"I checked there. And the library. And that cupboard that smells weird." She notices the maps. "Oh, are you planning something? Is this a business meeting?"
"Territory assessment."
"That sounds very official." She's already leaving, then turns. "There are cookies cooling if anyone's hungry. Ginger ones."
She disappears. Everyone exhales. My shadows try to follow.
"Cookies," Tooth mutters.
"Focus." I tap the map, trying to remember what we were discussing. "Midnight. Simultaneous strikes. No survivors at the warehouses."
"None?"
"Did I fucking stutter the second time?"
We spend another hour on logistics. Entry points, weapon distribution, body disposal. Standard murder planning, except I keep losing count and my stomach growls thinking about ginger cookies.
At eleven-thirty, we move.
The shadow roads taste of copper and ash tonight. They remember their purpose, even while pulling toward the estate. We materialize in the warehouse district.
The Copper Hands warehouse squats between two defunct factories. Eight guards. One's reading by lamplight. Blue ribbon bookmark. Another eating an apple. Strange details to notice while planning death.
They stop looking bored when shadows solidify in their throats.
The first four die silently. Shadows expanding inside until things tear. Gray Streak opens another throat. Bodies drop.
I let the last one get ten feet before shadow spears pierce him in six places. He drops, twitching.
"Please—" Blood bubbles.
"Tell your friends in hell that the Kitchen King sends his regards."
The blade takes his head cleanly. It rolls to a crate. The wood grain patterns blur into faces. That's not normal.
Inside, their lieutenant counts coins. Sees us. Goes for his sword. Shadows pin him before his hand reaches the hilt.
"Where's Felix?"
"Fuck yourself."
I reach for his thumb. Calculate pressure—except the math slides away, replaced by Olivia asking about marmalade versus jam. His thumb comes off easier than expected.
"Where's Felix?"
"The townhouse! Merchant quarter!"
The shadows crush his windpipe. Quick. Five more locations to hit. Or six. The list blurs.
Violence unfolds with practiced efficiency, though I lose count. Twelve at the gambling den. Or fifteen. Bodies blur. My exhausted mind notices irrelevant details—new boots, wedding ring on the wrong hand. Protection runners die in alleys, blood mixing with rainwater.
Midnight plus forty minutes: Felix Morrick's townhouse.
He's waiting. Sitting with brandy like he's expecting guests.
"Shadow King." He raises his glass. "Or should I say Kitchen King?"
I don't respond. Let shadows flow into his space. They keep pulling back toward the estate. I force them to focus.
