Excerpt: Personal Choice

A weapon is a personal choice.

Some prefer the cold steel and distance of a gun, others the slow infiltration of poison. Some prefer to feel the last breath of their mark as a dagger is plunged deep or the snap of bone as a neck is twisted too far.

Iiona wasn’t picky.

Whatever it took to get the job done was fine with her. Because to Iiona, killing wasn’t personal.

It was just business.

Her finger slid down the cold steel blade, over etched spirals and words, stopping only when it reached the sharp tip. A drop of red blood appeared and dripped to the ground. She pulled up her pant leg and pushed the dagger into her boot.

The party had been kicking for at least an hour before she had arrived. It had been easy to get in. A flash of some skin, quick fluttering of the eyes and a promise of more to come had won the doorman over.