Page 10 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

That’s when I notice them.

Four figures detach from the deeper shadows of a recessed doorway. I don’t think they are thugs looking for an easy mark. These guys are trained killers.

It’s an ambush.

If Garrett follows his usual route back to Elvarstyne Keep, he’ll have to pass through the junction up ahead. They’ll corner him there. Four on one with no escape routes. The buildings on either side are too tall to climb quickly and the nearest cross street is blocked by their positioning.

I move closer, using the darkness and my natural advantages. Being half-werewolf gives me better night vision and hearing than most. I catch fragments of their whispered conversation.

“Make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”

“No, you idiot. The client was specific. He wants the commander to suffer before he dies.”

Someone’s paying good money for this. Professional killers don’t come cheap, and four of them together suggests serious coin behind the contract. My breathing grows ragged as I move faster. I can’t let Garrett die. My life depends on his.

If I fail this contract, Lord Clayborne will report my failure back to Tiamat. Three failed missions in a row means retirement. The guild’s idea of early retirement involves a very deep hole and very little air.

Shit, shit, shit.

I drop from the roof to a lower balcony. Laundry lines snap as I vault over them. I can see the junction ahead, where narrow buildings create a perfect kill box. The assassins are moving into final position. I need to reach Garrett before they spring the trap.

I round the corner and freeze.

Bodies.

A dozen of them scattered across the narrow street like broken dolls. Their blood pools in the gaps between cobblestones, black in the moonlight. I can tell by their equipment and positioning that they were set up for an ambush. Crossbows at the high points and swordsmen blocking the exits.

But they’re all dead.

Well, one is still alive.

He’s propped against a wall with one hand nailed to the stone by his own crossbow bolt. His mouth opens and closes like a dying fish. When he sees me approach, his eyes go wide with fresh terror. Blood bubbles at his lips.

I check the others carefully before approaching, weapon drawn. His accomplice lies in front of him, opened from throat to belly. The ground is scarred where he clawed at the stones trying to crawl away. Another body lies face down and two more are twisted at unnatural angles. Someone went through them like a reaper through wheat.

“Who did this?” I ask the one still breathing, though I doubt he can answer with his throat ruined like that.

He makes a rasping sound. His eyes flick toward the darkest part of the alley where the moonlight doesn’t reach.

That’s when I realize we’re not alone. Every hair on my body stands on end.

“Too slow, little Wolf.”

The voice comes from directly behind me.

Pain explodes at the base of my skull. The world tilts and my knee gives out completely. I fall and my weapon tumbles from my fingers. It clatters on the cobblestones.

My vision darkens at the edges, closing in like a tunnel. I try to turn to see my attacker, but my body won’t respond. The last thing I see before consciousness abandons me is a figure standing over me.

Tall and cloaked… with a scarlet cape.

Chapter Two

The chains bite into my wrists, cold iron against raw skin.

Consciousness comes to me slowly as I fight through the fog in my head. I’m suspended here, arms pulled so high above my head that both shoulders scream from holding my weight. Every small movement sends fresh agony through the joints. My toes barely touch the floor. It’s just enough to take some pressure off my wrists if I stand on them, but not enough to find real relief.

The blindfold is soft, silk perhaps, but tied tight enough that not even a sliver of light gets through. My weapons are gone. Obviously. Along with my boots. But the wolf half-mask is still secured over my features. The mechanism is impossible to disengage without knowing the trick. It’s designed to preserve anonymity even in capture or in death.