Unfolding the final scroll and smoothing it out on top of the three other scoured clean pieces of parchment. Two collected before and set aside, and two specifically purchased for the occasion. In hindsight should've sold some stuff and bought a wand. They didn't find the second knife so they probably wouldn't have found the wand.

Suppressing that bit of irritation and focusing on deciphering the incantation for the most complex spell of the bunch. The only truly essential bit of preparation for hunting tonight's targets. The majority of the script recognizable, with only a few pieces needing to be phonetically sounded out. Scanning the page twice over before beginning the chant. Each syllable uttered causing the associated word to briefly flare before releasing a fine burst of soot as the ink sizzles off the page. Mind Blank. Briefly existing untouched and untroubled within the whirling center of disorganized thought and emotion. Sorting through and cataloguing those outer thoughts and disparate feelings before pulling them back into myself.

Paula had known something was going on. That something seemed wrong. The woman had been pensive and frowning while leading me up the staircase, and she'd given a few abortive attempts at saying something before not saying it. “Take all the time you need,” she'd said, when we'd gotten to the bathroom. “I'll be downstairs.”

My bare hands and leather armor on my arms blurring in an attempt to match to the wooden color of the bare windowsill. A moment later the outside air blowing in. Fifty degrees colder than the interior temperature, but not particularly noticeable. Vaulting out the second story bathroom window and landing feather soft on the patio pavers below. Taking off into the gardens. Zigzagging through the hedges and carefully sculpted greenery in the space between Shaker's residence and the castle proper. Mostly avoiding the meticulously tended flowerbeds - certainly not all – but expending neither the time nor the effort to glance back at those missteps. Coming to a stop only when my hands come in contact with the rough, grey slate extending vertically about four stories above. Holding my breath.

No shouts of “Who goes there?” No orders demanding “Halt.” No breathless screams of “Assassin!” The night remaining silent, with the only sounds of note being the occasional gust of wind and my slow, measured breathing.

The guards back at the garrison must be aware something's going on inside the city, by now. It's been long enough that they'd have to be aware. So either that news hasn't reached here yet - possible, although doubtful - or they have enough manpower out there that they don't need to pull any troops away from the castle. How many soldiers have come into town this past month? More than a few. More than anticipated. Seems like a direct confrontation was always going to be inevitable.

Staying pressed against the wall to remain camouflaged and creeping in the direction of where the entrance should be. There, a short, weathered set of steps leading downward and ending at wooden door meant for groundskeepers and other servants. Testing it. Unlocked. Cracking it open a fingerbreadth and waiting. Clear.

A mudroom. Dirt, mildew and sweat the immediate scents, with a touch of food - cooking meat - coming from somewhere close by. Near the door a few heavy coats are hanging on hooks, and below them stand a couple pairs of galoshes. Tools for the gardens organized on racks or hung up neatly off to the side. There should be something of use in here. Hmm. Hoes and shovels. Rakes. Where're the hand tools? Here. A trowel. Not exactly what- ah, a hatchet. Dulled by use but now enchanted with a rune and resharpened. Sharper than it's ever been. Anything around here for clearing brush? Nothing like that. A pair of two handed shears. Too awkward. Alright, the sun's down but it's still a little early for dinner, maybe-

“Where you goin'?” A woman's voice coming from nearby. The next room over.

“Outside.” A younger woman's voice replying. “She left one of her toys out there.”

“Don't you mind about that. Come here.” More than a hint of irritation filling the older woman's voice. “Now hurry up and...”

Her voice moving out of earshot.

More than a half hour until the Marquis' usual mealtime, but maybe the poison plan is still a go. Carefully placing one foot in front of the other and moving further inside. Sticking to darker spots and staying pressed against earth toned surfaces to take advantage of the natural colored camouflage bestowed on my by one of the scrolls. Drawing my knife but keeping the blade hidden beneath my cloak. Careful. Careful. Staying a few feet away from the kitchen doorway and all the light spilling out from within. The older woman's voice becoming audible again.

“There,” she says, “all set.”

“Do you have anything sweet? And maybe I should go get that doll.”

“You'll do no such thing.” The earlier irritation crossing over the line to become seriously cross. Angling myself better and catching sight of the two woman. The older one with crowsfeet and sagging jowls. Wearing an apron and putting a bowl on a tray. “Listen,” the woman saying, while moderating her tone, “I know it may be difficult, but I know you're capable. You've been given a good life here, haven't you?”

“Yes.” The younger girl dropping her chin and fidgeting. Facing away from me, but unmistakably a member of the Pact.

“The young Master requested you specifically. That's quite the honor.”

“I've never met him. Is he...?”

“You'll be fine. He's charming. Quite the honor. You'll be just fine.”

“You promise?”

“I promise when you get back I'll have a bowl of pudding set aside waiting for you.” The woman smoothing the girl's top with flour covered fingers. “Bring this tray to the young Missus and then get to where you need to get. I still need to finish up the main course down here.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The girl dipping a curtsy before taking the tray with both hands. Making like she was going to turn, but then asking, “How do I look?”

A pause. “He'll eat you right up. Now get going. Scoot.”

Pulling myself back a few steps as the girl comes out into the hall. Momentarily glancing in my direction, but her gaze sliding right over me. Heading off on her errand.

Follow her or poison the food? It definitely sounds like she's heading to one of my destinations - arguably the more important one - but if everything continues to go smoothly then poison will neatly tie up a number of loose ends. Stuck flatfooted and indecisive as the girl disappears around the corner. No, forget her, stick to the plan. Creeping closer to the kitchen, preparing to either distract the cook and poison the food or subdue her and make use of the dumbwaiter, but then a different woman's voice coming from the interior.

“You think this one will make it back?”

“Doesn't matter to me,” the first saying, “but no chance. I was told the young Master was very insistent.”

A cackle being let loose. “You really hate the pretty ones, don't you?” The woman with the apron and flour covered fingers answering with her own laugh. “Did you see... Is someone there?” Darting by the doorway in pursuit of the tray laden girl. Every swift and deliberately placed footstep putting the kitchen further and further behind. Getting to an intersection and blindly choosing my direction.

Sensible tactics. That's all this is. A vampire that hasn't recently fed is a weaker vampire, and thinking about loose ends is planning for victory before it's even been achieved. There's two priority targets that need to be eliminated before considering anything else. The son, first, and then the father. After that is eliminating any other witnesses nearby. Vampires never exist in solitude. They're social, and sociable, parasites, tied among each other in a loose syndicate. But if one on the fringe disappears the collective may or may not take note. But if one near the center gets snuffed out, that'll cause all kinds of hand wringing and kvetching.

Rule number one for thieves and parasites alike: don't needlessly antagonize the host. Seems sensible, but hubris, complacency and greed often conspire against sense. When that happens point a finger at something else to deflect the blame – and the more repulsive the target, the better. So here's a finger pointed right at them. Before long these bloodsucking parasites are going to find themselves on the business end of a torch wielding mob.

“Hey-”

Restraining the killing strike – under the sternum and angled to hit the heart – in favor of a straight thrust to the liver. The surprise and excruciating pain from the attack sending the man back a step or three through the doorway he'd come out of, his hands clutching the wound.

“Stay quiet and you'll live.”

Most men don't tend to yell. Not at first. They may mutter and swear while assessing the situation, but yelling generally only comes if they decide to attack - everyone yells when they attack. That's typically how things go, but the man backing into the room triggering a small commotion within. Several people talking all at once, and then the man with stomach wound saying my name.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

People are born with talents for this or that, but only a select few are also blessed with the resources, the encouragement and the leisure time to cultivate those talents. Fewer still possess the requisite dedication to trek through the countless, grueling hours refining and perfecting that chosen talent. Those lucky, dedicated few who claw their way to the pinnacle of their art truly deserve every scrap of adoration and respect thrown their way.

The woman in the room over, just out of sight - her exact appearance a mystery, but undoubtedly possessing a large frame - displaying prodigious, albeit amateur, talent. The sort of talent unbound from the ordinary constraints of convention, and wholly unshackled from the straightjacket of refinement. A nettle swatted, scalded bobcat yowling as it's stub of a tail is being ripped off. Half words, half terror and indignation. The woman howls.

“The Black Hand's come to kill us all! You have to get help! Do something! We're gonna die!”

The man with the stomach wound disappearing behind the door as it slams shut, his expression a mirror of my own. Crashes and banging joining in with the rest of the now muffled, inarticulate shrieking as those on the other side of the door begin barricading it.

This is bad.

No, stop it, this is fine. It's not good, but it's fine. He's not dead, so there's no general alert. Not yet. A couple of them being noisy down here doesn't mean the situation has turned critical. Which way did that girl go? Not this way. Must've taken a wrong turn at that first intersection. Okay, put a lid on this, then turn around and catch up to her. The other exit to their common area should be over in this direction.

My sudden appearance in the middle of their escape route causing another bit of commotion, followed by another slammed door. Reshape. The wooden door swelling to fill the entire doorframe, wedging and sealing itself shut. Hardly impregnable, but this should buy more than enough time. They'll keep themselves busy worrying and treating his stab wound.

Hurrying back the other way to the staircase leading to the first level. The bare, utilitarian stone and woodwork of the downstairs servants' quarters giving way to polished and scrubbed clean stone floors, waxed wooden surfaces, spit-shined brass fixtures polished to a rosy gleam.

Activating the Rune Trap drawn on my skin and touching the guard leaning against a nearby wall. A couple drops of neurotoxin in his eye to be absorbed. Moving on while avoiding standing near any metallic surface, or any of the paintings and tapestries displaying bright colors. Catching sight of the girl with the tray. Taking the long way across the grand entrance - with it's thick, red carpet, polished marble and grand staircase leading upward - by skirting around the outside. Finally managing to catch up and stalking her movements as she continues moving at a leisurely pace. Down another hallway and opening a door. Stopping the heavy door an inch from closing and then slipping in behind.

Stuffed animals and toys and bits of clothing are strewn about the floor of a large room. The bedroom of the Marquis' youngest daughter, with the girl herself sitting in the middle of a four post bed, her attention occupied with a oversized book - regular sized, but oversized in her hands. Sheets and blankets and pillows are tossed about her sitting place without care.

“Young Miss, I've brought your dinner.”

“What is it?” The girl remaining wholly engrossed in her reading and not bothering to look up.

“It's good, you'll like it.” Placing the tray of food on the bed for a cursory inspection. “Now, if you'll excuse me-”

“Wait. Did you find him?”

“I, um, I wasn't able to, but I'm sure he'll be fine in the gardens overnight.”

“I know he'll be fine. He's a doll.” The young girl giving the older one a scathing look before sitting up straight. “Why didn't you find him?”

“I'm sorry, Young Miss. I had other duties I was required to attend to. And then it got dark. I'm sure we'll find him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I want him. He'll be fine, but what about me? It's not too late so let's look for him.” The girl standing up on her bed.

“You need to eat your dinner. I have something that I have to- and it's too dark to look for him in the gardens.”

The young girl's pout lasting only a moment before being replaced by a brilliant smile. “That's not a problem.” Speaking a couple short words, stuttering, and then beginning again from the start. At the final word of the phrase a small ball of light appearing and hovering in her hand. “See? I've finally gotten it. Mother will be...” The victorious smile crumbling. “She'll be so...”

The older servant girl pulling in the younger noble for hug.

“That's wonderful,” she says. “You've been blessed with such a wonderful gift.” Holding the pose for a long moment before releasing the hug. “But we can't look for him tonight and you need to eat. I'll be back later to tuck you into bed.”

“How about you stay some?” The girl giving a last sniffle. “I'll read this story to you while I'm having dinner.”

“I can't keep the young Master waiting any longer. I promise I'll be back later.”

Horror. The little girl so stunned she falls into a sitting position. “He asked for you? Father said you weren't going to be chosen. He said it. That's what Father said.”

“It's normal. It's nothing bad. Maybe when you're a little older ,I'll tell you about it.”

“I already know about sex.” The young girl's pronouncement matter of fact. Standing back up and doing her best imperious pose. “You can't go. I forbid it. I'll speak with Father.” Beginning to pace back and forth on the bed. “My obligation as a noblewoman of the Empire is keeping my people safe, so promise me you'll wait for me to get back. Tell me you won't go.”

The servant girl giving an incredulous laugh. “Well, begging your pardon, your Grace, but I think you're overreacting. I'm sure your brother will be a gentleman.”

The small, flustered girl throwing up her hands and saying: “You don't understand. That's not why you're being asked to come and that's not my brother. My brother is dead and what's walking around isn't him. If you wont stay here, then we should both go to ask Father.”

That's my confirmation, and this has gone on long enough. Every precious second slipping by brings me another moment closer to failure. They both know where the vampire is, and they'll talk. Just try not to spook them.

“Excuse me.” Both turning see who'd spoken. Good, no immediate panicked screams. Walking slowly toward them and making no threatening gestures. “What you've been talking about. Where is it?”

The servant girl trying to back up, but after one step hitting the bed and landing on her seat.

“You're...” The younger one squinting. “Macarthy. Why're you here? Uncle Viktor said...” Biting her lip. “Did he send you?”

“I've been sent to help.” That's potentially not even a lie. “But answer my question, and be quick about it because time is short. Tell me where it is.”

***

The smell of smoke - incense, tobacco and the much sweeter one – filling the air, along with an undercurrent of blood and faeces. Luxurious carpets, overstuffed sofas and blacked out windows the silent spectators to every transgression. A number of them held in thrall. Nude, or near enough, and exclusively male. Victims of predation, lured in by trappings of wealth, promises of ease, and tidbits of pleasure. Drunken or doped to stupefaction, mindslaves in one form or another to the young lord of the city. Exploited and groomed, pride destroyed, made dependent and left diseased.

The eldest son of the Marquis – a boy, really, his growth arrested during that short span of years just prior to proper manhood – at the center of it all and currently engaged in a tryst with one of his living siblings. Clawlike nails leaving scratchmarks on the other boy's back even as his lower half is being treated with a gentler touch. The vampire's mouth latched onto a forearm and drinking most lustily. The monster surely aware of my entrance – every other eye in the series of rooms had immediately gone to me - surely the monster is aware that no mere servant girl had come to its lair as an offering to be devoured. Or maybe it didn't know - didn't know or didn't care. Such monumental chutzpah. The creature ignoring me entirely as it feeds, fixated foremost on satisfying its perverse appetite.

Two steps into the central room of the suite, hatchet in hand and chain trailing from the other. Raising it into the air for an overhand chop. My direct approach, and the rising unease, finally catching the creature's attention. Eyes widening as it understands.

“Stop!”

The magical command containing all the considerable weight of a vampire's compulsion. The word frantic, emotional and weighty enough to halt everything else in the room, but hitting me with all the force of empty air. My windup strike coming down undelayed and undeterred, hacking through the neck and bone underneath. A decidedly lethal attack against anything living, but the thing letting out a hiss even as it's head half flops off. The vampire raising an arm to try and block the next chop but only losing its wrist and hand for the effort.

Pressing my advantage and hacking relentlessly, five or six more strikes battering down with every hit taking off chunks as the thing spits and curses and tries scrambling away. A final strike severing the remainder of the neck, sending the head rolling and causing the body to collapse to the ground. The corpse emptying out from half a dozen grievous wounds. Dry while upright, but now spraying blood with the force of a bursting dam.

Here's my proof. In hand. Yes! Yelling vampire with nothing to back it up will get dismissed, but yelling vampire while waving the thing's bloody head around won't give 'em that option. Heh. They'll probably wrinkle their noses and say it's a breach of decorum, and then they'll sternly request that any future monsters be murdered more humanely. Empty rituals and pageantry to govern the gathering of empty heads.

The vampire's corpse producing a blood red pebble, and the brief flash and disappearance of the body stirring the others in the room from their torpor. None making any aggressive moves, some backing off and some curling in on themselves. Now which ones are alive and which aren't? No simple way to tell. They can will themselves to bleed if cut.

"You're safe, now."

The Marquis' surviving son giving me a vacant stare before hiding his head in his hands, and the rest of them allowing me to leave unmolested. Shouting and other noise filling air, the sound evident before even leaving the vampire's apartments. My name ricocheting along with the sounds of clanking armor and weapons as they come up the stairs.

You're coming up now? You're much too late. Much, much too late. Where were all of you yesterday? Or last week, last month, or last year? Where were all of you even a half hour ago? Not here. You weren't here to stop it. You all sat around and left it to me. And if my methods are the ones being used then there's no more need for hiding. Not anymore. The Lord of this city's end is going to be nasty, brutal and short.