The sound of the blade breaking came as a terrifying surprise. One second, Marcus was as good as a dead man, pinned against the truck with a silver-tipped knife inches from his throat. The next, the air seemed to fold in on itself.
There was a sudden, violent rush of wind, a cold blast that smelled like mountain herbs and ozone. Before anyone could even blink, the assassin who had Marcus pinned down and was about slicing the silver blade which smelt like it was coated in wolfsbane was crumpled on the concrete floor, his poisoned blade snapped into two useless pieces of metal.
Marcus staggered back, his hands flying to his neck, gasping for air. He looked at the floor, then at the space where the assassin had just been. He was alive, but his brain couldn't process how. He had been moved,
