The door to our room no longer hangs crooked on broken hinges. Someone’s come through while we were downstairs carving up the night, replaced the splintered oak with fresh, solid wood. The air inside smells different too, beeswax polish, fresh linen and the faint metallic tang of coin instead of blood. They’ve been busy trying to make amends after watching us walk through their slaughter.
I slip in half a step behind him, tail low and slow swaying, ears swiveling forward to catch every sound. The corridor behind us is quiet now, too quiet. My claws flex once against the floor before I rise to two feet, boots silent on the rug. I don’t like how clean it smells. Clean means they touched our space. Clean means they were here without me watching.
Master doesn’t seem to care. He walks straight to a low table in which a small leather pouch is sitting, dark brown and held tight with a fancy black cord, no crest, no guild mark, nothing to claim it. Beside it, a single folded sheet of heavy paper, sealed with plain black wax, no impression. Deliberately anonymous. Spy work. I hate it already.
My tail lashes once, sharp, irritated whilst brushing the back of his calf as I prowl up beside him. I press my whole side against his hip, shoulder to thigh, like I’m reminding the room who actually owns this space.
He breaks the seal with with fingers. Just opens it, scans the lines before setting it down flat on the table so I can see too. The writing is precise.
The Cartel safehouse at 17 Blackspire Lane. Third floor, rear garret, iron shutters painted green. Target: ledger book bound in red sharkskin, brass clasp, marked with three crossed quills. You do not act on our behalf. You are not in our employ. Success or failure is yours alone. If taken, we will deny knowledge. If killed, we will not mourn. Payment in advance: fifty silver.
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Fifty silver. Five gold coins’ worth, sitting pretty in that pouch like it’s supposed to impress us. I bare my fangs in a slow, silent hiss. My tail curls tight around his ankle once, possessive.
Master exhales through his nose. He picks up the pouch, weighs it in his palm once, deliberate, unhurried, then tosses it lightly onto the bed. It lands with a soft clink against the rumpled sheets we left earlier. My eyes follow it, then snap back to him.
He turns to face me fully. His hand lifts, settles on the side of my neck, thumb pressing once against the pulse under my collar.
"They think they can hire us again" I send through the bond, voice sharp even in thought. "Think they can leave notes and coin like we’re errand cats. Like we won’t remember how they tried to drag you out of bed an hour ago."
His fingers slide up as he scratches once behind my ear, slow and firm. A ragged purr tears out of me despite the anger simmering under my skin. My claws hook into the front of his shirt.
"They’re scared" he sends back, calm as ever. "Scared enough to pay in advance. Scared enough to pretend we’re disposable."
I press my face into his throat inhaling his scent. “They don’t get to pretend,” I murmur aloud, voice husky, thick with tea and violence. “Not after tonight. Not after they watched you walk through their dead like they were furniture.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps scratching behind my ear, slow circles that make my eyes slit. Eventually though he reaches past me, picks the letter up again. Folds it once, neat, then tucks it into the inner pocket of the cloak.
I don’t move away. My claws stay hooked in his shirt. My tail stays wrapped around his wrist. My ears stay forward, listening to the guildhouse settle, distant voices of guards sweeping glass, the soft thump of bodies being dragged, the faint crackle of braziers being relit downstairs.
