The trail of red droplets wound through the snow like beads on a string, each one gleaming bright, bloody crimson against the white drifts. Boris's boots crunched through the ice as he tracked the thin scarlet thread, following it over the great helves of snow, across the frozen pond and into the woods; his breath fogged in the frigid morning air as he stepped over branches and twigs, each heavy footfall spooking birds in the trees overhead as he pursued the trail that would have been invisible to anyone else, but stood out starkly in his vision, like splashes of paint on a blank canvas. It was fresh, the vivid red of well-aged wine, and that meant whoever had made it wasn't far away.

An animal, surely. But his sixth sense still tingled. The last time he'd seen something like this…

He was being paranoid again, of course. That was a long time ago. Besides, now he had his ever-faithful hunting companion – the long-handled axe that dangled from his right hand, silver and glowing in the winter sunlight; it was wickedly pointed, designed to smash and pierce, a weapon in every right. Only the most inexperienced woodcutter would mistake it for a workman's tool, but if the fierce design wasn't enough, the rusty speckles on the blade spoke of desperate battles long past. It gave him a threatening, medieval look, like a knight in thick-furred armor, and provided a measure of safety that eased his anxiety in places like this, places that reminded him of that day not so long ago. But that time was gone, and no knight would have been able to replicate his agility as he vaulted nimbly over a snowdrift, darted across a fallen tree, made his careful way down a steep hill, navigating the frozen landscape with a grim, focused energy. All the while, he kept the axe close, counting on its icy steel to protect him from whatever lay ahead. If it should be the enemy…

He ducked under the reaching claws of a maple tree and, at last, saw the trail of droplets widen and stutter out – the source was close. He tightened his grip on his axe as he peered between the trees, searching the winter landscape, ready for someone to burst out of the underbrush – but then his eyes slid down to a hollow in the trees, and he realized he hadn't been following an enemy at all. Or, for that matter, a person.

It was a dog, a big grey husky, nestled in between two dead trees and shivering hopelessly in the cold. At first Boris wondered if it was an attack dog, and the blood trail was from a fresh kill; but then he saw the gore slicked across its dark grey fur, and the black-feathered arrow jutting from its left leg, beads of blood oozing silently down the shaft. The dog looked up at him and whined pitifully, ears flattening. It was obviously in pain.

In that moment, it didn't matter how hardened and tough Boris thought he was; when confronted with any animal in such a pitiful state, there was only one option. Boris dropped to his knees, hastily setting down the axe. He held out a hand, and the dog sniffed it experimentally, then permitted him to ruffle its ears; he pet it for a while, to reassure it he wasn't a threat (obviously this was the only reason, and not because its fur was soft and fluffy), before studying the arrow. It looked like a hunter's shot, perhaps a glancing blow meant for an animal the dog had been chasing. But Boris couldn't fathom why the shooter would have left the poor beast to die, alone and suffering in the cold. Who could be so cruel?

Whatever the case, there was no way he could leave it here – his conscience wouldn't allow it. He slung his axe across his back, then slid his arms under the dog; it yelped in alarm, struggling and kicking his arms as he lifted it into the air. Then it calmed down, sniffing him curiously as he carried it out of the woods like an infant. Its nose was wet as it pressed its snout into his palm, seeking attention; he fluffed up its ears, forcing himself not to smile as it licked his hand. He was only taking it back to the cabin to patch it up and find a new home for it, that was all. His uncle would never allow him to have a pet.

The axe clinked on his back as he navigated the thick hills of snow towards home, his fur jacket and hiking boots outlined in the harsh morning sunlight. It was cold here, as it always was, and the only animals visible in the trees were the ever-present crows and ravens, hissing and squawking as he ducked under branches and picked his slow way towards the rising smoke in the distance; another clue that would have been lost on someone without sharp eyes, as it blended in nicely with the muddy grey of the clouds. Boris craned his neck, estimating the distance –

"Put the dog down."

Boris stopped in his tracks. The voice had come from the woods behind him, the sharp syllables of the local Russian dialect; as if on cue, the dog whimpered, nuzzling his hand fearfully. Whoever had just spoken, his new friend didn't like them much.

"It's hurt," he said, matching their Russian with his. "I'm taking it to be cared for."

"Put it down."

Boris turned, scanning the woods for the speaker. He only saw a dim shadow between the branches, but he knew the voice; his grip tightened unconsciously on the dog's fur. "No," he said. "I'm not leaving it to die."

"And if it had been bait for an ambush?"

"Then I would have dealt with it."

"Don't be a fool, Boris." His uncle stepped out from the shadows, a hunting crossbow slung over his back. "You would have been dead the moment you put down that axe."

"Uncle –"

"Quiet." His uncle's beetle-black eyes studied him coldly. It was a familiar look; Boris had seen it almost every day for twenty-two years now. He saw it each time he slipped up during training, butchered a move, lost his footing; he saw it when he forgot something from his lessons, or couldn't remember a name; he saw it when he put baby birds back in trees and tended to wounded deer. It was a look of utter disappointment. "Repeat after me. I will never let emotions compromise the mission."

Boris looked at his boots. "It wasn't an ambush. I wasn't in danger –"

"Say it."

"I will never let emotions compromise the mission," he said dully.

"And why is that?"

"Because the enemy plays on our emotions."

"And what does that lead to?"

Boris stared at his shoes.

"What does it lead to?"

"Death," he mumbled.

"Good. Now set the dog down."

He lowered the squirming dog to the snow. "It's going to die, Uncle."

"And why do you care? It's not part of the mission. It's none of your concern."

Boris stared down at the dog. It gazed back at him with those bright blue eyes, whimpering quietly. In that moment, a terrible possibility occurred to him. His uncle's crossbow… "Did you shoot it?"

"Why do you care?"

"Did you hurt it just to test me?" He met his uncle's eyes, trying to be strong even as his heart threw itself against the back of his throat. It couldn't be true. "Why?"

"Because you're soft." His uncle stared back at him, his expression as cold and unreadable as the snow. "You're soft, and soft people are the first ones to die. That's how war is. The Templars will have no mercy on you. If I don't harden you now, the Templars will, and let me assure you now, Boris – you don't want that."

"But we're not fighting a war."

"Yes we are!" His uncle's bark made Boris jump. "We've been fighting a war all our lives, boy, and someday you'll be a part of it whether you like it or not. You might as well accept your fate, because if you don't, you'll end up like that poor beast at your feet, now won't you?"

Boris looked at the dog, and felt his heart well over. The look in its eyes as it gazed up at him, the utter trust and love and helpless devotion, was too much to bear. "Uncle, don't make me leave it here."

"You're not going to leave it."

Boris's heart lifted. Oh, thank God.

"You're going to kill it."

And his heart fell into his feet.

Oh, no. Oh, please, don't make me.

"I – Uncle, I can't –"

"Yes you can." His uncle moved forward, taking the axe off Boris's back. He held it out to Boris, the blade gleaming in the sun. "Come on now, make it quick. I'm getting snow in my boots."

"I – no –"

"Take it, Boris."

Boris took it. His hands shook as he gripped the axe tightly, fingers clenching on the well-worn handle; suddenly it seemed a thousand pounds heavier, the head weighed down like concrete.

"Raise it, Boris. You know how it's done."

He lifted the axe above his head, shaking violently. He couldn't do it. "Don't make me." It came out pitiful, pleading. "Please don't make me."

"Do it, Boris." His uncle watched him, eyes glittering. "Be a man. This is what men do."

And then it came, the ultimatum, the last word of any argument:

"This is what Assassins do."

For one moment, Boris Torvald tried to steel himself, hands tightening on the axe handle. Be an Assassin, he told himself, but his heart screamed. Be an Assassin. You can do it, just one stroke and it's all over. You're going to have to kill people someday, killing a dog should be no problem.

But this isn't what real Assassins do, a voice murmured in his head. Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent, isn't that what your mother taught you when you were a little boy?

With great effort, he pushed that voice aside. His uncle was an Assassin, and that meant he knew their tenets inside and out. If he said this was right, then it was. This was right. This was what he had to do.

The dog looked up at him, whining in terror; it tried to rise, but fell down again, whimpering. It stared up at him as he readied his axe, blue eyes drilling into his, begging for its life – and in an instant, all his icy resolve fled.

He dropped the axe and backed away, trembling all over. "I can't do it. I'm not – I'm not a killer. I'm sorry."

"You damn fool." His uncle calmly picked up the weapon, brushing snow off the blade. "I shouldn't have believed in you all these years. I took you in because I thought I could make something out of you – I thought I could make an Assassin out of you, an Assassin who could live up to your parents' greatness." He spat in the snow. "But I see now that was a mistake. You don't have what it takes to be the heir to your family's legacy, no more than this dog does. Do you understand, Boris? Do you know what that means?"

"Uncle, I –"

"It means you don't deserve to call yourself an Assassin. And that makes you the enemy. That makes you one of them."

"I'm not a Templar, Uncle." He knew he sounded pathetic, but he had to try. "I want to fight them. Really."

"Oh, you want to fight? The little boy wants to be a man now? Then watch how a real Assassin kills." And with one quick, smooth motion, his uncle reared the axe over his head and swung it down.

Boris didn't know what came over him. Maybe it was a sudden rush of desperate, reckless courage, knowing now that he had nothing to lose; maybe it was a burst of strength as he realized that a helpless creature was about to be killed before his eyes. Whatever it was, it made his limbs lunge forward almost against his will, his body shooting from the snow like a bullet to dive at his uncle and tackle him into a drift in a burst of white fluff. The axe went flying off into the wilderness, the blade still clean; the dog set up a howling of alarm and tried to scramble to its feet, frightened but very much alive. Somehow, miraculously, he had saved its life.

Boris lay stunned on top of his uncle for a moment, panting, his breath fogging in the freezing air. He had never moved that fast, not even in training. How had he done that?

"You." His uncle's voice issued from the snow beneath him, and for a moment Boris was startled; his tone was almost wondering. "You…"

And then, to his dismay, it filled again with rage. "You little piece of shit!"

Boris flew to his feet, scrambling to find his axe; but, unable to find any trace, he scooped up the dog instead and took off running, pounding into the wilderness and leaving his shouting uncle behind. It was all he could think of, to get away as fast as he could – his uncle was not kind in his usual mood, and his anger was volcanic. The only comfort was that the dog was safe, happily lolling in Boris's arms and licking his hand contentedly; he was surprised it was so cheerful, given that its leg was still gently dripping blood into the snow, but apparently the joy of being rescued outweighed the pain from its injury. At least it was still alive.

Behind him, his uncle's voice rang through the trees: "You'll be back, Boris! And I'll make sure you regret this!"

He didn't plan on going back there, not for a long time. Boris slowed down, gasping, to catch his breath; his throat burned like acid in the cold air, and his lungs were on fire. The dog, however, was having the time of its life, merrily slapping its tail against his chest as it beamed up at him. "At least you're all right," he said, ruffling its ears. "Don't worry, I know somewhere we can go. You're safe now."

The dog licked his fingers, fluffy tail wagging.

"I don't know what you were called before, but I suppose you'll need a new name. How about Baron?" Boris gently lifted the dog, checking its underparts. "Oh – my mistake. Let's call you Lady, then, shall we?"

Lady barked happily.

"Well, that's settled." Boris hugged the dog gently as he stepped through the snow, following a new trail; he was heading to the one safe place he knew, the one place his uncle, in all his apparent omniscience, had never found. He could thank God for that. The man already had enough reasons to hate him, and if he ever discovered this… well, it wouldn't be a dog getting the axe that time.

But he won't find out, will he? Boris stroked Lady's ears. We're never going back, you and I. We'll just have to figure it out.

He had tried to escape from his uncle before. Whenever they had a particularly nasty fight, or some terrible encounter like this one, he left the cabin, promising himself it would be for good this time; he went into town with the intention of never going back, settled down, found a job and tried to start a life. But inevitably, his uncle arrived – sometimes a week later, sometimes a month – and, wordlessly, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to the cabin. And it was like nothing had ever happened.

Not this time, though. Boris vowed it to himself. This time he won't find me. I'll hide well this time, I'll lie as low as I know how. He won't be able to find me ever again.

He didn't care about any of it. Not the Assassins and Templars, not the great war, not the clash of freedom and control or the legacy his parents had left him – none of it. More than any of that, he just wanted to be left alone. But his uncle would never allow it. "You're going to be a part of this whether you like it or not," he would say, whenever Boris begged for a break day or a jaunt in the town, just the smallest escape from the constant, brutal regimen. "You can't just walk away. The Templars knew your parents, and they weren't happy to learn they had a son. The only reason you're alive now is because I'm hiding you here, but I can't do that forever, and if you ever venture too far away from me you'll be killed faster than you can say freedom. Once they figure out where you are, they will come after you, and you'll have to be ready. You're a Torvald, and you'll never be allowed to forget it."

He hadn't forgotten. Besides, after all of that tempering and training and bruising and bleeding, he was ready now. He could fight, even if he couldn't yet bring himself to kill. Wasn't that enough?

He stepped down from a snowdrift, and there it was; the familiar dirt road, barely visible as it cut its unsteady way through the snow. He followed it, toting the dog along and wondering how he was going to explain himself this time. This place he was going to now, this secret little part of his world – it was the only thing in his life that his uncle had never touched, and he wanted so badly to keep it that way. It was his one secret, the one thing he had managed to keep hidden all this time. He needed to be careful. When his uncle came around looking for him, as he always did, he would need to take precautions. He would find a better forger, pick a more indiscreet name, change his clothes, his accent, his eyes…

The house came into view, cradled between an oak tree and a rusty red pickup truck half-buried in the snow; it was a comforting sight, and seeing everything just the way he remembered it made the anxiety fade away, to be replaced by longing. It had been so long since he'd let himself visit here, so afraid was he of his uncle finding out. What would be waiting for him behind that door? Surely not joy, surely anger or frustration or pain. He braced himself for the worst as he stepped up onto the familiar welcome mat with its singing bluebirds, brushing the snow and mud off his boots. Anything could happen now, anything at all, and none of it good.

But when he knocked gently on the door, and hovered there on the doorstep clutching the dog to himself like a shield, it only took one second before it flew open like a shot.

"Boris!" An almond-skinned man stood in the doorway, beaming radiantly, every inch of his face alight with happiness; in that moment he could have lit the whole of Russia, and have a little left for Siberia. "You sly bastard, I thought you had left for good this time. Do you know how worried I was? I almost tore apart the block looking for you."

"Yosof." Boris nearly dropped the dog in his relief. "Yosof, you have no idea how happy I am to see you. I was so worried –"

"Shh. Not here. Inside." Yosof waved him into a small, cramped kitchen, closing the door behind him. "How are you? Did he hurt you? Tell me you're all right."

"I'm fine. Just bruises again." Boris patted the dog. "And this."

"I was about to ask." Yosof chuckled, surveying the cheerily panting dog in Boris's arms. "Have you brought a little stray home?"

"My uncle shot her, then tried to get me to finish her off. I couldn't bring myself to do it." Boris gently set Lady down on the kitchen floor. "She's got an arrow in her leg, I was hoping you could –"

"Of course." Yosof rushed to fetch medical supplies. "It's good to see you again, Boris. Despite the circumstances."

"I'm just glad you're all right. You know I worry about you." Boris watched as Yosof pulled out the arrow and quickly began dabbing the dog's leg with alcohol, staunching the bleeding. "Yosof, you already know what I'm going to say."

"Yes, I do." The man wrapped Lady's leg in clean linens. "You ran away from your uncle again."

"Forever this time."

"Mm-hm." Yosof didn't sound convinced. "You said that the last eight times."

"I know, but – I can't forgive him this time. I can't just pretend this didn't happen."

"But you will, eventually." Yosof secured the bandage, then smiled tiredly at Boris. "I've accepted it, now. I know that you won't stay here with me."

"Can't. Not won't."

"If you say so."

"It's only because of him, Yosof, you know that. We've talked about this. If he wasn't in the picture –"

"The same excuses, too." Yosof washed his bloodstained hands in the sink. "You really haven't changed, have you?"

Boris looked at him hopelessly. "Yosof, I wish things were different. I really do."

"I know." Yosof dried off his hands, then leaned down to stroke Lady's fur. The dog's tongue lolled out happily. "Are you going to keep the dog?"

"Well, I don't know anyone else who can take care of her, and I'm not sure where my uncle got her from in the first place." Boris smiled slightly. "And I did always want a dog."

"Problem solved, then." Yosof gently rested a hand on Boris's shoulder. "Come on, Boris. We have some catching up to do."

"You mean we're still…?"

"Of course we are. I could never stay mad at you." Yosof rested his forehead against Boris's. "As much as I want to throw you into a snowdrift sometimes."

"Well, at least you're honest."

"Mm." Yosof slipped his slender fingers into Boris's thick, calloused mitts; it was obvious from their hands alone who was the watchmaker and who was the hardened Assassin-in-training. "When you're here, that is. Which isn't very often."

"Such loving words." Boris closed his eyes, his soul calmed by Yosof's presence; even after everything that had happened today, he could relax now that he knew his secret was safe. His perfect, beautiful secret. "I missed you, darling."

"I missed you more." Yosof kissed his cheek, dragonfly-soft. "You haven't shaved in a while, have you?"

"Always have to nitpick, don't you." Boris held his hands tightly, needing to feel his warmth; a part of him still didn't quite believe he was real. "We have so much to talk about."

"Later, darling. Later." Yosof nuzzled his nose fondly. "I only want you right now."

They kissed in the morning sun, leaning against each other, delighting in their forbidden togetherness after so long apart. Despite the gentleness of their touches, soft kisses pressed against each other's necks and quiet words shared, there was something joyfully nasty in it, a savage affection, taunting the world that could no longer harm them with their happiness – at least for now. Tomorrow would be a different story.

"I wish it could always be like this," Boris murmured, when they broke apart.

"Let's not talk about that right now." Yosof tugged on his hands. "I want to make the most of our time. In case this doesn't last forever."

"It will, darling. I promise." But both of them knew it was a lie. There would always be something keeping them apart, something that ruined their plans; whether that was Boris's uncle, or Yosof's mother, or the law, or the season, or the year. It was always something, and that would never change.

But at least we have today, Boris thought, as he poured out orange juice and arranged the table for breakfast. Yosof cracked eggs into a pan on the stove, humming cheerily; they brushed hands as they fetched silverware and hunted for ingredients, silent promises to each other. Lady was sitting up now, wobbling on her injured hind leg as she watched them move around the kitchen; clearly she sensed the possibility that food would soon appear, and her pink tongue dangled out when she heard the pan start to sizzle. "Not for you," Boris said, ruffling her ears. "Omelets aren't good for dogs."

"Oh, she can have a few bites. She's had a rough day." Yosof tossed a few scraps of bacon to the dog, and she snapped it up joyfully. "You'd want some comfort food too if someone shot you with an arrow."

"I probably would." Boris closed his eyes, his mind at peace; this was the life he always wanted. Being with Yosof, fixing the pickup truck while the watchmaker fixed his tools, making breakfast in the mornings and making love at night. This was a perfect, beautiful life, and he was cursed to never have it for long. Because his uncle would come for him tomorrow, or the day after that, and drag him right back to the Assassins and the training and the beatings that were supposed to toughen him up but only made him cry himself to sleep.

But he wouldn't think about that now. He took a swig of orange juice, then coughed. "When did you buy this? It's spoiled."

"Oh, whoops. That was the carton I mixed some vodka into." Laughing, Yosof took his glass. "Don't drink it unless you want to be tipsy by dinner."

"Why would you mix vodka into orange juice? That's horrible."

"Shockingly, some people like that combination." Yosof kissed his cheek fondly. "I know you only drink the highest quality cocktails, but some of us have to make do."

"If you count whiskey mixed with mouthwash as a cocktail, then yes, I'm living the high life."

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Have you met me?"

"I missed you joking about your crippling depression. It was getting far too cheerful in here for my taste." Yosof tossed his omelet over the fire. "Don't you think you should see someone about that?"

"About what? Living in actual hell? I don't think they can prescribe something for that."

"What is your uncle so determined to train you for, anyway?" Yosof opened a drawer and fetched a spatula. "Why does he think you're in so much danger?"

"…I don't know." Boris knew perfectly well, but there was no sense in worrying him. Not when the poor man had so much to worry about already. "Maybe he's just crazy."

"I think we've established that much."

And then Boris's sixth sense tingled. There was something, a niggling little feeling… He stiffened, casting quick looks around the kitchen. Nothing moved except Yosof and Lady.

Yosof frowned, noticing. "Everything okay?"

"Something's wrong."

"Oh no." Yosof let go of the omelet pan. "Is it your uncle? Did he find us?"

"No…" Boris massaged the back of his neck, trying to flatten the hairs down. "I don't know. I feel funny. Like something's happening."

"Should we check outside? It might just be an animal passing by –"

"It's not that." Boris opened the front door. "I'll be right back."

"Darling, wait!" Yosof hastened after him, grabbing a fireplace poker that leaned against the doorframe. "Where are you going? Take me with you."

"It might be dangerous –"

"I don't care. I'm tired of you leaving without me all the time."

Boris sighed. There was no time to argue. "Okay, but stay close to me and do whatever I say." He tugged the fireplace poker pointedly out of Yosof's hands. "And don't wave this thing around, you'll get yourself killed."

"Well, what if we get in a fight? I need something to bash skulls with."

"Here." Boris pulled a dagger out of his boot. "Take this."

"Whoa, whoa!" Yosof took it and stared at it, aghast. "Since when have you been a walking armory?"

"Since I was jumped in the woods four years ago. Now follow me and stay quiet." Boris dropped down to a crouch, his steps soundless on the snow as he crept forward. Yosof hastened to mirror him, dagger at the ready.

"What are we looking for?" he whispered.

"Trouble."

They snuck through the woods side by side, Boris silent as a ghost, Yosof stumbling and cracking twigs on occasion. Boris made a note to himself to teach the man some stealth. They're going to hear us a forest away if we go in like this. If his uncle had taught him anything, it was that you never underestimated –

And then he stopped. His heart grew cold in his chest. "Oh no."

"What?" Yosof stared at him, bewildered. "What is it?"

"Look." Boris pointed to the clotted grey sky, and Yosof followed his gaze, then gasped. There was no need to communicate what it was, because both of them knew, but Boris said it anyway: "Fire."

A pillar of smoke was rising in the distance, thick and dark; orange sparks flickered from a distant blaze, throwing eerie shadows over the snow. This was not a small blaze, a campfire gone awry – no. This was a bonfire, and it only took Boris one cold, horrified moment to realize what they were burning.

"Damn it to hell," he said.

"Oh, no. Don't say it."

"They're burning the cabin." He broke into a sprint, tearing through the woods like a whirlwind; Yosof bolted after him, keeping up with him easily. If there was one skill they both shared, it was knowing how to run, because they'd practiced it a thousand times. You had to be fast when there was the possibility of a mob kicking down your door on any given night, or Templars leaping through the windows. Not that Boris had informed Yosof of that second possibility.

They ripped and slashed their way through the forest, running as fast as their feet could carry them, and the gunpowder smell of smoke soon tinged the air; and then the heat grew as they neared the cabin, and beheld the apocalypse before them.

The house was in flames, blazing like a torch in the midmorning sun; Boris scanned the wreckage desperately, trying to pick out what remained, looking for any sign of the culprits. But they had long gone, judging by the scattered footprints and tire tracks stamped into the snow.

"Your uncle," Yosof said, coughing on the smoke. "Where is he?"

Boris focused hard. It wasn't always easy, but every once in a while, he'd get flickers, insights, little clues; and just as he'd sensed the cabin burning, now he sensed a presence off to his right. He leaped over the burned-out fence, picked his way through rubble, and there he was.

His uncle lay sprawled out on a pile of wreckage, still and lifeless, like a broken toy. At first Boris thought he must be dead, but then the man's head moved slightly. "Boris," he croaked.

Boris rushed to him. Much as he hated the man, much as he resented the beatings and drills and abuse, this was still his family, and he did not hesitate to crouch down in the rubble and cradle his uncle's head, pressing a hand to the bloody wound in the man's side that he knew in his heart could not be healed. "Uncle." His voice broke. "You're dying."

"Ovinkaifeck." His uncle spat out a clot of blood. "Hel Kronsky. She knew your parents. Kept your legacy safe. Find her."

"What are you talking about?"

"I trained you. I raised you to be strong. I wanted you to hate me. Too late for apologies… You're ready now." His uncle grasped Boris's wrist tightly. "Go, Boris. They're coming."

"…I will, Uncle."

His uncle sighed, and rested his head in the ashes, and moved no more.

Quietly, Boris rose. He made to dust off the ashen handprint on the sleeve of his jacket – then stopped, and let his hand fall. His heart was deeply torn; he had hated this man, despised him for keeping him prisoner here and for all his many cruelties. But his uncle had also kept him safe this long. How could you love and hate someone all at once?

Yosof came up behind him, stepping carefully over the rubble. "What do we do now?"

"We can't stay here." Boris looked at him, and felt a self-crushing love for him. "Yosof, there's a lot of things I haven't told you about me, but there isn't time now. I have to leave the country. My uncle told me where to go."

"What about the house? Our life?"

"There are people who wanted my uncle dead, and now they'll come after me. If I stay here, they'll come after you, too." Boris looked at his boots. "If you don't want to come with me… there's still time. You can still be happy, and live a normal life, and settle down somewhere nice, and find someone who makes you happy. You'll put yourself in danger if you –"

"I'm coming." Yosof squared his shoulders. "I don't know what's going on, but if running away means I can be with you, then I'm coming whether you like it or not. You can explain on the way."

"…You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." Yosof took his hand gently. "I love you, Boris. I'm staying with you. Always."

Boris shook his head. He wanted to say no, but there was no way he could look in those loving eyes and tell him to take the next train to France without him. So instead he said, "This bleeding heart of mine will get me killed one of these days."

"Not this one, I hope." Yosof tugged on his hand. "Come on. If we're leaving, we should hurry. We'll take the truck, and bring Lady with us. You just tell me where to go and we'll go there." He kissed Boris's cheek. "Together."

"Yes." Boris turned his back on the remains of the cabin, steeling himself for what lay ahead. "Together."

They left the ruins behind, hand in hand, united for the first time in a long time. There was a brief moment, when they reached the house and opened the front door, when Boris seriously considered slipping sleeping drug in Yosof's vodka-spiked orange juice and taking off in the middle of the night; and then he discarded it, because at least, if Yosof came with him, he would always know the man was safe. And that thought led him to pick up a toolbox from the garage and head outside to fix the pickup truck while Yosof darted around the house, packing their life into suitcases. It was the last time they would see the house again, and he found himself lingering over silly, small things; the pictures on the walls, the plants in the living room. It would never be like this again, he knew. Their life here, sweet though it had been, was long over.

But at least they still had each other. That, in itself, was more precious than any picture frame.

After several minutes of swearing, kicking the tires and struggling with rusty bolts, Boris finally determined that, contrary to its rusted-out appearance and general state of advanced decay, the old pickup truck still ran. It took him a few tries to get it going; at first it just sat there growling angrily, the engine turning over and over. Finally Boris got frustrated and smacked the engine with a wrench, and it roared to life. Well, that solves one of our many problems.

"So what is this Ovinkaifeck we're looking for?" Yosof asked, helping Lady climb into the backseat. "Do you know?"

"No, but it sounds like a village, or a town. I'm sure we can find it." Boris climbed into the driver's seat and turned on the radio. "And I have a name, too. Hel Kronsky."

"Kronsky… never heard of her." Yosof leaned against the car door, grinning up at him. "You know, I was thinking I would drive."

"You thought wrong."

"Look what a loving couple we are." But Yosof clambered into the passenger's seat anyway, mock-grumbling. "What's next, you're going to make me be the navigator?"

"Search for Ovinkaifeck."

"Oh, sure. Make the half-Indian man handle the technology."

Boris grinned as he pulled out of the driveway. "Are you calling me racist?"

"Hey, you said it, not me."

"You do realize that a racist person probably wouldn't have dated you for this long."

"Maybe you're a slow-burning racist."

"Yes," Boris said, stepping on the gas; the truck barreled down the dirt road, heading west. "Because I'm definitely a slow-burning, gay racist."

"Hey, you never know." Yosof tapped at the screen of his phone. "Okay, all I get for Ovinkaifeck is some farm about six hours from here. That doesn't seem right."

"Well, it's our only lead. And it's not that far away."

"Six hours isn't far?"

"Do you have any better ideas?"

Yosof sighed. "Maybe I would if you explained what's going on."

"I might as well, since you're involved now." Boris watched the trees slide by out the window. "Against my better judgment, of course."

"Naturally." Yosof reached over and started to massage his shoulders, working out the knots. "So who was your uncle, really? Let's start there."

"My uncle's name is – was – Mir Torvald. He was part of an Assassin death squad –"

"A what now?"

"Okay, backing up even further." Boris took a slow breath, arranging his thoughts. "The Assassin Order is an ancient group of freedom fighters, dating back centuries. They have special powers, like a sixth sense called Eagle Vision, incredible speed and agility, strength. They use concealed blades, stealth and blending abilities to make kills, assassinating tyrants and people who abuse their power. They use their own powers to fight for humanity's free will and independence from tyranny."

"So… good guys?"

"Let me finish." Boris turned left, the truck's tires clattering on the road. "Their sworn enemies are the Knights Templar, a similarly ancient group dedicated to bettering humanity through control and the removal of free will. They try to gather artifacts of power to further that cause. The Assassins get them solely to keep them out of Templar hands, because in those hands they are infinitely dangerous."

"Bad guys. Got it." Yosof frowned. "So why was your uncle so awful to you, if he was one of the freedom fighters? One of the Assassins?"

"Like I said, he was part of a death squad. Elite Assassins, trusted with high-level kills. And one day, he was given the chance to take out a very powerful target."

"Which was?"

"I don't know, and he never told me. All I know is that he failed, and got his entire squad killed in the process. He was exiled from the Assassins as a result. But he was my father's brother, and my father always felt bad about the decision, so he convinced a mentor to send a few novices his way. That way my uncle could still be involved in the Assassins, at least peripherally, by training recruits and passing on his skills. And it worked out for a while."

"Until?"

"Until my parents were killed at the hands of Templars."

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. You always said it was a car crash."

"Yes, well. I say a lot of things."

"So all that training your uncle gave you…"

"He lost his novices after my father's death, and the Order itself went very incognito – I'll tell you why in a minute. With nowhere else to turn, and no other purpose left for him, he turned his training skills on the only promising novice he had left – his brother's son. Me. He raised me to be an Assassin after my parents died, because he wanted me to follow in their footsteps."

"And who were your parents?"

Boris closed his eyes, marshaling his words carefully. "Two of the greatest Master Assassins the world has ever known, who had the misfortune to fall in love."

Yosof watched him thoughtfully. "If anyone else told me a story like this, I would laugh in their face. But I know you're not kidding."

"At least you don't think I'm crazy. That's a good start." Boris rested his forehead on the steering wheel, exhausted in a way he couldn't explain. "Yosof, I'm running from the Templars. They know my last name, and they're determined to kill me so I can't do what my parents did before they died. Bring the Knights Templar to their knees."

"…And are you going to?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you going to become an Assassin, and fight them like your parents did?" Yosof looked at him eagerly. "Rise to the rank of Master, turn the tide of war?"

Boris stared at the steering wheel. "No."

"Why not? They're trying to kill you – us, now – and you have the training to fight back against them. You can stop them from hurting other people the way they hurt your uncle."

"No." Boris stepped hard on the gas. "I won't."

"Then why are we going to Ovinkaifeck? Why do any of this?"

"I'm going to see if Hel Kronsky really knew my parents, and can give me anything that was theirs. Not to become an Assassin, or fight in this war, or any of it."

Yosof reached out and tucked hair behind his ear tenderly. "I don't want to make you do anything, Boris. If it were up to me, I'd do just what we were planning all along – run away, buy a house somewhere, and live together forever. But it sounds like the world needs you. You can't ignore that call."

"I can, and I will." Boris set his jaw. "I've listened to my uncle long enough, I've let him boss me around. No one will ever have that power over me, ever again."

Yosof kissed his ear. "You're cute when you're fired up."

"Stop it. I'm not cute."

"Yes you are."

"I am the night. I am darkness. Fear me."

"You're adorable," Yosof teased, as Boris glared at him. "You're just a big cuddly teddy bear with emotional problems and daddy issues."

"I do not have –"

"I looove you." Yosof snuggled up against him contentedly. "You scary Assassin, you."

"If you don't stop cuddling me I'm going to smash this car into a tree."

"My big strong Assassin." Yosof closed his eyes. "And now you can't ever leave me, because you have to keep me safe from the Templars. See how I've got you cornered?"

"I hate myself and you." But Boris kissed his hair fondly. "I love you too, darling. Now stop distracting me and let me drive."

"Does that mean you're going to think about it?"

"Being an Assassin?" Boris sighed. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, maybe is better than no." Yosof closed his eyes. "Mind if I use you as a pillow?"

"Yes, I do mind."

Yosof fell asleep on his shoulder anyway, and Boris idly ran a hand through his hair as he drove, thinking about Assassins and Templars and destinies and danger. Was he really ready for this? He'd spent all his life running from this war, trying to change his last name and hide himself and Yosof away, but now it was impossible to ignore. The Templars were coming for him now – he couldn't just brush them away. What did that mean for him?

I'll see Hel Kronsky, he decided. I'll hear her out. But I'm not promising anything beyond that. The moment I get the Templars off my tail, I'm finished with all of this. I'll never get involved with it again.

And yet the gentle warmth of Yosof's head on his shoulder, their hands twined together on the dashboard, made him remember what it was he was fighting for.