I. PROLOGUE

The first time they had her kill an innocent man in cold blood she went outside afterward and threw up in the street.

Who this man is, is not important. What is important is this knife on the table. Use it. Kill this unimportant man.

She has no problem with self-defense. If it's between his life or hers, she chooses hers. The thing is, he is unarmed and unaware; she is hard pressed to convince herself that this is self-defense at all. But it is her test, her final challenge, and they all know it. If she is capable of this she is capable of anything and they will never question her loyalties again.

Kill this unimportant man.

She grips the knife and buries it into the man's neck up to the hilt.

Welcome to the Covenant.

They welcome her to the team with broad smiles and open arms, bathing in the glow of their newest rising star.

Unparalleled instincts make her their best contract killer, calculated shrewdness makes her their most cunning asset. While her left hand lulls you with scintillating charm, you never even hear the right hook coming. Pride is in her posture, in the way her eyes command everything they land on. And that power feels good and invigorating and she holds it in the palm of her hand.

She lifts her chin in the air and smiles.

To beat the villain, she needs to become the better villain. She needs to become invincible. Emotions are a weakness, a liability easily exploited.

But some nights, she is alone. Sometimes, she is afraid and alone and it is a harrowing thing to experience and for one brief infinitesimal moment, the dam breaks.

Here comes the flood.

It begins quietly at first with the pounding of her heart. Sweat collects in her palms and behind her knees. She has to gasp in order to breathe. She fights the screams building in her stomach, chest, and throat, the screams that fill every part of her being. Anxiety and grief claw inside her, warring with each other for dominance, but terror is stronger than both. She breathes in and does not breathe out. The terror grips its hold, racks her body, seeps through her veins, and it is fear and it is thunder and it is shaking and it is the physical manifestation of her reality.

She is alone. She is seven years old and fragile and crying in the dark and all she wants is to wrap her arms around her father's neck while he rocks her to sleep.

But she is alone. The silent teardrops sting most bitter when she's alone.