The water sloshed around his legs like little torrents, ripping through the flood like a blade would paper. He’d shifted again, he’d become wind and invisible, speed and blurriness, and he’d become that crushing feeling of failure.

  His nose lingered on her scent. Candy cane with something else. He couldn’t forget it, nor would he forget her – how black fabric clung to every part of her, how her hair was big and coily, coily enough to hide iron scissors within the strands. The way she moved and ducked, it was the same way a werewolf moved when they were being trained.

  He kept running.

  Kassan should have known that wall was thin. He probably did know, but the moment’s pressure was wiping his brain clean. Now the miscalculation of how she’d run was costing him precious, precious time. He couldn’t smell her when he turned towards the manor’s exits, so she had to be inside – but the walls were strangely good at concealing scents. He prowled next to them, all four of his legs shaking from tension and cold.

  If he stayed close enough to the walls, he’d catch a scent. There were some perks to being a Trueblood: his nose was exceptionally unique, catching scents and remembering them by the third encounter. If this assassin made a move too quickly, he’d smell it. If she laughed, he’d smell it. If she stepped out of the inner walls for a second -

  Candy cane brushed his nose. He’d smelt it.

  Kassan changed his course. She was on the opposite side of the castle, closer to the meeting rooms. Moving quickly, but being deathly quiet. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he tracked her. What was she doing? Why was she doing this?

  He cursed when his paw slid on wet floor for about the eighth time.

  Scent was one thing, speed was another. It took him forty seconds to get from one side of the castle on a good day, he suspected he was making a new record. When he hit the other side, her scent was so strong he felt dizzy. Physical activity. Made scents stronger.

  There was nothing else to focus on but her.

  There was another scent – Sam, working late like the addicted man he was. Did he even know about the assassin? He’d attend to that first.

  He shifted again, and pushed the door open. Sam stood, poring over a book. This was the room they’d been in earlier, Kassan realised. He just hadn’t left.

  “Kassan!” Sam greeted. He adjusted his reading glasses, offering the wolf a smile. “Why are you down here so late?”

  “You need to get out of here.” Kassan responded. His voice was monotone from the focus he’d held. Now he was in his normal form, the assassin’s scent was weaker. He wouldn’t be able to accurately predict her exact location, he just knew she was around.

  “There’s been a murder in the manor, and the culprit is around here. You need to go.”

  Sam jumped out of his seat. “A murder? Who? What on earth, this is all so sudden-”

  Kassan grabbed his hand. For a man who was the Nightlord’s third-in-command, Sam could be remarkably slow in times of danger. So much so that Kassan usually forgot his rank.

  With that, he pulled the noble to the door, desperately hoping that candy cane scent was just a servant pixie who was around.

  “Kassan, wait!” Sam wrenched his hand free, running towards the cupboard in the corner of the room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “If there’s a murderer out there, we must be prepared!” Sam opened it, revealing emergency weapons he must have stashed. Kassan groaned. Why would Sam even have a stash of these things?

  His friend pulled out a longsword. The hilt had jewels encrusted all over, the blade shimmering under the dim light. It was a pretty good make; Kassan had to admit.

  “It’s a mix of steel and bronze,” Sam mentioned, pointing at the blade. “Not quite fatal, but deadly if you use it enough.”

  Kassan nodded. “It’s great. Do you feel comfortable enough to go?” He couldn’t stop the friendly venom dripping into his voice. Sam blushed. At least four hundred years old, and he blushed when someone complimented his weapon. Kassan needed a break.

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  Sam grinned, adjusting his bag. “It’s a little heavy, but-”

  “The heaviest swords deal the most damage.”

  Kassan was inclined to agree. It was at that point he realised his tabs on the assassin’s scent had been wildly out of order, because that candy cane smell was in their very room.

  She leaned against the door, the only exit. Apart from her hair, the only identifiable part of her was those eyes, dark with white spots. Terrifying. More terrifying, because Kassan hadn’t noticed a murderer sneak into a room behind him. Stupid.

  Sam’s knees shook, pale. “And who would you be?”

  Silence. Then her voice rose from the ground, low and enveloping. “I was hoping to be a friend, Samuel Lupinus.”

  Kassan moved, swiftly, between her and Sam. There was no point in shifting: he’d get more speed and height, but lose more of his vision. He felt for the dagger in his sleeve, the one he slept with. It slid out obediently.

  The mocking smile on her face vanished as she locked eyes with Kassan. “Would you mind moving? I like to look at who I’m talking to.”

  Conversation is over, Kassan thought. “Who are-”

  “You’ve asked me this question. Don’t be boring.” Her tone flipped, sharp and biting. Kassan nearly felt bad as she pushed off the wall, taking a step. “How about you ask why I’m here? I’ll tell you anyway, but I rather enjoy speaking to you.”

  He didn’t respond. He couldn’t respond. The focus he had now needed to make up for the focus he’d lost.

  She smiled again, eyes creasing. “You know,” she hummed, “I really love those matching tattoos of yours. I suppose they indicate rank, since most of the others I’ve seen have no stars.”

  Silence.

  “This is helpful,” she continued, “since I must make sure I have the correct target. You are quite young for being fourth-in-command.” She glanced at Kassan once more.

  “Drop your weapons.” He said, quietly. “Face the wall. Take another step, and I stab you through the neck.”

  Her eyes shifted, as if she was considering the offer, or something entirely different. She smelt of utmost, unnerving calm.

  This time, her voice split the room in two. “Since this handsome werewolf is more deadly than a longsword, Samuel Lupinus, I’m afraid we’ll have to skip a few steps in the process.”

  “What could you mean?” Sam stuttered. Kassan’s eyes narrowed, his claws jutting out. He needed to pounce, just when she blinked.

  Unfortunately, Kassan blinked first.

  She was past him in a blur. Kassan nearly shifted to pin her to something, anything, to get her to stop moving. He grabbed Sam again, pulling him backwards, away from the assassin.

  She laughed, the sound spilling through her dark mask. “Samuel Lupinus,” she cried, feet bouncing off the ceiling, “Grant me the pleasure your last dance.”

  Kassan slashed, ignoring that small part of him that hated doing it. His claws scratched air, she ducked and grasped his hand. He didn’t wait to find out what happened next – his other hand’s claws struck and missed their mark again.

  She was on the other side of the room, still laughing. Your last dance. What did that mean?

  Sam was crying like a baby, eyes screwed shut and shaking violently where Kassan had pulled him. Kassan heard the scissors whistle through the air before he saw them – he threw himself towards Sam and caught them, iron burning his fingers.

  Then, Sam opened his eyes.

  Kassan couldn’t quite place it. The terror. The horror. The guilt. All three in his role model’s expression gripping the longsword like a beginner.

  Maybe it was how it looked. Kassan could almost understand it. He was above Sam, grasping scissors that he’d pulled above his own head to ensure they didn’t touch his friend. Those scissors burned. No wonder Sir. Nirven had died so promptly, the iron ate away at Kassan’s calloused skin.

  Did it look like Kassan would strike him? The werewolf would have said no. After all, why would Kassan strike with scissors? And if he were attacking, he’d be closer, with his claws out as a precaution. Kassan would never strike Sam. Sam knew that. Didn’t he?

  Sam swung, and Kassan roared as carbon, bronze and iron slashed through his arm.

  He fell, quickly. Slammed into a wall, panting with pain. The scissors clattered away, and his fingers felt raw. There was blood soaking his sleeve. There was iron everywhere, and the smell would make him throw up soon -

  Kassan didn’t see her until she was there, in front of Sam, snatching the sword away. She was saying something, talking about how swords shouldn’t hurt friends, but then what should she expect from Samuel Lupinus?

  Sam was crying, stumbling backwards, begging.

  Kassan was getting up, ignoring how his arm felt amputation-worthy as he slashed at her one more time. Kassan was still slashing.

  Kassan was late.

  The scissors plunged into Sam’s skull. Kassan heard the bone dissolve on contact with the iron. Sam gasped, eyes slinking towards Kassan before he fell, heaving and heaving until he didn’t heave anymore and his chest was suspended.

  Until the iron’s influence spread, eating away until his entire forehead was gone, blackened and charred by the iron scissors resting on the broken pieces of his skull. Shit, Kassan could see his brain, turning black the longer the iron was there. A lump of black, a pool of blood, a puddle of sick – that was Kassan’s.

  And Kassan was heaving, heaving, because dammit this had to be a dream and there was no way Sam was dead. He was saving Sam. The assassin had been on the other end of the room. No normal pixie could cover that distance so quickly. And was iron supposed to hurt so badly?

  He tried to talk to his friend, but nothing but sick came out. He was going to collapse. He did. He tried to sniff, but all he smelt was iron, sick and blood. No candy cane mixed with something. Nothing.

  Nothing, nothing until he saw nothing and smelt nothing soon after.