof. “You killed Gomati. You knew I’d be eavesdropping on your conversation with Kunaia. You wanted to kill me, not my sister—I’m your ‘royal bitch.’”
“Figured out all my plans, have you, Sachin?” The woman laughed. “Think you’re so smart, do you?”
Prem shook her head, never taking her eyes off of her opponent. “I don’t know what you’re planning next, and I really don’t care. But you’ll need more than some fireworks to best me.”
“I can do better than that.” The other assassin shifted her stance yet again, eyes burning, teeth bared in a wild, surreal smile.
Prem brought up her hands again. “Prove it.”
Both killers went on the attack. Their conversation continued—not one of words, but of blades and bodies, a language of violence that always demanded a quick response. Whenever the assassin swung her sword, Prem twisted to one side or the other, the strikes sometimes so close she could feel the breeze of the blade pass across her skin. One time it was more than a breeze, leaving Prem with a stinging crimson line stretching nearly from wrist to elbow. Her blood stained the stone and mortar under her feet, but it was a surface wound, little more than a distraction and a sting to Prem’s ego.
The tegh’s blade glanced off of Prem’s bichawa hard enough to draw sparks. Prem used her blade mostly for protection, struck with her fists instead and the other woman took each blow, but only in places where the pain seemed negligible: the side of an arm, the palm of her empty hand, the tightened center of her belly.
“Stop!” Anash’s voice distracted more than it helped, and Prem started, a rookie mistake.
The fire-eyed woman took advantage of that with a hard strike with her fist against Prem’s ribs, driving some of the breath out of her. “Here, catch,” she said, shoving the pointed end of her tegh between the bricks, plucked two glass vials from her belt, and threw them at the jinn as a bright spark flashed from the tips of her fingers. The motion was so fluid and quick that Prem would’ve missed it if she’d looked away.
Anash opened both hands and caught the volatile projectiles, but the impact was too sudden for one of them, which exploded and set off the other bomb right behind it. The jinn vanished in a deafening shock and a bright explosion.
Prem was thrown back by the force of the blast, rolling across the roof until she crashed into a rusting air-cooling machine. Somehow, she kept hold of her knife. “Are you insane?!” she shouted, pushing up to her feet. Her shorts were torn and her shirt already had holes burned through it.
“Only motivated, Sachin,” the woman said. “You can thank yourself for that!”
“You’ll bring the whole building down underneath us, you idiot! Am I worth dying over? I’m nobody special!”
“You deserved to die a long time ago! Today, I’m going to make sure it happens!” The assassin pulled another vial from her belt and threw it underhanded at Prem, eyes following the tiny bomb as it arced between them.
Prem was out of space to dodge, so she ran toward her opponent instead, ducking under the explosive projectile. The woman rushed towards her, sword raised. Another blast shook the roof as Prem deflected one tegh slice and cartwheeled away from the other one. In her empty hand, she scooped up a handful of crumbled gravel and concrete dust, landed on both feet and threw it up in the killer’s face.
Her opponent gave a momentary flinch, and Prem grabbed the woman’s sword arm before smashing her forehead into the assassin’s face, the same move she’d used on the Battalion soldier. As the other woman reeled and took a step back, Prem yanked hard on the belt buckle at the assassin’s waist, trying to unfasten it, hoping to take away the woman’s most potent weapon. The belt refused to come off, and their eyes met. “Too slow,” the woman said. Her nose was broken, and she bared her teeth in a bloody smile. The fire in her eyes flashed before her entire body burst into flames.
Prem turned and ran, diving behind the rusted condenser, calling on Vati’s magic at the same moment that the woman’s body ignited from the power of the demonic presence inside of her. The vials of pyroglycerine burst and the explosion had such power in it that Prem felt the entire building shake underneath her. Her clothes were consumed in the blast, superheated and turned to ash. Her dagger turned white-hot and tumbled to the stones. Prem turned to water again, but she boiled and hissed, turning to steam as her body started to lose its very solidity. Prem screamed so loud from the pain that if she’d had a throat and a physical body, her vocal chords might’ve ruptured from the strain. Chunks of concrete, rebar and old masonry were blown into the sky and smashed anything they touched when they came crashing down again; some pieces flew so far that they landed in the river. Other parts of the roof buckled and gave way with the sound of shrieking metal and shattered glass.
Through sheer force of will and with Vati’s power, Prem somehow stayed conscious and held her watery body together as the force of the blast faded, leaving fire and smoke behind. She couldn’t hear anything, but she could see the other woman, now a creature of living flame, fleeing from the black crater she’d left behind. She leapt from the edge of the building and jumped across the alley to the next structure, trailing more smoke behind her, leaving smoldering, oily black footprints in her wake.
“Prem!” The ringing in her ears left her nearly deaf, yet Prem somehow heard someone calling her name. She turned, spied the street below and the solitary figure standing there, looking up at her. It was Mariander, a stunned look on his face. For only a second, they stared at one another. Then he gestured in the direction that the fiery creature was fleeing. “The Rani’s safe! Go on!”
Prem and Vati were one again, and now they had prey to catch. With quick, flowing steps like the dancer she’d been a lifetime ago, Prem—Sachin—gave chase, leaping from the crumbling roof over to the next building, following the flaming footsteps. Her quarry retreated from the Golden Way with the Genja on their left, heading deeper into the city center. The street below looked like something out of a nightmare: the force of the explosion had blown out every window for blocks, and the street shimmered like water from all of the broken glass. Concrete dust, shredded metal and fluttering paper were strewn about in all directions. Prem saw some pedestrians brave enough to come out of their hiding places, pointing up at the monsters running across the rooftops, but most ran for their lives, too busy to look back.
The fiery creature up ahead leapt down to the street below, and Prem followed. She was too far ahead for Prem to reach her, but close enough that the other assassin could throw a long jet of flame backwards, which Prem easily dodged the first time. On the second, a car engine caught in the crossfire boiled over and exploded, but the shrapnel passed right through Prem, never even slowing her down.
The line of taller buildings up ahead ended and the Waterback came into view with its squat buildings and cheerless, gray façade. Of all the places she could have returned to, Prem never expected it would be there. The flood waters hadn’t fully receded yet, and now they boiled under the fiery woman’s feet, burning right down to the uneven paving stones.
Prem’s next move was instinctive, beyond deliberate or conscious thought: one moment she was at one end of the flooded street, and her body melted into the floodwaters; the next moment, she rose up right in front of the other assassin. Prem lashed with water and fist together, striking her enemy in the chest. Steam billowed around them as her blow went right through the target, the fire burning even brighter in response. That fire wasn’t hot enough to vaporize Prem, not when she had the river’s water to feed her, but more steam swelled around them while the water under their feet spat and sputtered.
Once both physical blows and magical might proved to be useless, their fighting devolved to grappling instead. They coiled around one another, embers searing and water scalding. The fiery creature breathed her flames on Prem, trying to turn her to more steam and ash, but Prem was unbeatable while they were surrounded by the standing floodwaters. She drew the river into herself, swelling in power, growing in size and strength. Prem wrapped her liquid body around the woman to contain her—it was a curious feeling, becoming so full and heavy with the river’s power, smothering the other assassin and choking off her flames. The heat Prem felt was excruciating, beyond any sort of pain she’d ever experienced before—it seared her from the inside out, and she felt more of her body boiling, dissolving, reforming. It felt like dying, contained inside one long moment of agony.
The fire was burning from inside of the woman, from the Kushin that controlled her, but no spark could live without oxygen to feed it, and Prem could feel the heat fading. “Stop fighting,” Prem said. Looking inside of herself through the flames, she could make out the feminine features of her enemy, the smooth cheeks and bright, desperate eyes. “You’ve already lost.”
The fire sputtered, still flickering with a stubborn hope, but it had no fuel left to feed itself with and finally went out. The two women collapsed together in the street, flesh and blood again, but the fight wasn’t over yet. They struggled and grappled again, only now their naked bodies slithered and slid against each other as they fought for control. Now Prem had the advantage—she was smaller, but also stronger, faster, more experienced. Physical strength and cunning would decide the victor now.
It ended when Prem came out on top, pinning her opponent face-down in the street. She wrapped one hand around the woman’s neck, then grabbed hold of her soaked hair with the other hand. The other assassin choked, coughing from the liquid in her throat and the pressure on her back. Vati’s spirit was resolute: the woman had to die. Prem agreed, but she couldn’t kill the woman just yet. “You’ve been following me for days,” she said. “Before I kill you, tell me your name.”
“You already know my name.”
Prem clenched her jaw and tightened her grip. “Your name. Talk!”
The assassin tensed up, curled her hands into fists. “How can you not know who I am?”
“How am I supposed to know who you are? Tell me!”
“Chanda.” The tension went out of the woman in a soft, trembling sigh. “I’m…Chanda.”
Prem growled. “I want your real name.”
“That is my real name! I’m your Chanda!” The assassin gasped and spat out a mouthful of dark phlegm.
A sickening feeling sprouted in Prem’s gut, while a hot flash spread across her brow, leaving something foul-tasting at the back of her mouth. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not going to trick me.” Prem kept talking, waiting for Chanda to burst into flame again. “Just because you might know some secrets about me—’’
“Secrets? You think this is about secrets?” The other assassin found the energy to struggle, but she couldn’t break Prem’s grip in spite of her new fury.
Prem shook her head. “I told you that you’re not going to trick—’’
“It’s not a trick!” Chanda slammed a fist into the water with a snarl. “Idiot! It was summer and too hot to sleep. We stayed up for hours that night. I told you about my parents selling me and let you wear my ivory bracelet. You told me your name, about your mother’s jewelry, and your dancing silks, and your demon and how much you wanted to go home.” Chanda spat in disgust. “Isn’t that enough to convince you? Shall I tell you where your birthmark is, too?”
Prem couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could hardly bear to speak. “No,” she whispered. Prem was cold again, but now it was a familiar sensation—it was Vati’s will filling her up, preparing her for the kill. To him, a name didn’t make any difference. There might be a thousand different Chandas in a city the size of Bhai Mandwa. But the cold was spoiled by a white-hot sickness spreading through her with every heartbeat. Prem couldn’t kill her prey yet. More questions sprang up in her mind, and Prem needed answers. “Why? Why do you want to kill me?”
When Chanda started laughing, it sounded more like a sob. “Because you deserve it. You said you were my friend, then spoiled everything good that I had before you left me. You ruined my life! All I wanted to do was return the favor!”
“No. That’s not true. I went back for you, tried to find you again!”
“You abandoned me!” Chanda thrashed about, reaching up in vain with clawed fingers, seeming less to want to break free and more to hurt Prem in any feeble way that she could. “You killed Nivas. If you had any idea what his men did to me after you ran away, you’d beg me to kill you right now. You should’ve killed me instead. Why didn’t you kill me, you stupid…selfish…self-absorbed…bitch?!” Chanda’s insults devolved quickly into heaving, heartbroken sobs.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Prem didn’t know what to do, except that if she let Chanda go the other woman wouldn’t stop until one of them was dead. “You killed that little girl,” she said. “You left her body for the Police to find; you left those newspapers and the message. You wanted my sisters and I to be told about it.”
Chanda mustered the energy for another short, harsh laugh. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to get your attention.” Chanda choked again, her body shuddering. “It…worked.”
“You were watching me at the Red Eye Temple.”
Chanda began to gag from how hard Prem was choking her, and had to lay very still to catch her breath. “And…at the warehouse. And more than that. I’ve been…following you…for a long time.”
“How long have you been following me?” When Chanda didn’t answer, Prem pressed on: “Why didn’t you attack me before today?”
“Because I wanted the right moment.” Chanda clenched her teeth, her entire body tense, waiting for Prem to ease up for even a second.
“What do you mean?”
“I could’ve killed you whenever I wanted. But that stupid witch wanted your sister dead.”
“So you held back.” Prem fought against her surprise, against the sudden urge to let her grip go slack. “Why wait so long?”
“I didn’t hold back! I almost managed it when you four were torturing that old fool, the one with the earth spirit, and feeling so pleased with yourselves at capturing him.” Chanda laughed again. “I failed then…but I knew today was coming and how it would hurt them to watch you die right in front of them. Just like how it hurt when you abandoned me.”
“I thought you were dead,” Prem said. “I thought I lost you.”
“Liar!” Chanda tensed up again, growled, but either lacked the energy to struggle again or was waiting for a better opportunity. “I wanted them to suffer like I suffered. I wanted that so, so much. I wanted to savor every second of their misery before I burnt them all to ash.”
“You guessed I’d spy on Kunaia that night, at Parliament House. I heard you talking to her.”
“Of course you did,” Chanda said with more spite in her voice. “I knew you’d go there—a blind beggar could’ve seen that. All this time, you’ve been so predictable.”
“But how did you know?”
“I’ll never tell you now.” The other assassin twisted around with a burst of energy, reaching a clawed hand up at Prem’s face.
Prem felt a bright shot of pain bloom around her left eye. She snarled, shoved the woman’s face into the water for a long moment, then pulled her up again as Chanda lay spitting and sputtering. “You did all of this because of me?!” When Chanda didn’t answer, Prem curled her fingers tighter in the woman’s hair, squeezed her arm even tighter around her neck. “Talk!”
“Yes! I told you—you killed him and abandoned me! Are you as stupid as you are cruel?” Chanda kept thrashing even when Prem pushed her face back into the stagnant water, ticking seconds off under her breath before letting her adversary up for air.
“Nivas was a monster,” Prem said through clenched teeth. “Don’t you remember what he did to you? What he did to both of us? You went through all this for some kind of revenge over a waste of flesh like—!”
“I was his favorite!” Chanda wailed and let her head drop, now sobbing bitter tears with such violence that she started to retch. “He loved me. He loved me! I was his favorite girl, and he loved me, and you stole him from me because you were jealous! Why did you do it? Why?!?” Chanda’s ragged crying shook her entire body.
Prem remembered Nivas’ gap-toothed smile, his voice, his grabbing hands and greasy skin in the dark—it all came flooding back, filling Prem with such revulsion that she wanted to retch herself. The rain clouds in the sky finally proved to be too full, and a muffled rumble of thunder rang out. In moments a cold, New Year’s rain was falling. The strength in Prem’s arms nearly faltered—she had no idea of what to say as she listened to Chanda’s wretched weeping. Realizing just how warped the woman’s devotion to Nivas was, the depravity she’d suffered and the depths she’d gone to for revenge, left Prem at a total loss for words.
“You…” Chanda sniffed, turning her head away for a moment. Prem could feel the woman’s jaw flexing, tightening. “You killed him, you bitch—and I’ve hated you for every day since then. I swore I’d make you pay if it was the last thing I did.” Prem’s grip had loosened enough to let Chanda turn her head, and she looked up over one shoulder. “Maybe I can’t kill your sisters now, but I can still kill you.”
Chanda grabbed Prem’s wrists, fingernails splitting the skin, drawing blood as they dug in deep. She twisted her head around further and grinned, showing a small lead vial secreted in her cheek. When Chanda bit through the soft metal with her teeth, clear liquid bubbled over her lips as a one last flash of fire shone in her eyes. The chill of the grave swept over Prem as her body began to change. At the same moment, the pyroglycerine ignited.
The force of the blast blew Chanda to pieces as an explosion erupted in the Waterback. A dark plume of black, acrid smoke began to rise into the gray, cloudy sky as the heavens poured out their bounty.