Rramaan was worried. It was a new sensation, one he hadn’t felt in a long, long, long time. He would have marveled at this strange feeling, pondered what it meant after all this time, but now was not the time or place. Wandering thoughts could go on forever in this place, until the bone-deep cold lulled his mind into a true, dreamless slumber, and he would never be aware of it.

Desperately, he needed to retain his senses. There might never again be a chance like this to stretch out and search, unwatched by the Dark Angels who held him captive. When they took him out of hibernation, that would be it. The best he would be able to hope for would be a few years with his every thought monitored, his every move watched by unblinking black eyes. At worst, there was execution. If he was going to find the one he sought, it had to be now.

There were five child-minds tenaciously clinging to that powerful solitude of thought that he had managed to reach with his mind while his body slept. It took a tremendous amount of effort to stay in that small place, and a great deal more to make that connection that brought him in contact with one of the minds… Of the three he had touched so far, one had been warm and sympathetic; one had been cold and hard, yet understanding; and one had been deep in a void of torment and pain beyond endurance.

Any one of them could be the one he sought - was there any way to know for sure? Or maybe it was one of the two he had yet to gather the strength to try. Or maybe… Maybe the child he searched for was dead. He did not want to even consider that possibility. But the one who was close to breaking could as easily be his objective as the warm, open-minded child.

What if…? What if whoever was torturing that boy broke him before Rramaan awoke? Fear curled like a viper in the pit of his stomach. To have risked so much, searched so long… and to have everything he had fought for fade away while almost within reach…

That was a thought he could not bear. But what recourse did he have? He had no means of doing anything, frozen and half-melded to sleep as he was. He could trust non of the Lights or Darks to believe him, and if any of them did, he would be killed on the spot. None of the Greys would take his side, except perhaps Lucivar - but the only thing that was of more importance than that the Unfallen did not discover what he was doing was that Lucivar not find out. That friendship, which he had once valued more than his own soul or anyone else’s, was over. Once again, he found himself alone in this burden.

No, not completely alone. There was one who had known, who knew, and kept his secret. One man in all of humanity who was bound by ties to Heaven and Hell, and even so kept himself from belonging to either. A true Neutral, even despite the Unfallen’s protestations that such a thing was impossible. And, as Rramaan had discovered many years ago, a true and loyal friend.

Erik.

Tentatively, he reached his mind out once more, trying to accomplish his goal without breaking the strict rules of contact that the man had set for everyone - and ‘everyone’ included even old friends.

~ Broken, burned-out shells of ancient structures filled with debris to either side. Mostly-intact pavement rough and filthy beneath booted feet. Mud, deep and sticky; to the left, small lakes beginning to form under the relentless rain drizzling down.~

The peaceful silence of that mind, always recognizable by its lack of distracted thought and the clarity of its accompanying sounds and images, was almost as familiar and comforting as the presence of Erik himself. Rramaan gave a feather-light touch, an image of himself, and a wordless question.

** I was wondering when you would show up, old friend,** Erik’s thought echoed as clearly as speech.

** I heard Angel is missing,** the Grey responded.

** Rramaan.** There was a warning tone, an impression of disapproval. ** I do not want to know how you know.**

** I am worried.**

** As am I. Do you have information? Where are you?**

** I know less than you, in all likelihood, except that the Deathwalkers will be of no use to you in the search. You are on your own.** Now, what had possessed him to say that? The Deathwalkers would try, truly they would. But somehow, he did not believe they could take the first step in looking for a lost child without tripping over their own arrogant pride.

** I say again, where are you? I could use you by my side.**

Rramaan considered the best way to phrase his answer. ** I’d love to tell you, Erik, but I can’t. By your own rules.** Why did the man have to add to the already absurd amount of restrictive clauses governing every aspect of his life? And besides, there was only one place Erik had forbidden ever to be mentioned in his presence, by name or otherwise - the Deathwalker Prison. Though why a mortal would feel so strongly about a place no mortal could enter was completely beyond him.

** Damn!** The focus grew more intent, and Rramaan knew Erik had adopted the mind-frame of meditation. To keep himself from thinking about something? Possibly. A moment of silence passed.

** Then why are you contacting me?**

** I need a favor. I’m willing to trade.**

** In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly in the best of positions to do favors just now. As you so astutely pointed out, Angel is missing.**

The Grey kept a tight leash on his temper. Anger would get him nowhere with Erik, except perhaps penned in the small leather book filled with the names of those who had fallen to the Swordsman’s impartial blade. Reason and bribery were the only true weapons left to him.

** There is a mixed-blood boy, with wild red hair, being held by Greys somewhere. I saw it in my Seeking. Once Angel is found, could you…?**

** There ARE no rules concerning mixed-bloods! Erik, please!**

Stony silence answered him.

~ An intact structure, made of mud-clay and slate, rising three levels in height before sloping to a slated roof. Mud churning over the cobblestone pavement, a gloss of water oozing over the surface. Rain pouring down in dark curtains, and the faint rumble of distant thunder. ~

** Erik?** Rramaan reached cautiously into the unanswering quiet of the human’s mind. **They’re breaking him. I’ve never heard of Greys doing that before. Easy enough to guess why, though, isn’t it? They’re ruining the only beings who can destroy them on their own authority. Do you think any mixed-bloods are safe? What about your Light child? Do you think she was lured away just so the Greys can admire her talents?**

~ A washed-out mark in charcoal ash on a fallen slab of rock. Across from it, an ugly gash in the pavement. The sound of booted feet slapping against wet stone, sucking and slogging through puddles of water and morasses of mud. Purple lightning flashing just on the edge of vision. ~

** I can help you find Angel. You know I can. But I want your help in return. I’m afraid, Erik, and just feeling this way is sickening. Won’t you help me?**

~ Steady breathing, perfectly synchronized with the pace of the boot-falls. Another washed-out charcoal symbol, scrawled on a bit of calcified wood. ~

** This is not about Heaven and Hell! I don’t give a damn what Light, Dark, or Grey makes of it! This is between you and me, Erik. We’ve been friends for how many years now? The greater portion of YOUR life, certainly! I’m SCARED, damnit! Can you see that? I just want you to say you’ll look. Red hair. Boy. Scared of silver eyes. Think about it. I’ll help you find her. Think about it. **

A long pause, two stubborn prides refusing to bow to each other. Rramaan broke contact. He had almost no energy left. Exhaustion rolled over him, carrying the icy edge of sleep in its tendrils. His mind might be free to wander, but that didn’t mean he didn’t pay a price for it. The Dark Angels had made certain of that. Rramaan allowed himself to doze.

Azaen sat on a damp fallen log, watching Kaeros try to wring the water and mud from his filthy wings.

“I told you that you should have vanished them.”

“Oh, shut up,” Kaeros snapped absently.

“And I told you that she’s not here.”

A snarl was his answer.

“They’ve got a team of Lights looking, too. They don’t seem to have much more sense than we do… Seems Michael decided that Gerred should be in charge of their expedition, and Gerred poetically decided a wayward child would be drawn to follow the rising sun. Never mind that there’s absolutely nothing but more Wasteland to the east for a couple hundred miles…”

“Lights,” Kaeros grunted. “And what would they do if the Greys attacked them? Lie down and die? Run away and abandon the search? Michael must have lost his senses, sending them off without their counterparts to protect them.”

“Makes you wonder exactly how important this kid is. Sending Deathwalkers to baby-sit, sending Lights off without protection, and the Guardian looking, too… I’ve never seen Michael so completely off his cool over one little girl-child.”

“What did you expect? He’ll get to execute Rramaan if a hair off her head has been harmed. The only thing that would excite our illustrious Prince more would be having Lucivar’s head on the line.” Kaeros glared at a black glob of sticky mud that had broken several of his feathers, and hurled it as far as he could. It landed against a tree trunk with a satisfying SPLAT.

“Maybe he’d like to come look for her, himself, then.”

“Are you complaining?” Two steady pairs of dark eyes coolly considered each other.

Azaen shrugged. “Not really.”

“Good.” Kaeros looked at the filth still encrusted on his waterlogged wings, and shook his head. “That Grey surely is going to pay when we get back. I hate coming down here.”

The two Dark Angels frowned at the heavy, dripping foliage that surrounded them. Forget fire and brimstone, Hell was slimy mold draped off of tree limbs, rotting vegetation mixed with mud underfoot, and sweltering, humid air. Disgusting.

“I think I like the Wastelands better,” Azaen remarked. “At least there you don’t have to walk everywhere.”

“I think I do, too.” Kaeros glanced down at the knee-deep mud. “We’ve determined that the girl isn’t here, right?”

“I would say so, yes,” his brother-in-arms agreed, looking at him.

“Maybe we should retrace our steps, start back from the Guardian’s house?” Kaeros fluttered his useless wings hopefully. “I could go get cleaned up, and meet you back there.”

“That’s the brightest idea you’ve had in days, brother,” Azaen smiled. “Sounds like a plan.” Ah, Kaeros. He never did have the patience to do anything manually that could be done some other way. Switching over to the celestial plane would dematerialize him, and when he re-materialized back on the mortal plane, his wings would be formed anew. “Do you mind if I bring Chesni along?”

Azaen’s Soulmate was a Healer, one of the rare Dark Angels who held to the aspect of Hope.

“Bring her! I haven’t seen Chesni in… Well, a long time. Your fault?”

“No. Apparently, she’s been working on some sort of project with a Justice named Tarane’.”

Kaeros thought for a moment. “I don’t remember anyone by that name… Who’s her counterpart?”

“Fallen, I believe.” Azaen shrugged. “But I’d never heard of her, either. I’m not quite sure what Chesni hopes to accomplish there, but…” he shrugged again. “Knowing Chesni, it’s got something to do with the Human Restoration.”

“Then she can help us restore the human Guardian and the mixed-blood girl to each other.” Kaeros smiled at his own joke. “I’ll see you in moments, brother.”

Azaen breathed a sigh of relief as his fellow Deathwalker flicked away from the mortal plane. There was only so much nerve-grating nonverbal complaining one could take without feeling compelled to do someone or something serious physical violence.

But at least Kaeros had decided to see reason. No doubt, Chesni would be much more skilled at persuading his brother-in-arms to use that atrophied portion of his brain. They would go to the Guardian’s dwelling in the Wastelands, and pick up the trail from the beginning. They would find the girl-child for Michael, and then they would be free of this ridiculous mission.

And then, maybe they would get to execute a Grey.

Azaen smiled in anticipation.

“Wait! Stop! Don’ be afraid! I jus’ wanna talk ta you!”

The thin, frightened girl paused, and stopped tripping over her feet to try and scramble behind some crumbled stones in an attempt to put something, anything, between her and the three approaching street boys. She looked at the largest of the three, who had spoken; uncertainty filled her eyes.

Claude eased closer. “Dakarys told me your name is Angel. Is that right?” He gave a comforting smile and extended a hand. “I’m Claude.”

Apparently torn between shrinking away and being polite, the girl finally shook the offered hand tentatively. “I am Angel. Hi.”

Keeping his manner friendly, the pack Leader let a somber note into his tone of voice. “Dak also told me you killed all of Torri’s pack, and most of our with it. Is that true?”

The girl just looked at him.

“Are you a witch, Angel?”

The girl frowned. “A which what?”

Claude’s patience was wearing thin, and a fevered light in his eyes gave him a wild appearance. He choked back a cough. “Why’d ya do it? Are th’ rest’a us next? What d’you want?! What’ll it take t’make you leave us alone?!”

“I…” Angel shivered, wiping rain from her face. “I’m lost. I can’t find my way home.”

“What?” He couldn’t breathe. The world slowly spun around him, and he knew he couldn’t hold in the coughing much longer. But he was afraid that once he started, he might not be able to stop… Might not be able to draw breath between the hacking spasms…

“I want to go home.”

“Oh - “ Claude shuddered, swallowed, and tried again. He looked pale and flushed at the same time. “Okay. If I find a way t’take ya wherever it is that y’live, will y’leave us alone, an’ never come back?”

She nodded.

“Good. C’mon with me, then.” Claude took a step, and nearly fell down. Why was he so dizzy? And the ground, why wouldn’t it stay still?

“Are you okay?” Angel asked him.

“Jus’… jus’ a minute,” he gasped. Spots danced before his eyes. He blinked suddenly and looked at her, something clicking in his thoughts. “Sorcery! Witchcraft! This is your doing!” He cast a panicked glance behind him, but he had told Thandre and Dakarys to stay back. They had heard nothing.

Angel frowned, taking a step back, wariness etching her features. “What?”

“Witches must die! I won’t allow you t’poison me, bewitch me like this!” He wobbled slightly, drew his knife, and went into a coughing spasm.

“I’m not a witch!” She protested, still backing away. “What’s a witch?”

“Dead!” he wheezed in answer, and lunged at her.

“Eeek!” Angel jumped out of his way, and ran. She kept on running until she couldn’t see him anymore, until she couldn’t hear those terrible coughs. She kept running until she couldn’t run anymore.

“I want to go home,” she gasped as she sank down on the far side of a rocky embankment. “Oh God, I want to go home.”

“Claude! Claude, are you okay?” Thandre raced up to him, and I wasn’t far behind.

“She… Witch…” Claude managed between coughs. Blood shone in a thin film over his lips, and it sounded like he was trying to cough his lungs up.

I nodded. The world was still spinning at a crazy tilt to me, but I forced myself to ignore it. “Ever since I chased her, I’ve felt her demonish spells. She must have cursed you, my friend.”

“Kill… her?” Claude gasped.

Cold crept up to clutch my heart. No, I wanted to say. I had had a lot of time to think last night, and somehow, those hours had melted away the cold resolve I had fortified my heart with, and instilled in me strange desires I could scarcely name, let alone fight. I wanted to defy my Leader. I wanted to protect the witch who had killed so many of my packbrothers, who would kill us all. I wanted to save the witch who was killing my best friend through her dark magics, who would try to kill my brother, my twin. I hated myself. Twice over - thrice over, I hated myself.

But I was still Assassin, and the hidden black tattoo does not vanish because those who wear it have gone weak and soft. The responsibilities laid on my shoulders by my dying Leader would not go away because I did not want to accept them. The wild hope in my brother’s eyes would not be turned upon some other to do the task simply because I wished it to. The cold weight of duty pressed down on me, and I knew that whatever had melted, it would soon be as solid as stone once more.

“I can do it,” I answered solemnly.

“Can you sit up, Claude?” Thandre was supporting Claude’s weight, holding him. That couldn’t last long. Our Leader couldn’t answer, too busy choking, coughing, struggling for air. Blood trickled down his chin.

I helped Thandre prop Claude up in a semi-sitting position, bracing him against a slab of stone that shot straight up from the pavement.

“There’s nothing we can do now, brother,” I told my twin. “I’m no Medic, but I know a dying man when I see one. It’s too late.”

Sorrow crossed Thandre’s features, and I felt anger for that sorrow. That was why I became Assassin, so there would be no grief on the faces of those I cared for, no suffering, no death. I was the best Assassin the streets had seen in its long, long memory. The best! And still, the sadness in my brother’s brown eyes… The gathering tears… And I was helpless to stop it.

“I will miss him,” he said.

I nodded. “So will I,” I told him softly. “If you would leave us for a moment, Thandre?”

He knew, as he slunk away without a backward glance. I knew he did. I wondered, for a moment, if he would ever forgive me.

Then the ice settled in my chest, and I didn’t care. I was Assassin. I didn’t need forgiven for anything, by anyone. I didn’t need anyone. Ever.

I looked at Claude, saw his dull, glazed eyes reflecting everything I didn’t want to see.

“And to the sick, the crippled, and the wounded who are deemed beyond the help of a Medic, a choice shall be given,” I quoted from the streetkid law I had been made to memorize before receiving the tattoo. Claude listened silently, and I wondered if he understood a word I said. His coughs had subsided, but the ominous rattling in his chest gave me no comfort. “To be abandoned by the pack, or granted the mercy of a swift death. My Leader… My friend. I am sorry… You will not last the night.”

He was fading fast. Already, his lips were parched and cracked, his lungs filling up with fluid. I closed my eyes to keep my head from spinning. Just a touch of a cough at first, and now, within the course of a day… Never had I seen any natural illness attack so quickly. Had Harq and Alexis and Victor and Jean-Pierre carried some seemingly negligible touch of the cough when they had set off on their final journey? Would I be the next victim of this terrible curse the witch had unleashed? How long before it would be me lying there on the pavement, fading, dying, choking for a few more gasped breaths? Long enough. That was all that mattered.

Claude clasped weakly at my hand. “We’re… pack - packbrothers,” he whispered. “Rather die… by your knife… than sorcery. You’re so good… killing… I knew you - knew you’d be the one… Brother.”

“Brother,” I echoed, the word ringing hollowly in my own ears. The flat, empty cold finished spreading through every part of me. I felt nothing as I reached for my knife.

On the roof of one of the only true buildings in Par-seis - the Alchemist’s Third House - two men stared out at the dismal afternoon rain.

“How long?” One of them asked the other in a rich tenor voice.

The second man, more muscular than the first but lacking his companion’s air of quiet command, shrugged. “Not long. They’ll be going after her for blood next, and it’s a fair chance the Plague will determine who’s still standing in the end more than knives or swords.”

“She has to live through this encounter, Brukal,” the first man snapped. “If she doesn’t, it’s all for nothing. Lucivar needs us to get this half-breed. We can’t break her if she’s dead.”

“Don’t get your ass in a knot, Jasis,” the big man grumbled. “She’s weaker than a newborn kitten, but she’s still got Angel blood in her veins. The Plague is just a kind of fever to her. I wager the human streetkids won’t last until dawn.”

“See that they do, Bruk, at least some of them. We need them to make this work,” Jasis warned. “And be ready to slam a death lock into place the moment she bleeds, regardless. I don’t want to miss this opportunity.” The man sucked in his breath, and turned to look at Brukal. Two pairs of silver eyes stared at each other. “Do you want to miss out on a young half-blooded Light child?”

“No, Jas,” the other Grey returned. The rumble in his voice resembled hunger. “I’ll have the death lock ready.”

“Hello?” The greeting echoed hollowly through the labyrinth of rubble, rock, and rusted metal. Another charcoaled symbol was etched on a corner of stone, and looked fresh even despite the pouring rain.

Erik detested the rain.

His boots sank deeper into the mud with each step he took, cold water and ooze seeping through the material to soak his feet. The boots were constructed for the desert, not a lake! He snarled to himself.

No one answered his call, but he had come to expect that. He hadn’t seen a living soul since that boy, yesterday. Where had all the streetkids gone? Or were they all dead, like the ones he had seen at every firepit since dawn?

But this mark was fresh. The streetkids made them to mark their territory, and though few or none of the ragged children could read or write, you could count on an urchin to know his own Leader’s symbol. The rain hadn’t had time to wash this one away. And unless the dead had suddenly taken to art, that meant there was someone nearby who was still alive to mark territory.

Erik studied the symbol for a long moment. What did it remind him of? Not a scrawled Sanskrit-esque character like so many of the others he had seen. No, the lines on this one were so clear, so angular, so… Greek? He frowned.

“Hello?” He called again.

“Go away,” a faint voice from the shadows muttered.

Erik shaded his eyes against the rain with his forearm, taking a few steps closer to the crude lean-to half buried under a mountain of fist-sized stones. Or was it sheltered by them?

“Do you know where I can find Claude’s pack?” he asked in a voice loud enough to be heard above the wind and falling water.

“It’s the rainy season,” the streetkid answered back as if whoever they were speaking to was either very, very young, or incredibly stupid. Erik strained to keep his composure.

“I can see that it’s the rain season.” He wondered if this particular street urchin had lost their wits. “But I was asking of Claude’s pack.”

“Why do you want to find Claude’s pack?”

“Because I’m looking for a girl. Gold hair, blue eyes, sandals on her feet? And young, about eight. I heard she might be with Claude’s pack, where she could keep dry.”

A rusty laugh came out of the shadows, and Erik suddenly realized the voice he was talking to belonged to a girl. A street girl? No, no, impossible. More likely, she was one of the prostitutes who visited the older street boys and the men of the Alchemist and Drunkard Houses. What they called a ‘paid woman’. “It’s the rainy season.”

“Yes,” Erik bit his tongue to keep back a scathing remark. “You mentioned that.”

“Don’t you know anything? Turf on the low grounds gets abandoned in the rainy season. Streets fill up with water. Claude’s pack has the lowest turf. I don’t know where they go when it rains, but you go to their turf right now, and all you’ll find is a lake.”

“Damn,” Erik muttered under his breath. That had been his only lead, and now even that was worthless. “Thank you for your help,” he said aloud.

“Go to Hell, Swordsman,” the girl answered back good-naturedly.

“Eventually,” the Guardian said solemnly. “Eventually.”

Angel was out there somewhere. Lost, alone, cold, wet, and hungry. And that was assuming she was still alive. Was she with this mysterious Claude and his pack? Had she found shelter of another kind?

His mind flashed back to the gatherings of dead children at washed-out firepits. Sickness. A plague of some sort. Oh please, let her be far away from it. Dear God, don’t let me be too late!

Kaeros and Azaen raised their eyebrows in unison. Chesni frowned back at them.

“You had your chance to figure out where the child wandered off to.” She swept a strand of wayward ebony hair behind her ear and gestured out at the broken land all around them. “And now the sand holds no prints to follow. So, I get to choose where we go from here. I am, after all, a female, as is the girl we are trying to find. I will think for a moment, look about, and then, I will know. Just as she did when she stood in this very place, casting about for which direction to take. That’s reasonable.”

Azaen shook his head. “Another blind guess? No, thanks. I think it’s time we spoke to the Guardian - “

“News flash, love,” Chesni broke in almost affectionately. “The Guardian is gone. He stood on this very spot, not five days ago, thought for a moment, and looked about, and knew. We must do the same if we wish to find her. Did you expect him to just wait around while you boys took off to hunt every corner of the world but the right one?”

Kaeros bristled. “Well, she could have gone to the marshes. Kids love green. It made sense.” Chesni’s unimpressed look made him desperate. He turned to Azaen. “Don’t kids love green?”

Azaen raised his hands and shook his head. “I am not siding with anyone, because I just know I’ll pick the wrong side.”

“Then it is settled,” Chesni smiled. “I shall pick our direction.”

“What! Wait a - “ Kaeros sputtered.

“That’s not what I - “ Azaen protested.

“We shall go south,” Chesni continued, as if no one had attempted to interrupt. “Towards Paris.” She thought for a moment. “No, she’d be there by now. We shall go to Paris itself.”

“Why - “

“Why Paris, brother Kaeros?” The female Dark Angel spread her wings. “Call it a woman’s intuition, call it instinct, call it a hunch, or a gut-feel. Call it a Knowing, if it pleases you. The place is a beacon for human, Angel, mixed-bloods, and Greys alike. Something indefinable, almost magnetic, and it grows ever stronger with time. A ruin now, but still, never a day has passed that it is uninhabited. One day, it will be the center of all that mankind holds dearest. The pull will become ever stronger, and stronger still, and shall make the place they now call Paris into the greatest city this world has ever seen… Or destroy it utterly. She will be there.”

That said, she launched herself into the air, not bothering to see if the males would follow.

Kaeros looked at Azaen and saluted. “Brave man, to marry a woman like that.” He opened his wings and followed suit.

“’Brave’?” Azaen said to no one. “I would have said ‘lucky’.” Shrugging, he unfurled his own dark wings and chased after his companions.

Angel huddled in her stony nest, a poor shelter from wind, rain, or enemies. She was cold, so cold, as if the rocks around her were made of ice. She shivered violently, her long golden hair soaked and bedraggled, but she didn’t notice. She didn’t notice how her limbs had grown heavy and sluggish, how her hands had turned blue and numb. She wasn’t aware of the fevered coughs that wracked her body - her frail, thin, skeletal body - or the way her stomach wrenched painfully from lack of food. She didn’t know, she didn’t care. All of her attention was on one thing - the faint sound of footsteps that were coming closer… ever closer…

She couldn’t remember ever feeling so afraid.

I walked carefully around the heap of rubble and rubbish. She was on the other side. I could hear her. I touched my knife briefly - to reassure myself? I don’t know. But any apprehension I might have had over facing a witch by myself vanished when I saw her.

Angel.

Only a girl-child, I reminded myself. A witch, yes, but still only a poor, wasted, sick girl-child.

I wanted to laugh.

I wanted to cry.

I don’t know what I wanted.

Recognition and resignation haunted her shadowed eyes.

“Hello, Dakarys.”

“Hello, Angel.” No reason not to be polite. I shivered, unable to look away. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. The unspoken words hung in the air. To kill you.

The drizzling rain poured down relentlessly, drenching us, setting a pattern for the unsettling silence.

I found myself watching the pitiful creature that this girl had become with an air of bewilderment, distain, and to a certain degree, grief. How could this broken-down waif, so frail and sickly-looking, her eyes sunken and hollow, her muscles wasted from slow starvation, have cast a spell to sicken and kill someone as strong and healthy as Claude had been?

And yet, she had, the witch! Probably killed so many more with her tricks and cheats, her curses to deceive and murder young men like his friend; like all his fallen packbrothers! Oh, why had she done it? Why had she cursed Claude, who would have given her anything to save the rest of us?

Well, she had made a bad decision. I had my final assignment from Claude, and I was the best. Kill her.

Never mind the way she trembled as much from exhaustion as from cold, or how she clutched the ragged remains of her clothing tightly about her in the driving, freezing rain. Never mind how painful coughs wracked her spindly frame, which was now little more than skin and bone, or how her face was haggard and bruised from lack of sleep. Never mind the eyes bright with fever, or the way that she stared at me; no hope, but no fear, either. Just lackluster indifference.

I felt anger burn beneath the ice I had embraced. Anger, rage, something deeper and darker that scared me to think about - that swallowed my mind in a blaze of fury so I didn’t think about it. But not anger at her.

Anger at myself.

I was strong, and I was good with a knife. I had the skills to protect myself. I had never cared about protecting myself, though. The first kill I ever made was in defense if my twin. I don’t know how many had died by my blade since then, but not one was struck from the world out of fear for my own life.

I wanted to protect my packbrothers, defend those I loved. I needed to protect and defend. I was Assassin. I achieved this by killing.

But not by killing this girl. She needed help, by the Abyss, she needed food and care and protection, not a knife in the heart!

Everything I was pulled at me to shelter her from danger. Angel. She needed a hero, a rescuer. With every fiber of my being, I needed to be that rescuer.

But instead, I was supposed to kill her. Assassin. Assignment. A one-man army. Leader of a pack of one.

The ice fought with the fire, but I knew the ice would win. I could do anything, anything I was assigned. If I had to leave behind everything that mattered, everything that made up the core of my being, in order to walk the lonely killer’s path, I could and would do that, too.

Assassin work is never lonely, the streetkid law floated through my head. Never can he afford to be distracted, even by himself. Especially by himself.

I pulled out my knife, and felt the calm descend.

Angel looked up, knowing she would meet certain death in a moment, knowing she would be unable to do anything to prevent it. The rock underneath her hand, so perfectly sized and shaped to crush an attacker’s head, was useless. She had no strength to lift it. No strength to run. No strength to do anything but die.

I whipped my head around, certain I’d heard something, and equally certain that no one else was around.

“Who’s there?” There was no answer. Only the rhythmic beating of the raindrops on the stones, the wailing of the wind through the ruins of once-buildings, the complete silence of the witch at my feet.

And yet, I could’ve sworn that the wind had carried some sound to my ears, some urgent call…