I hurried over to Martel, grabbing the back of his bonds.

“Not a word,” I hissed as I dragged him with both hands, stuffing the list of Lord Montague’s titles into my pockets using my tail.

The skin of my diabolism-tainted arm tingled, bits of crimson deepening in hue. Deepening out of anticipation.

I tried to breathe more slowly even as I continued dragging Martel. Remain calm Malvia. No need for violence just yet. There were rows of filing cabinets in here, plenty of room to hide until they left.

Well, except that they would wonder where Martel is, but I could do something to that bridge when we came to it. In say, two minutes from the echo of their steps?

“We are about to have company,” I whispered to Martel. “Some of them are undoubtedly your friends. Others are definitely not, since Lord Montague hads sent them. Probably to destroy this list and cover his tracks. And probably handle any witnesses to that. Which means you and whoever they’ve roped into this as well. Probably change into you on their way out.”

That last bit was pure conjecture, of course, but anything to get across the idea that speaking up wouldn’t end well for him.

He nodded, face paling a little. Maybe a bit too much? I didn’t want him to pass out. Then they would definitely know something strange was occuring.

“I’m going to cut you loose, and you need to pretend like everything is normal,” I said. “If it goes well, I just leave, and no one knows I was here. If something else happens, just run. You understand?”

A shaky nod was my only response. His face grew even paler when I pulled out a thin knife.

Trust. Extremely shaky. Although even if he gave me away, I wouldn’t be in too much of a worse spot than if I didn’t free him.

I sliced through the bonds, considered giving him Lord Montague’s list for half a second, then swiftly reconsidered. I needed hard evidence to give the others, and even if the two coming asked specifically for these, I’d think of something.

Probably fire, but it would be something.

Martel got up as I finished cutting his bonds, backing away from me as he eyed me uncertainly.

We had little time. A minute? Two? I gestured towards the door silently, then moved further into the rows of cabinets, looking for a place to hide.

I probably should have verbalized some threat to not sell me out, but I didn’t need to. He should understand that implicitly.

Martel shakily returned to his post, breathing deeply as some color returned to his face. His eyes kept glancing over to the row of cabinets I was hiding behind, which were more than a little irritating. Was it too much to ask for people to be professional about these things?

I settled in at the end, producing a small mirror from a pocket. Not the best view looking at the reflection. Still stealthier than sticking my head around the end of the row of cabinets. By now, Martel had mastered his urge to stare at my hiding spot.

The door opened, letting in the small group.

Three people, an older woman in clothing similar to Martel’s, flanked by a pair of men in fine suits. The left one had an affable grin and red muttonchops, the right one a shaved head and a scar going across the bridge of his nose.

Either shape-changers or hired toughs. Preferably the latter, but knowing my luck most likely the former.

“Ah, Arstel,” Martel said. “We have guests in the records room? Most unusual.”

The one on the left of the archivist smiled warmly. “We know. Most sorry to intrude on you. It’s just our mutual master has demands to make of us.”

“The Crown?” Martel asked.

“Ah, no Jacob. They are here on behalf of Lord Montague.”

“Not our mutual master then,” Martel said, irritation in his voice. “Employer, yes, but the Crown is master to all of us. Why have you come here?”

“His lordship wishes to have a copy of his record made,” the left one said while the right eyed the floor, a scowl developing on his face.

The Hells? Had I missed some track or sign I’d left there he was picking up on?

“Most unusual that he didn’t come himself,” Martel observed.

“His lordship doesn’t have time to attend every little errand himself,” Muttonchop said, smile growing a little colder. Genuinely loyal to the man or a changer upset at how much their charade was being questioned?

“They do have the proper paperwork and his Lordship’s seal on them,” Arstel added reproachfully. “They are well within their rights to ask for them, Jacob.”

Martel theatrically sighed. “Fine, fine. Let it not be said I’m unhelpful. Sorry gentlemen, for interruptions to the routine nettle me. Follow me. Lord Montague’s record should be at this cabinet.”

They were moving towards the cabinets now, close enough I pulled back completely, relying entirely on sound.

“Jacob, what in the Queen’s name has happened to your hand? You’ve got cuts all over it!”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I’d forgotten to put even a bandage over his wounds from when my teeth had nipped his flesh. I tensed up, reaching for power even as Martel answered with only the slightest bit of hesitation.

“It’s embarrassing to admit, I accidentally caught it between the door and doorframe. I was going to have it looked at, but then you three came in. It’s not a big bother, they are all shallow cuts. His lordship’s files should be here.”

The sound of a drawer being opened, papers rustling, then a grunt of confusion from Martel.

“His Lordship’s records for this month are missing. Strange, only the head archivist should have permission to remove these from this room.”

“Has he?” Muttonchops asked.

“Well, I haven’t been the only person on duty this week. Or today, for that matter. It’s possible Head Archivist Linden came in earlier to take the record. Why she would want it? I don’t have the foggiest idea.”

“Is there no way to find out swiftly?” A new voice interjected sharply. The one with the bald head and the scar.

“You could find the Head Archivist and ask her directly,” Martel suggested. “She might even be able to meet with the both of you rather swiftly. Then again, with these new security protocols, she might be rather busy at the moment.”

“Unfortunate that,” Muttonchop said. “It was a pleasure meeting with the two of you, but I think the two of us can handle the rest of this.”

“Oh no, you’d never be able to see the Head Archivist without one of us to escort you.”

That sounded like my cue to step in.

A quick peek into the arcane. Small owls littered the room, minor spirits of knowledge. A few gashes of red from my near-biting of Martel. Nothing else. Good.

Well, this seemed the right time.

Let us see what these two taste of, perhaps?

Definitely not.

A snap, a crackle. Flame sprouted across my tainted hand, black and red and setting the surfaces touched by diabolism gleaming.

Spirits fled, hooting in fear as something split the floor only in the arcane as I stepped forward into the light.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid with Mr. Hawkins in Watch custody, I don’t know any of your names,” I said as the two changers whirled, half-changed limbs reverting immediately to their human imitations.

“Who are you?” The elderly woman asked in shock.

The changers didn’t bother with talking. The muttonchop one swung their arm at me, the limb growing mid-swing till a twenty-foot limb swung at me like a flail.

I fell to the floor, biting my tongue as I fell. Even falling on the side with the unbroken leg, my wounded limb felt like it had been stabbed. The flail arm passed overhead, the end smashing into cabinets like a mace’s head.

No time to think. I gestured and flame spat in a line, hitting the bald changer. They’d been swiping at Arstel with a changing arm, the forearm changed to a blade made of bone.

My flames were faster, a black tarry ball splashing against the side of their head. An inhuman keening filled the air as they flailed, missing the archivist as their flesh burned. The fire didn’t go out, spreading along their clothes.

Muttonchop’s second arm had formed into a coiled spear that shot forward at me. I rolled, biting my tongue as I rolled over my leg.

The spear rammed into where I’d laid, splinters of wood flying as it buried itself into the floor.

I needed to end this quickly. As is they had the mobility advantage, and durability as well. All I had was the element of surprise and that would only buy some much time. The scarred changer still writhed as Hellfire burned flesh and cloth, but that would only last for so long.

I sent a ball of the substance at Muttonchop, and the upper half of his body bent backwards. In a fraction of a second, he’d completely folded and the ball of fire splashed against the wall instead, setting everything it touched alight.

“You little guttersnipe!” Muttonchop roared. “Why do you have to constantly mess things up for us?”

I’m sorry, I was the one messing things up for them?

I didn’t answer, instead firing another ball of Hellfire, aiming low this time.

His arms turned into legs and he scurried away on all fours, body reforming into a more dog-like creature. He ran out of sight, a second fireball chasing him.

Arstel and Martel were running too, around the still-burning bald changer and out the door. A good thing, since my efforts at nailing Muttonchops had only succeeded in setting a quarter of the room aflame.

I grabbed a cabinet, pulling myself up so I could get my leg underneath me. It protested every inch of the journey, nerves screaming for me to stop as it dragged across the floor. Hoof and flesh-foot underneath me, I tested my weight on the hoof.

Fire lanced up from hoof to hip, my vision shaking as I grabbed hold of the cabinet. It was the only thing that stopped me from collapsing as I gasped out, sucking air. The keening from the bald changer had stopped, but it still burned. Its entire surface was covered in fire now, flesh charred under its touch.

Had Hawkins been the most powerful of them?

Muttonchop rounded the corner, charging forward. By now his changing turned him into a shaggy grey wolf who came up to my chest, mouth open to reveal dagger-length teeth. He charged forward, howling.

I called on fire. This close, I couldn’t miss.

Something rammed into the side of my head, grabbing hold and then wrapping around my neck. My concentration broken, and the forming fire in my palm winked out. I gasped, trying to breathe as Muttonchop finished closing the distance.

My hand disappeared down its gullet as it took my arm into its mouth. Teeth closed down on my elbow. It pulled back, tearing strips of flesh with it as blood poured down and my pain became agonizing.

I am not dying here.

Flames sprouted along my skin as I didn’t even focus on a point, just calling on the flames. Muttonchop whimpered as fire poured out from the inside of his mouth, while the iron grip around my neck loosened.

I stepped forward on a shattered hoof, the pain but an afterthought as my other hand seized Muttonchop’s wolf neck.

“Perhaps if you don’t want your plans ruined,” I hissed, as flames crept and roasted the flesh and fur. “Don’t mess with the Daughter of a Duke of the Hells, you vermin!”

From the corner of my eyes, the bald changer moved, charred skin turning healthy as the lasso of flesh it had used to choke me retracted. Had it mimicked the visual appearance of Hellfire? The flames shouldn’t have burned out that fast regardless, but it had been a performance that kept me from paying attention to it.

No matter. It had its own problems to worry about, as the filing cabinets exploded. Papers flew out, most of them joining to form little humanoid figures with tails, horns, and wings. Well, at least that answered what the Diabolism was conjuring on its own from my workings.

Mockeries of me, apprentice? Your humor is not appreciated.

I rolled my eyes and drew breath to answer, only to have it driven from my lungs. Muttonchops was changing even as he burned, and a single limb had kicked me in the chest. It felt like someone had taken a hammer to each of my lungs. Wheezing, I tried to keep ahold of his neck, but spikes drove into my hand. I let go, trying to scream with lungs too busy trying to recover from that kick.

Muttonchop scurried, harried by the paper imps and dodging the flaming parts of the room before ramming the door out. It snapped in half, and he disappeared, followed by his bald comrade and the paper imps. The sounds of gunshots, yells, and a crackling that was probably arcane magic soon followed.

Wheezing, trying to regain breath, and grasping for a good handhold, I moved the other way. My left hand was a mess, flesh torn loose in strips. My vision shook, and the edges were blurry, and every step felt like a new spike was being rammed into that leg.

I probably looked a right mess, and who knew how I was going to make it out. But if the two changers hadn’t been able to stop me, what could?