Author’s note: The term ‘witch’, as used here, is an ignorant term for one who does things in a way that is not understood by the speaker. The views held by the characters as regards these ‘witches’ is by no means that of the author, and the characters themselves would likely hold a different view were they more informed. No offense is meant.

Paris

She had been able to find some icky-looking water, which tasted even worse than it looked, but not even a crumb of bread was to be found. What did the other kids, who lived here, eat? She hadn’t been able to ask one. They kept running off when she saw them, or making angry faces and telling her to go away… Her stomach twisted in knots.

She knew she was getting sick. Her nose was all sniffly, and her skin was feeling hot even though she was really cold. The icky water just made her throw up, and feel even more miserable. She was lost and alone and sick, and she wanted to go home. But where was home? Where was Erik, the big strong man who had told her he was going to be her father now?

She curled up next to a cold piece of gray wall, and cried herself to sleep.

The demon slid through the air, curling up in its smoke like, formless fashion around his master. Unintelligent, yet affectionate. Bodiless, yet self-satisfied.

“She isss here, Massster,” he sighed in his hissing voice.

“You have done well,” the master’s deep voice rumbled. “She is being followed?”

“Yesss, Massster. But the Guardian isss far behind. There isss plenty of time.”

“Then call in Jasis and Brukal. I want them on hand to whisk her away as soon as enough of her blood is spilled to convince the Guardian that she is dead.”

“Asss you sssay, Massster.”

“They are not to strike until she is weak enough. Do you remember the last half-breed we took? Kobrian?”

“A ssstrong one, Massster. But nothing for usss to fear now.”

“He turned a simple abduction into a battle, and he was only a child! I actually lost one of my best warriors… to a half-human child.” The master’s voice had grown

slow and dangerous.

The demon shivered uncomfortably, wishing to be gone, not wanting to be the target of that smooth, silky anger. “Of courssse, Massster. They will wait until she isss asss weak asss a wind-tossssed leaf,” he purred.

The master nodded, relaxing. Slightly. “What do the Dark Angels think of all this?”

“They have imprisssoned Rramaan, Massster. Michael believesss he isss to blame.”

“Michael is a fool,” the master snapped. “Always has been, always will be. But Rramaan will serve well as a scapegoat. They aren’t planning to execute him?” A note of true concern entered his voice.

“Not yet, Massster. They wait to find the child’sss body, and then they will execute him.”

“Damn,” the master muttered. A brooding expression took him, and the furrowed brow of intense concentration. “I will have to deal with that later. What of the Light Angels?”

“They join the Deathwalkersss in the sssearch. But they are foolish. They look everywhere but the direction she hasss gone. Only the Guardian will know where to go.”

“Good. You have your orders, then, so get out of my sight. Out, out!”

The demon slunk off and vanished, leaving a few smoky wisps where he had been. The master, Lucivar, Prince of the Fallen, picked up a table and threw it at the wall with all his considerable strength, watching with only faint satisfaction as the wood smashed into splinters.

“Damn!”

Paris

Night had come and gone again, and with the dawn had come a cold, relentless rain that soaked us to the skin and chilled us to the bone. Thandre shivered, the sound of his chattering teeth replacing the easy conversation of most mornings. Claude moodily poked at the drenched ashes in the firepit. I paced the perimeters of our territory, watching anxiously for our packmates to return.

We were social creatures, not meant to be apart from our band of brothers for long, and the lonely number of three was grating on all of our minds. What if the others did not return? It was possible. A street kid’s life is in jeopardy every time he steps outside of his pack’s territory.

“Phillipe’s pack,” Claude muttered, half to himself. “Never had ‘ny trouble with them a’fore.”

“Maybe th’ rain washed away th’ street, an’ they can’t find their way back,” Thandre offered. Time wasn’t up yet, but they should have been back by now. “Or maybe they’re fightin’ a whole pack war all by themselves over that half’a bush’l. Or maybe th’ rain made all th’ potweed wet an’ Phillipe’s boys it next ta th’ fire ta try an’ save it, an’ it started smokin’ jus’ as our boys got there, an’ they’re all sittin’ together right now, stoned as Hell, singin’ kum-bye-ah. “

Claude snorted. “Or maybe an earthquake op’ned up a huge chasm b’tween Phillipe’s turf an’ ours, an’ our boys ‘re busy buildin’ wings so they can fly over it.”

Thandre looked thoughtful, completely missing Claude’s sarcasm. “Maybe…”

“Or maybe,” I broke in, “Harq thought th’ potweed was spinach, an’ gobbled it up, an’ what’s takin’ so long is that Jean-Pierre is still busy lecturin’ him ‘bout it.”

Claude smiled. Harq’s fondness for greens had led to many humorous situations, including an episode where he had eaten poison ivy, mistaking it for grapeleaf. And Jean-Pierre, who thought it was his most solemn duty to instruct and correct the youngest of our pack, was as famous for lecturing the poor boy about green as Harq was for eating them.

I wish I were with them,” Thandre mused. “I’d cut Jean-Pierre’s lecture short!”

“Oh yeah?” I took the bait. “An’ how d’you intend ta shut that windbag up?”

“By standin’ behind him an’ makin’ faces, no doubt,” Claude said with a knowing look.

Thandre looked hurt. “Yeah… So?”

I groaned. Not the thou-hast-wounded-me look… “Alright, diff’rent subject. I’m freezin’, an’ I feel like a drown’d rat. Does ‘nyone else, or is it jus’ me?”

“We should probably go below, b’fore th’ streets start ta flood,” Claude nodded thoughtfully.

“What ‘bout th’ others?” I wondered. “If we go below, they won’t be able ta find us when they get back. Won’t be noon for another couple hours, they’ll be here.”

“Dak, in a few hours, our firepit will be a lake. ‘Sides, I thought ya were cold.”

I shrugged, jerking my thumb at my twin. “Not so much me as him.”

Thandre smiled uncertainly, his teeth chattering all the louder.

Claude considered. “You two wanna go below, an’ I’ll wait for ‘em?”

I shook my head. “I’ll watch. We don’t need ya catchin’ th’ chills an’ goin’ outta commission for a while. If there is gonna be a pack war, we need you at yer peak.”

Claude reluctantly agreed, and the two of them disappeared down the nearest tunnel to the underground network. We weren’t really sure what it was for, this random maze of water and stone, but it had been built long before the wars and still survived, so we figured it must be safe.

We retreated there in times of rain, snow, and unbearable heat, and always its labyrinthine passages had protected us. There were tunnels that were known only to Claude, who had explored the place with a singleminded intensity that would have surprised anyone not familiar with his ways. Thandre would be in good hands down there, safer than a secret at the bottom of a lake.

Rramaan pondered, distantly aware of time passing, but time meant nothing to him. Trapped in a frozen hibernation with only his mind wandering free, he had all the time in the world.

Have children’s minds all grown so strong these days? He mused. Two I’ve tried, both strong enough to be the one I seek. Or have I misjudged? Will the one I seek be stronger by far?

Curious, he reached for another of the child-minds clinging to the quiet stillness.

That mind, of the same strength as the previous two, was going to crack soon from pressure and strain. Pain and fear still clung to Rramaan like a residue from that place. He prayed that that tormented soul was not the one he searched for. Because if it was… Damn the Abyss and all its demons… If it was…

Azaen frowned slightly as Kaeros tromped through yet another muddy, moss-ridden marsh, tearing vines and foliage from his path. Azaen had vanished his wings, for convenience and out of common sense, but Kaeros was too proud of being what he was to even relent that much. Once-black plumage trailed after him, caked with mud and woefully waterlogged.

“Are you sure she came this way?” Azaen asked, slogging after his brother-in-arms.

“It’s green,” Kaeros grumbled, eyeing a fist-sized insect menacingly. “Kids in the

Wastelands love green.”

Azaen shrugged. He personally didn’t think the little mixed-blood girl had been here, in all the moist, muddy bogs and smothering humidity, and they hadn’t seen any tracks. But at least they were looking for her, and that should satisfy Michael. Looking was better than babysitting, in his opinion. He thought Kaeros would agree. They were Deathwalkers, damnit! The wrath of God personified, to be visited on the Fallen, the condemned! Lost children were not their specialty.

“Maybe we should have talked to the Guardian before setting off,” he suggested, just to make conversation.

“Naw,” Kaeros returned, grappling with a small tree that had decided to grow where he wanted to pass. “What would a mortal know that we couldn’t surmise in a matter of minutes? Kids go towards color. This is color. She’s around here somewhere.”

“If you say so,” Azaen sighed. “It’s too bad we already caught the Grey that ran her off.”

“Yeah.” A deathshield expanded around Kaeros for a fraction of a second before flickering back into nonexistence. The stubborn treeling fell over, withered and lifeless. “I’d rather be hunting Lucivar himself than chasing after a runaway mortal child.”

“Don’t see why the child’s so important. Sure, she’ll be something more than human when she’s older, but she’s still mortal. Her powers will be a pale shadow of the least we can do, and then she’ll grow old and die. We don’t need her. “ Azaen helped Kaeros remove the dead plant, and together they trudged through more knee-deep mud.

“Michael’s crazy,” Kaeros agreed. “It’s the Light Angels that should have an eye out for mixed-bloods, looking for Dark ones to be their counterparts. What do we Darks care for a mixed-blood Light child? We have our pick of strong, powerful Light Angels to fight at our sides; a mortal with frail talents means nothing to us. But to the Lights, who had so many of their Dark counterparts turn to the Grey during the Fall…”

“Maybe Michael’s thinking about the rules,” Azaen mused. “Having to drag captured Greys to the prison for sentencing instead of being able to kill them on the spot and all. A mixed-blood wouldn’t be bound by the rules. They could hunt and slay Greys to their heart’s content!”

“You mean to Michael’s heart’s content,” Kaeros pointed out, only half teasing. “But your theory is flawed.”

“Pray tell?”

“A Light becoming a killing machine?”

“Okay, so maybe we keep an eye on this kid and hope another mixed-blood, a Dark, shows up somewhere. We find this hypothetical Dark mixed-blood, make them counterpart to the Light girl, and voila! They go and kill Greys, as a fully powered unit.”

“Nifty. Covers just about everything.”

Azaen looked at him and raised an eyebrow. That was one thing he liked about this corporeal form; the nuances of the facial expression amused him to no end. “Nifty? What kind of a word is that?”

Kaeros snarled and raised his useless, filthy wings in a menacing gesture. “I can use turns of speech that won’t be popular for another couple hundred years if I want to!”

“Popular? My dear brother-in-arms, that word is never going to be popular. Used? Yes. Hailed as the harbinger of coolness? No. You, my friend, need a new vocabulary. Or at least a new word.”

And they worked their way through the swampy marshlands, pressing on ever northwards.

An Assassin is a one-man army. He does not ask permission to do what he knows needs to be done; he simply acts on his own judgment and accepts the consequences. He does not have to consider what might happen if one of his allies makes a move too soon, or not soon enough; he has no allies but himself. An Assassin is the leader of a one-man pack, and that is why he receives a tattoo.

Assassin work is never lonely, for an Assassin cannot allow himself to feel emotions when he is on assignment. He is a cold, deadly mind who also happens to carry a weapon. Never can he afford to be distracted, even by himself. Especially by himself.

But when the Assassin is not killing… When he is among his packbrothers and those he has pledged his life, his soul, the very essence of his being to protect at any cost… He is a living, breathing, feeling human being. And because of the depth of his commitment, perhaps a little too human. And I, not used to being alone when I wasn’t hunting, was rather disturbed.

Suppose some terrible thing happened while I was gone, and Claude and Thandre never came out from underground alive? Suppose Alexis, Victor, Jean-Pierre and little Harq all met with a steel blade and never came back from their mission? Suppose I was left the lone survivor of our strong and successful pack and truly became Leader of a pack of one? The thought frightened me more than the possibility of my own death.

The rain and the cold were beginning to creep towards my lungs, so I stood up and paced for a while, to drive away the chill. I could not see the sun, but I guessed there to be about two hours left until noon. What would we do if the sun reached its peak, and there was still no sign of our packmates?

Claude was right, our campsite was a lake. Because the ground sloped to its lowest point here, Claude’s predecessor had decided to make it the pack’s main firepit. The roll of the land prevented the light from stretching more than twenty yards in any direction. Unfortunately, it also flooded heavily during the rainy season. Ah, well. A downside to everything.

In any case, that was how I came to be standing in ankle-deep water at the edge of our territory a few hours prior to noon on a rainy day. And that’s how it was that I saw the girl.

Now, I had just seen my first girl streetkid a few days ago, and the novelty of seeing a young female wandering the pavement struck me hard. Girls don’t have to fight for their lives, unwanted and uncared for in the ruins of the mother city. Not to be crude or anything, but the simple truth is that if a woman is willing to sell, there’s always going to be some man willing to buy. Mothers can afford to support daughters until they’re old enough to pay their own keep. Sons are useless. Who needs a boy? Maybe a man or two, for heavy labor in the fields and such, but not boys.

So we fight, we kill, and we die, until only a very few survive to adulthood each generation. The balance is maintained, and life goes on. What was this girl doing here? A streetkid, like the Grecian girl? I was curious. And because I was curious, and because I was not at all wary of leaving my pack’s turf, I followed her.

She was not a woman of the popular profession; she was far too young for that, even younger than I was. Her tangled, matted hair was golden, her clothes were rags, and she wore no tattoo that I could see. And I highly doubted she was an Assassin. As she walked, she hummed a little tune under her breath and never bothered looking around, with the air of one completely at home.

Was this her pack’s territory, then? This was Torri’s turf, and Torri was a Finder. His pack scoured the streets for grain, fruits, useful vegetation, and ancient weapons. Some of the things they found still worked. When they did, Torri would sell them to the highest bidder. Claude didn’t allow him to do the same with foodstuffs. After all, our pack protected Torri’s from their other, less even-tempered neighbors. We deserved a little compensation.

If this girl was one of Torri’s packmates, I had certainly never seen her there. And I usually didn’t miss much.

She rounded a corner, and I hesitated for a moment. Torri’s firepit was right around that corner. If I came straight up to the Finders, hot on the girl’s heels, with no explanation, I could count on a confrontation. Not only would that be extremely rude of me and cause dissatisfied relations to set more on edge, but it really wasn’t necessary. I didn’t need to go barging in, or to go in at all. I wasn’t on assignment, just curious.

It occurred to me then that I could satisfy my curiosity and keep good relations with my neighbors by directing my questions to the sentry, instead of to the pack. But where was the sentry, and why hadn’t he found me already? I was taking no pains to conceal my presence, and the girl I had followed hadn’t exactly been discreet.

My suspicions mounting, I searched along the borders of Torri’s territory, hoping to find the sentry on some other part of his patrol. I didn’t find the sentry. What I did find was enough to make my heart leap.

“Harq!”

I cannot begin to describe the incredible joy and relief that swept through me when I recognized his curly red hair and faded denim jacket. Harq! Youngest, smallest, and everyone’s favorite to dote on, even as he was our favorite to pick on. Jean-Pierre’s avid pupil, Thandre’s adoring fan.

Harq! I wanted to race forward and scoop him into my arms, shouting my incredible delight to whoever would listen. I wanted to hold him close and twirl around in a dance of ecstatic glee. Harq!

Except that when I got closer, I could see that there would be no singing or dancing, not now or for quite some time to come. My smile faded, my heart thundered, and my breath caught in my throat as I tried to make myself believe what my eyes insisted was the truth.

Harq was dead.

Death is a funny thing. You can see it every day, all around you, even be the cause of it, and shrug it off. After all, death happens. Sooner or later, everyone is going to die, and what does it matter if it happens sooner rather than later? And who cares about those people, anyway? Strangers, all of them, and most of them are probably stupid, or clumsy, or arrogant stupid idiots, or sniveling weaklings who deserve to die. Nobody gives a damn.

But when a child, a smart, funny, sweet-natured child who is as close to your heart as a younger brother, meets his end before his life has truly even begun… It does something to you. You stop thinking rational thoughts for a moment, or thinking at all, and find yourself staring blankly at nothing, numb.

Harq… My mind slowly processed. Harq is dead. Gone. Just like that. Not murdered, no, not anything like that. Just dead, like he fell over and that was that. His eyes, open and unblinking, were bloodshot and rolled up into his head.

Dead. I walked towards the camp in a daze. Harq was dead. Torri should be told. A body on his turf. Harq’s body. No Harq, just his body. Just his empty, cold body with the red hair and freckles and the dimple in his left cheek…

Oh. The camp. Yeah, there it was. Right in front of me. There was Torri, lying down for a midday nap in the freezing rain. And Victor, Alexis, and Jean-Pierre all curled up together against the cold. And Jason, Henri, Michelle, and Louis, Torri’s packmates… Why was everyone sleeping? And why was that girl awake and rummaging through Alexis’ jacket?

“Hey!” I protested, the sound of my voice slamming me back into reality. The girl looked up, saw me, and took off running. I don’t know why people run away when they feel trapped, or are discovered doing something they shouldn’t, they just do. Don’t they know that when they run off it’s like an invitation to chase, tackle, and interrogate?

I sprinted after her, not real certain why I was chasing her, other than the fact that she ran and I couldn’t resist the instinct to chase.

Somewhere around this point, my mind began to comprehend what my eyes had seen, and on some level, I realized that they were all dead. Dead, like Harq was dead. But this girl wasn’t dead, and by the Deities, I was going to make her give me some answers.

I caught her by her clothes and sent her sprawling.

“What do you think - “ My mind blanked out for a second as I looked at her. Did I know her from somewhere? Surely I had seen her before… Angel, a strange voice within me whispered. I blinked. “What were you doing, robbing the dead?!” I demanded.

She didn’t answer, just tried to scramble back up. She looked at me in the most peculiar fashion. Her eyes were bloodshot, too. I made sure I was in her way, if escape was what she was thinking about.

“I said - “ I broke off my sentence and instead let out a yelp as an incredibly painful kick was delivered to my shin. Naturally, the girl took this opportunity to escape, and as I had some misgivings about limping after her and repeating the episode, I stayed put.

Who was she? Angel, Angel, Angel. Definitely not an angel, I decided. If she was responsible for the deaths of my packbrothers, not to mention Torri’s entire pack, she had to be a witch. Only witches can kill without leaving a mark, and voices whispering in your head are a sure sign of sorcery. The laws of the street are very clear about dealing with such creatures.

Witches must be killed.

How long had she been without food, or water? Was she hurt? Sick? Was she possessed by a demon and completely unaware of her peril? Greys hated mixed-bloods, even more than they hated humans. Half human, half Angel, and given by birthright a freedom from the rules that the Fallen had always coveted for themselves… How far would they go to kill a helpless young girl under Michael’s very nose? He knew the answer to that. As far as they had to.

It had been years, decades, since Erik had last spoken to a child of the streets. He thought he remembered how it worked… Thinking carefully, he tried to remember as many of the daunting amount of explicit and implied laws of conduct and speech as he could. And then, there was the knife-edge dance between formal and informal. Ah, how little those who thought of the streetkids as uncivilized barbarian children truly knew… The children of Paris had, perhaps, the most complex and sophisticated culture in a hundred-mile radius. Maybe a two-hundred-mile radius. But the basics were hard to forget; be polite, look threatening, and watch your back.

He stopped the first young urchin he came across.

“Your pardon, if you will. Have you seen a small girlchild, a few years younger than yourself, come through here? Gold hair, blue eyes, sandals on her feet?”

The streetkid looked him up and down, paying special attention to the sword at Erik’s hip. Rasshah, it was called, after the bitter cold land far to the north, where the blade had been forged. It never left his side.

The boy shrugged, running a hand through close-cropped black hair. “Dunno that I’ve seen ‘er, Swordsman. Don’ get many girls this way, not th’ younger ones, leastways.”

“I thank you for your cooperation.” Was he doing this all wrong? He had expected a formal greeting, and this child’s easy informality seemed inappropriate, since he was a stranger. And did he detect a slight inflection on the title the boy had chosen to use for him? “Do you know of anywhere that such a girl might go, or someone else who might assist me in my search?”

The boy shrugged again. “With this rain, I’d say look jus’ about ‘nywhere dry, an’ you’ll find ‘er. Might check in with Claude’s pack, if yer brave. They stay pretty dry durin’ th’ rains, but burn me if I know how. Sorcery, maybe.”

“My thanks for your warning.” Sorcery, witchcraft, evil spirits, curses… All things streetkids took very seriously. It would be a man’s final mistake to laugh or scoff at any of them. And maybe he was overdoing the manners a little, but that was better than accidentally giving offense. “Where might I find this Claude of whom you speak?”

The streetkid made a vague gesture. “That way. You jus’ ask whoever comes outta th’ shadows ta glare at ya where ta find ‘im, an’ ya should be fine. ‘Nythin’ else?”

Erik shook his head. “You have told me much, and I am grateful.”

The boy bowed. “Part then on your way, Swordsman, and may food and shelter never be far from you. Your comings and goings are yet told by the oldest of us, and shall not be forgotten by those newer to this earth.” He bowed again, and trotted off.

Erik stared after him, eyebrows raised in surprise. So that was why he got the informal treatment. The streetkid didn’t consider him a stranger - he was a campfire tale come to life! Interesting, that these children still told tales of his younger days. Swordsman, they called him, just like the Darks and Greys who had faced him in battle. The human who had turned the rules upside-down and played them like a harp. And Paris still remembered. He would have to keep that in mind.

Dragonkeep

“I thought you said the Guardian was far behind,” the master rumbled in irritation.

“Yesss, Massster. Ssseveral daysss. He mussst have walked day and night, like a man posssesssed, to be ssso close ssso sssoon.”

“Hmm. Move quickly, then. Kill all who might help the Guardian piece together the truth in the aftermath. Push the streetkids to act faster. Use them to our advantage, if you can. But be discreet; Paris is a large place, but not large enough to hide blatant intervention.”

“Of courssse, Massster,” the demon purred. Now that he had been given free reign, within the rules, he felt much more confident and relaxed. Even a little happy. “Anything elssse?”

“Yes, one more thing. Have Shemal bring Kobrian to me. ‘As is’. I want to see how our little gem is coming along.”

“Asss you command, Massster.” The demon breathed out of being and disappeared.

Fortunately, there was one male who saw right through the veneer of physical attractiveness, straight down to the twisted, ugly shadows of her soul. Prince Lucivar, who was also perhaps the only one of the Fallen whose beauty exceeded her own. He had the devious, arrogant mind to match. Shemal found herself respecting him. After all, it was Lucivar who had noted her talents in causing pain, and he had seen fit to put her gifts to use.

Her pet and plaything, the half-breed child Kobrian, stumbled after her on a leash. Half-healed scars chased each other along his exposed skin, accented by vicious-looking, fresher wounds. Shemal knew that the ones beneath his clothing were far worse. And, unlike some of the other NewMethod trainers, she did not believe in Healing.

She paused and bowed slightly when she entered the Hall, and the Demon Prince’s presence. “My Lord.”

He turned and regarded her with his cold, beautiful silver eyes. Eyes paler than any other Fallen possessed, almost as bright and radiant as they had been before he was damned… Surely such a perfect creature could not be the one the mortals spitefully called ‘the Devil’. Surely such an overwhelming abundance of beauty must extend at least a fraction beyond the surface. But looks, as Shemal knew so well, could be deceiving.

“What’s wrong with the boy’s legs?” He boomed in his deep voice. Curiosity only, she noted, no anger, no disapproval. That, at least, was a relief.

She looked. Kobrian’s legs had begun to shake, barely able to support his weight. Well. It was about time.

“You caught us at a bad time, My Prince. The little redhead and I were doing an… experiment… I’m afraid he didn’t quite have time to re-grow some of those muscles before we were summoned.”

The Prince of the Fallen nodded, making a gesture that made it clear he fully understood the effects of ’experimentation’ on the leg muscles. “I will let you return to your games in a moment. But first, I have some questions for you. How close do you think you are?”

Shemal shook her head. “Another year at least before he’s truly broken. Maybe two. He tries to hide in insanity, but he still fights me when he thinks he has half a chance.”

“Why is it taking so long?” Lucivar’s lilting, deep voice held only the faintest, barely discernable flicker of annoyance.

“I will show you, My Prince. Kobrian. Kobrian! Curse your despicable male hide, look at me!”

Slowly, slooowly, the red-haired youth turned his head and fixed his empty steel-blue eyes on her.

Shemal curled her fingers in his matted fiery mane, whispering smokily in his ear. “Kobrian. You are in the presence of our Prince. You’re going to behave aren’t you? You’re going to do everything I say. You’re going to obey me…”

The boy looked at her blankly for a long moment. The moment stretched longer and longer, until Shemal felt her distaste for the child blossom into active anger. How dare he make her look a fool in front of Lucivar? How dare he look at her with those half-breed eyes, those mocking, mirroring eyes that went on forever and ever into the morasses of his mind, where she found herself looking at her own image, the way he saw her…!

She couldn’t take it anymore. She struck him hard across the face, tearing the blood-sticky gash open wider. Crimson life poured freely, clinging to the skin of Kobrian’s neck, droplets winding down his chest and left arm.

He didn’t flinch. Just kept looking at her, a faint flash of life dancing through eyes the color of a sea storm.

“I hate you,” he said quietly, harshly, intensely. The words sounded like a prayer. And then his face went blank again.

Shemal reined in her temper and collected herself. She turned to Lucivar.

“Every time I think I’m close, that I’m just another inch away from success, that’s how he gets. He doesn’t feel pain, he doesn’t feel fear, and I can’t break through it. And then, when he comes out of it, it’s like starting all over again. It takes more time, more skill, to bring fear and terror to his eyes. He is breaking, but… slowly.”

Lucivar nodded. “What else can you expect? Some of our blood flows in his veins. Our strength lives in that mortal body. And eventually, Dark power will blossom in that human vessel, and he will be our weapon. Imagine it… Kobrian and all the other half-breeds we can lay our hands on, broken to the Grey… All that power, all that potential, and the Unfallen will be powerless to stop them. They can slay the idiot humans, lead them astray, turn them back on themselves and watch the scourge of humanity tear itself apart. Light Angels, Dark Angels, our living tools won’t care who they hurt, who they kill. Ah, it will be wonderful.”

“And the light child you will soon acquire?” Shemal asked.

The Devil laughed. “I have a special surprise for her, my dear. A very special surprise.”

“Are you sure?” Claude asked, little more than a hunched shape in the damp underground shadows. “Are you certain we’re dealing with a witch?”

Was that fear in his voice? I didn’t know, didn’t care. I had the mother of all headaches, and I hadn’t been able to keep my evening flatbread down. Just the thought of being face to face with that girl again made the throbbing in my skull worse. Angel. Angel. Angel, the voice whispered, and I wished everyone and everything would just shut up and go away.

“There is no other explanation for the things I have seen her do,” I answered. It felt strange to use whole, real words, but the seriousness of the situation demanded the formality.

“We have to kill her,” Thandre whispered softly in the darkness. Fear definitely laced his voice. I didn’t respect my brother less for it, though. You can’t protect yourself from things you can’t see, like spells, and such beings were said to be able to kill with a word. He had a right to be afraid. It would have been unnatural for him not to be.

I felt no fear. I didn’t feel much of anything. The witch had to die, the witch whose name echoed endlessly in my ears. The witch who had killed Alexis, the oldest and strongest of our pack. She had killed Victor, our scrounger, our gatherer-of-food, our best bargain-maker. She had killed Jean-Pierre, stalwart soldier and insufferable (though amusing) lecturer. She had killed little Harq, so young and eager to learn…

No compassion. No pity. No sympathy. No benefit of the doubt. No doubt. No fear. Witches must die.

“It has to be done, ‘Re’. You know that.”

“But she’d kill you!” My brother cried, clinging to my arm. “Get a medic to do it, or have one give you a charm against the Devil or something!”

“Thandre.” Claude frowned. “Calm down. Such behavior is unseemly.”

My twin slouched. “Don’t ask him to do this, Claude. No one wants to die like that, and no one should have to. Please.”

I felt a glow of pride as I saw that it wasn’t fear that brought out this frenzy in him, but rather, fear for me. But my life was forfeit to the good of the pack. If there had been a way to sell my soul for the power to protect them, these two who remained to me, I would have done it on the spot. As it was, I had done the closest thing possible. The black tattoo between my shoulder blades, at the base of my neck, was testimony to that.

Even so, I could see Claude considering. No. No, there was no decision to make. I wouldn’t let them sentence themselves to death to keep me alive. That was my job.

“Do you want me to sit around and watch as she goes after you next, Thandre?” I growled. “This is my purpose! I kill! Do you think you could have taken on Lafey by yourself, brother? I think not! If anyone can kill her, I can. I am the BEST! I will protect you, Thandre, and I will protect you, Claude, unto the last breath in my body. So I have sworn, and so shall it be.”

“If she is a witch, then she must die,” Claude said wearily, drooping. “If she must die, Dakarys is the one who must kill her. This is true.”

I allowed myself a tight nod, watching my friend’s shadowy figure sway slightly, as if he were dizzy.

“But if she is not a witch,” he continued, “Then perhaps we should consider some of our other options.”

“What other options?” I asked.

“What do you mean, ‘not a witch’?” Thandre asked at the same time.

Claude held up a hand in a ‘just-a-moment’ gesture while he coughed viciously. I didn’t like the sound of those coughs, wet and rattling, but I didn’t say anything.

“No one’s seen a witch for certain in a long, long time,” he said, clearing his throat. I could still hear the mucus in his lungs every time he drew a breath. “Maybe most of what we know about them is made-up. What if witches and demons and angels and all of that is just campfire talk? Maybe witches don’t exist.”

“Shh!” Thandre’s eyes went wide with fear. “Don’t say such things! Don’t even think them! ‘Mock the Devil’s children and die’, the old saying goes, and I agree!”

“She’s a witch, and there can be no doubt,” I said, shaking my head. “I saw.”

“Are you arguing with me?” Claude’s voice was quiet, reasonable. Dangerous. And a little tight from choking back another fit of coughs. “Are you saying you don’t want to listen to me? Maybe you’re putting up a challenge for Leader?”

“No,” Thandre put in quietly. He had never killed anyone in his life. He didn’t even own a knife. There’s a reason the Leader’s tattoo is red; it’s bought with blood. My brother had never wanted to be anybody’s Leader.

“No,” I said. I didn’t really need to say anything. I wasn’t a fellow pack member. I was an Assassin. And no one, no one, wears two tattoos. Ever. “What are you thinking?”

“I want to see her. Maybe talk to her.”

“She’ll kill you,” I warned him, but his mind was fixed.

“Tomorrow - “ he paused and coughed, hacking until fear began to creep into me that he would not be able to draw breath. Finally, he gulped in air, spat, and wiped his mouth. “Take me to her tomorrow,” he finished, his voice hoarse and shaky.

I nodded, but I could tell, through the shadowed gloom, that Thandre was looking at me. I knew what he was thinking - I was thinking it, too.

Claude was going to need a Medic before too much longer. How had he gotten so sick so fast? If he died…

Well, it hadn’t been just the two of us since we were four-year-olds, wandering the streets in search of a pack to join. Neither of us were particularly keen on that idea.