Jack was back in the alley. No… not just the alley, but all of them at once; every alleyway he’d ever visited in both lives. His body and mind were paralysed by the fear coursing through him.

  The narrow cobbled streets twisted together, merging into a labyrinth of dead ends and crumbling sandstone walls. Shadows writhed along the stonework like scurrying rats, merging with twisted aether-lanterns, sucking in what little light there was.

  The shadows whispered, laughed, and pulled at his cloak and mask; they tugged at his sanity as the air reeked of blood and decay. It stank of guilt, and most of all, it reeked of Jack’s shame.

  “Jaaaccck…” A voice, thin and raspy, wormed into his ears.

  The nightmare world twisted… and there stood the rat-faced rogue. The man’s head lolled on his neck, the arrow wound in his gut gaping like a second mouth. He was stripped to his underwear, much of his naked body covered in a sea of swirling black beetles, gnawing at his pale skin. Blood poured from his wounds, running down his legs, pooling black and shining on the cobblestones. The rogue’s eyes glowed milky white, dead and watching.

  Jack was paralysed; he couldn’t even twitch. Y-your dead! It was all his mind could manage.

  “Why’d you kill me, Jack?” the rogue rasped, his lips splitting open with a grin far too wide, cracking ear to ear. “I just wanted to loot your warm corpse…” His smile widened further, splitting his cheeks open as black beetles skittered over his tongue and through his missing teeth before tumbling to the floor. “Just like you looted mine…”

  The labyrinth of alleys shifted, and Jack stumbled into the waiting shape of the large swordsman. The tall man’s chest was blackened, charred like firewood, his ribs exposed, the pale bone slats bleached by the sun. His handsome face drooped to one side, his mouth melted like butter, and his tongue was burnt to a stump by the heat of the [Fireball].

  The swordsman’s deep, sunken eyes locked onto Jack, and his breath rattled in his ruined throat as he leaned close. His melted jaw hung loose like it would drip over Jack’s frozen face at any moment. “Murderer…” he croaked. His hand shot out; bone-pale fingers closing like a vice on Jack’s shoulder. “Cold-blooded killer… Murderer.”

  The nightmarish world distorted again, wrenching Jack away from the swordsman’s grip. He ran as fast as he could, but didn’t move. The ground twisted under his feet, sucking him deeper into the maze. The shadows thickened, turning to smoke, morphing into wailing mouths that whispered his shallow remorse. They repeated his own words in a mocking tone…

  “But… but I had to do it…”

  “9 gold, 42 silver, and 14 coppers…”

  “I’ll never let it happen again…”

  “That was too easy…”

  “I had no choice…”

  “Be dead…”

  “This will be fun…”

  Jack felt the guilt, the shame of what he’d done, magnified a hundred times. He still couldn’t speak and could barely think. No, that’s not me… No. I did it to protect my family. He didn’t know what was right anymore. Did he do it for his family or something else? He was no longer sure.

  The mocking whispers continued…

  “I’m not stripping another dead body…”

  “I want to be a scribe…”

  “This one goes in the sell pile…”

  “Never again…”

  “Stay calm…”

  “I’m a scribe…”

  “If I die, they die…”

  Jack wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from the feelings of regret, but he was frozen in place. He couldn’t hide. He had no choice but to face his demons.

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  The labyrinth rippled around him. The cobbled streets shuddered, pulsing and rising.

  Ahead, the mage waited, and the whispers continued.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Not a murderer. Not this…”

  “Probably worth a few silvers…”

  “Never again. I’ll never let it happen again.”

  “Family. This is why you fight…”

  “I’m not a murderer…”

  “I’m a cold-blooded killer…”

  Jack’s frozen body was dragged by the shadows to stand before the mage.

  The mocking whispers faded to nothing. The mage’s chest still bore the snapped arrow, the throat wound gaping like a second grin. His body twitched like a wraith with hollowed eyes. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth and neat beard. He raised his hand, wand still clutched, trembling, and pointed it straight at Jack’s face.

  “Cold-blooded killer,” Mo whispered, his voice wet and thick. “That’s all you are now. A killer. An assassin.” He coughed up black blood, staggered forward, eyes burning bright with accusation. “Was it worth it? Was the coin worth it?”

  Jack’s arms were frozen. His legs locked in place. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  The three dead men circled him, whispering, laughing, teeth glinting sharp and long.

  “Murderer.”

  “Failure.”

  “Killer.”

  “Assassin.”

  “Coward.”

  “Murderer.”

  Their voices overlapped, layering, building, until they roared in his skull like a rising tide.

  Jack tried to reach his dagger… his arms wouldn’t move. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t. No! That’s not who I am. Not who I want to be! His fingers curled, frozen. I’m a scribe! His feet sank into the floor, the cobbles turning soft, sticky, pulling him down like wet tar, like black ink. No, I’m a scribe!

  The three dead men towered over him now, their faces blurring, melting together, becoming one monstrous, many-eyed thing, stitched together by Jack’s sins.

  Jack’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. I… I didn’t want to… You made me do it… I want to be a scribe! I want to be a scribe… But no voice came. His mouth was melted shut, his throat stuffed with burning ash, guilt, and shame.

  The monstrous shape leaned in closer, breath icy on his skin, its face morphing, shifting… until it became Jack’s own reflection. On one side, the scarred and burned mess from his past life. On the other side, his young, unblemished teenage face. A reflection of who he was deep inside and who he wanted to be.

  The voice was his own. “We did it anyway… We aren’t scribes… We are cold-blooded killers…”

  Jack screamed in silence.

  Hands erupted from the tar below, skeletal and clawed, grabbing his ankles, pulling, dragging him under.

  The hands whispered into his mind… “Killer… Murderer… Assassin…” The words drilled into his bones like rusty nails. “Cold… Blooded… Killer…”

  Jack thrashed, but couldn’t move. A scribe. He was sinking, chest-deep. I’m a scribe! Then neck-deep, then under. He sank, down, down, down, until the voices were gone, replaced by deafening silence.

  For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

  I’m a scribe, he sobbed in silence. I’m a scribe…

  Then… he opened his eyes. His family stood above him. His mom, his dad, Polly, Zia, even baby Richard, all staring down at him with pale, hollow, dead eyes. Their bodies twitched like starving wraiths, hungry for even a drop of aether.

  No. Not them. He wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t even blink.

  Their faces cracked open, their grins too wide, mouths splitting ear to ear, still twitching. “You’re a killer now, Jack,” they whispered in unison. “Nothing more. A cold killer.”

  Coins poured from their open mouths, gold… silver… copper… so many coins rained down, covering him in money.

  No! I did it for you… Jack tried to speak, but still no words formed …for my family.

  Baron Greaves stood on the pile of coins over him, grinning. “You’ll join my hunt on Saturday, and we’ll bag a few adventurers.” His eyes flashed red. “I do hope you’re not squeamish about blood, Son.”

  Jack screamed in silence. The coins flooded down his throat, stifling his silent screams… and his breath. He jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath; his chest was heaving like he’d been running for miles. His sheets tangled around his legs like weighted chains.

  For a moment, the shadows in the corners of the room still shifted, still whispered…. “Killer…”

  He pressed his trembling hands to his face, his heart pounding so loud it hurt. “It’s just a dream,” he rasped. “Just a nightmare…” But no matter how many times he whispered it, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  And the words from the nightmare still echoed in his mind, unshakable, and branded into his soul.

  Cold-blooded killer.

  Jack curled into a ball and cried himself back to sleep.

  Chapter 105 Helping Mom With Breakfast