“Help!” Raff cried, his good hand clawing at the one wrapped in bandages. Deep red and black light pulsed from beneath the bloody cloth as his hand whipped back and forth, wielding the blade. It caught a third man across the face and he fell with a ragged scream.

Most assassins despised chaos. They preferred careful planning and perfect conditions. Knowing the moment their target would step through a door, taking their shot, and leaving before the body even hit the ground. It was easier that way, cleaner. To Nathan, that certainly had its time and place. There weren’t many sensations like the rush of a perfectly planned and executed kill. But chaos. That was where he thrived.

He moved across the floor like an eel in water, his blade striking out at men that didn’t even know he was there. Cutting heels, slitting throats. Bodies dropped to the ground like thudding rain as he moved amongst the men of the Night Hunt. He was creating a pathway of blood toward the edge of the room that Arnold had directed him. The old man seemed to know the place they were in quite intimately.

Two others, not just Raff, were swinging their weapons, turning on their own. Cloaked figure attacking cloaked figure. Fallon had disappeared in the chaos, there wasn’t any sign of him now. Part of Nathan wanted to give chase, but he knew he shouldn’t. They’d come here with a purpose. They weren’t leaving without David. Arnold wouldn’t accept anything less.

“I can’t control it!” Raff screamed as his arm disobeyed him, cutting at another Night Hunt member.

There was an ax head coming at Nathan. Its metal glinted with another man’s blood as it screamed through the air toward him.

Nathan ducked to the side, igniting his hand in ghostly flame. Only the flame didn’t come. His hand pounded with a sudden heat, as if he had stuck it into a bed of coals. He gasped, falling backward a step. Shit. He’d forgotten.

The ax head collided with a couch, shooting up splinters. Then it was coming again. Nathan dodged once more, abandoning trying to use the flames, and flashed his blade out. It caught the yelling thug through the mouth and his ax dropped from his limp fingers, clattering on the ground.

“Keep moving,” Nathan yelled to Arnold. The old man nodded and took off toward the other side of the room. His hand ached, but he couldn’t think about it now. No time. Nathan moved to follow.

A looming shadow fell across his face. Another thug come to die? He whipped around, blade ringing in the air. There was the sickening sound of tearing flesh as the metal carved through the man. But it didn’t stop him.

It felt like Nathan had tried to catch a sack full of stones with his face. The brute’s fist crashed into his nose, tossing him backward. He felt a sickening jolt as he was flung across the room, everything turning upside down. The ground was above and then below and then above as he rolled across the floor. Eventually, he rolled to a stop, face staring up at the jaws of the wolf head suspended from the wall.

Nathan blinked hazy eyes, refocusing instantly, and felt blood dribbling down his nose. Likely broken. He pushed himself up onto his elbows. The figure before him stood like a golem. A bulging mass of white muscle with two sore red eyes set into its skull. Long, wet fangs hung low from its mouth, making it look like its mother had had intimate relations with a sabertooth tiger.

The white devil gave him no time to get his bearings. It charged across the floor, throwing men out of its way, beady eyes, like drops of blood, focused on Nathan.

Nathan bolted upright, moving to his feet, but he was too slow. A hand like a sledgehammer knocked him to the side, hard, throwing him back onto his face. He tried to scramble up but something heavy fell on his back, expelling the air from his lungs.

The flames still refused his call. He tried to push them from his palm. Tried pulling them, asking them, pleading for them. Nothing. The only sign he got that he’d ever been able to use them before was a throbbing wave of pain in his hands. It felt as if his pores were being stretched open ten times their normal size.

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“Stupid bloody Ferryman,” he wheezed.

And then the weight was off of him. It tumbled to the side a mess of pale flesh and translucent ghostly white. Arnold fought viciously with the beast, wailing and smacking, punches sounding like bags of meat slapping against each other. There was no way that the old tavern keeper would be a match for this monstrosity.

The hulking albino swung a fist down to crunch Arnold’s head in. Nathan cried out, but it passed through. Nathan blinked, halting his run for a moment, remembering the tavern keeper's ability. The brute looked equally confused. However, that confusion quickly turned to rage as Arnold’s ax sunk into its forearm with a messy spray of red.

A scream like a banshee tore through the room, drowning out the chaos and noise of the several other melees that had broken out. Night Hunt members still turned on each other, their own limbs disobeying their commands. Insanity. Fallon was still nowhere to be seen.

The white devil tore its arm away from Arnold, wrenching the smooth shaft of wood from the man’s grip. It backhanded Arnold and the man was thrown to the ground.

Nathan leaped onto the albino monster’s back bringing his blade round its neck. He had one hand on the hilt, another on the tip of the blade, and began pulling the weapon back, hoping to release the contents of its neck like a wineskin. The wail turned to raspy gurgles as sausage-like fingers swatted at Nathan on the creature’s back.

But Nathan kept pulling, sawing the blade further into the throat, digging and cutting, enduring the great smacks. Like a giant trying to swat a mosquito. Blood dripped from his hand as he grunted with exertion, his own blade slicing up his fingers.

On the other side, Arnold bellowed. He tore his ax from the beast’s arm, widening the wound, then swung it down. He roared, his body losing its intangibility so that the ax wouldn’t just pass through.

Whatever this thing was, it was strong, and it didn’t die easy. The ax buried itself deep in its chest. Bubbles of bloody spit oozed from the thing's mouth.

It swayed back and forth, Nathan never once letting off the pressure on his blade, then pitched forward, falling onto Arnold, wrapping its hands round the man’s neck.

Nathan pulled harder, muscles threatening to pop. For some reason, perhaps similar to why Nathan couldn’t use his flames, Arnold didn’t turn translucent. All Nathan could do was watch and pull.

“Augh,” Arnold croaked, hands scratching at the great pale paws tightening around his windpipe.

Fingers squeezed, eyes bulged, Nathan sawed his blade back and forth in a futile attempt to sever through the behemoth’s thick neck. There wasn’t much neck left to pull through. He wasn’t fast enough. Arnold was going to die.

He’d come here to save David. To do something good. It appeared he’d not only failed at that, but failed at keeping Arnold alive too. Everywhere he went, he wrought death. Aspiring? Bullshit. All he aspired to was being a damned grim reaper…

Then the fingers loosened.

Arnold took a gasping breath, scrambling out from underneath the albino as it slumped to the ground, dead. Another wooden bolt was embedded within the things chest, straight through the heart. Nathan fell backward off the things back, landing on his feet, and pulled his sword from the gash in the creature's neck.

He should have been dead. Arnold should have been dead. It was a miracle they weren’t.

His back was covered in dark bruises. Purple welts and lumps. His hand was a mess. Sliced and bloody from the bite of his own blade. It hurt an awful lot, but he could still move his fingers. That was good. He’d need his hand to fight if they were going to get out of here alive.

The infighting appeared to have halted. Raff was on his knees, injured hand gone, replaced by a bloody stump of an elbow. Their numbers were less, but Nathan still didn’t like the odds. More guild members must have come crawling from deeper within the manor. Around a dozen Night Hunt members were still in the room, their gazes now focused on Nathan and Arnold.

“We’re still alive,” Nathan croaked, wiping his bleeding hand off on his trousers. From the look of it, he’d done as good a job severing the beast's neck as he had severing his own fingers. “Our luck hasn’t run out yet, but it's certainly getting stretched thin.”

“Ain’t luck got nothing to do with it,” Arnold chuckled, his face a mean grin. He pointed up with a meaty finger. “Insurance.”

Nathan followed the man’s gaze, curious. Never in his life had been so glad to see an evil witch. Cleo stood on a second floor that overlooked the first, her crossbow leaning against the banister. Behind her, an open window let in the cool night air.

For a second, Nathan could’ve sworn he saw her give them a wink.