As soon as he found the city on the map, he made a quick trip to the nearest tavern to inquire of the locals which agent they were likely to ask about him. He'd heard stories of assassins who traveled around with other assassins and lived in the same buildings and went to the same pubs, so he figured that might be the best thing to do. It turned out to be true. They took him to their safe house, and explained that his name was on the list of names and that his boss would be sending instructions shortly.

"Is my mother going to be all right now?" he asked.

They hesitated then and didn't answer.

"Was she a good woman?" he pressed.

"I don't think we should talk about this," said one of them.

"Why not? What harm would it do?"

"We're not supposed to tell you anything."

"But you told me everything."

"Not everything."

"So what happened to her?"

"She died," said another.

"Who killed her?"

"It doesn't matter. You shouldn't have come looking for us like this. Your father would have been furious."

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"Then why didn't he kill me?"

"Your father wasn't the one who killed your mother."

The man in black looked around the room at the shadows and the faces, but none of them moved. "You said she was killed."

"That's right. It was your father. He did it with a knife. Stabbed her in the heart and then he drank her blood."

The man in black put his hands on the table top and leaned forward, listening intently. "Did he drink all of her blood?"

"No! No, most of it was gone when he stabbed her, so he drank some of it. A lot of it, actually. A lot more than anyone should ever drink. And she was just a girl. Only seventeen years old."

The man in black stood up and left the room without saying anything else. They watched him leave.

When he reached the end of the hallway, he stopped, leaning against the wall, his breath coming hard. All of them had known and kept that secret from him. Everyone knew. His father had killed his mother and drunk her blood. But why? Had she done something to deserve being murdered?

He couldn't think of a reason. He was sure she hadn't, and yet no one said otherwise. The fact was that her killer was still alive, though he hadn't tried to murder him in return.

Why? Because my father told me to forget about her. I'm supposed to move on to the next chapter, the next book. Forget about what happened here.

After that, every single day was the same. He woke up and dressed himself in his black clothing, the same clothes he always wore. Then he went to breakfast with those three men who were now his employers and waited for his instructions. Once every few weeks, they sent someone to visit him, and he'd be taken somewhere new and meet new people who knew different things, and he learned more than he cared to know. But he still never spoke or asked questions. The only thing they ever told him was to keep moving. To go wherever they wanted him to go, even though it was always dangerous. He was supposed to be grateful for all the work he got, and to keep quiet and not complain, because the alternative would get him killed. At least his father had gotten rid of his mother. Now he understood. He was glad he had been spared that part of his life.

He wondered if he could ever really forget the face of her that he had seen on the bed, her eyes glassy and lifeless. Would he be able to? Did he want to forget what had happened? Was it possible? Or was all that a lie?