Amon itched at her skin as she strolled through Lower North Fotoam—home to the families of the more well-off merchants. The old buildings uneased her and reminded her that even though she could claim many years herself, plenty of things existed before her and would continue after. These structures saw the Surface for what it was, experienced rain falling from the sky, and all the seasons she had only read about.

Unlike the commercial districts, few wandered the streets, which benefited Amon. The fewer who witnessed her work, the better.

According to her docket, which only included two names for the day, the first person she would visit owed Faraldin several items from a deal gone south. 

“I fronted the goods to him because he has been a good customer for a few years,” Faraldin told her during their debriefing that morning. “I got a letter saying the shipment was lost. Whatever. It happens. However, some friends of mine claimed to see him flaunting some coins on Gloom Avenue.”

A tingle ran through Amon’s arms. “He wouldn’t happen to be this tall,” she motioned a head above her glamoured form, “with a face better suited as a model than anything else? Dark hair, penchant for expensive clothes, and a voice like honey?”

Faraldin cocked his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say ‘honey,’ but then again, he’s been able to fool even me into thinking a deal went wrong.”

When Amon relayed the pair she witnessed—making sure to exclude how he kicked a child—Faraldin nodded. “Yes, that sounds like the very same person. You’re not… acquainted with him, are you?”

Her cheeks burned. “No, definitely not. He’s not even my type, really.”

Faraldin had leaned back and raised an eyebrow at her. “No… heirs to Great Houses are more your crowd, eh?”

She stormed out of his office soon after, his laughter following her through the bar and out the door.

Releasing a deep breath, Amon checked the address given to her against the townhouses lining the street. Finally, she stopped outside a three-story brownstone with a cat licking itself on the stoop.

The creature paid her no mind as she buzzed the doorbell. A dinging sound echoed behind the front door, followed by a series of curses and loud thumps.

Amon drummed her fingers against her thigh, her excitement rising at the prospect of finally getting revenge for that little boy.

The door swung open, revealing the same smug bastard from the week prior. Amon grinned, ready to deliver the performance of a century, but she tensed once she took in his entire appearance.

Buttons undone and white silk shirt shredded, crimson liquid splattered against his face and throat, and eyes that did not focus entirely on her.

Amon cursed and pushed him inside, slamming the door behind her.

“Who are you?” His voice barely sounded above a whisper. He shoved her away from him, holding shaking hands up to his head as he turned on his heel. “You can’t be an officer. I would be in handcuffs by now. Are you a fixer? An assassin? You must be after what I did.”

A sob left him. Amon fiddled with the ends of her sleeves. How was she supposed to collect money from this man? He looked ready to collapse from whatever madness consumed him. 

“What happened?” She kept her voice tempered as she walked closer to him, wary in case he drew any weapons.

Using her Sight, Amon could make out a collection of white, yellows, and blues. Without context, it was difficult to distinguish what emotion could be applied. However, looking around the entryway told her nothing except that whatever transpired involved a lot of blood.

Red handprints decorated the dark wooden railing leading up into the rest of the household, whilst footprints delved deeper into the current floor. Splotches of blue and green blood also lined the wall, but not nearly as much as the red. Amon scrunched her nose at the influx of metallic scents—grateful even more for the glamour that made everything less overwhelming.

“You never said who you work for,” the man gritted out, turning to face her.

“Faraldin. He knows you lied about the shipment.”

The man chuckled, though no humor resided in the sound. “Yeah, he’s not the only one.”

Amon’s eyes widened. Faraldin never told her what the shipment or the deal involved—not that she wanted to ask—but if this man had betrayed any of the crime families or syndicates…

“What happened, Farran?” She urged again. A brief zip of that same power she experienced when facing the Shadowfaen welled through her but faded all too soon for her to be sure of what it did.

Farran’s eyes grew cloudy. “The Kratises Brothers ordered an influx of weapons and armor to be smuggled up from the Surface. My people were caught at one of the Wayward Gates, so I turned to Faraldin for some goods I could hand over. But then the Uvarsen clan reached out with an even better offer. Faraldin doesn’t like two-timing, so I told the brothers and him I lost the shipment. A mole ratted me out, and… and…” His voice choked up as another sob left him. He collapsed inward and clutched himself, violent screams leaving him.

Amon walked past him, following the footprints into a dining room.

The first thing she spotted was the empty high chair dripping with blood and the mangled mess of limbs lying on the ground beside it. 

“Gods,” she whispered as she walked further into the room, Farran’s sobs echoing from where he strayed behind her.

“They cared about nothing but making their point. My kids… my wife… I just convinced her to give me another chance.”

Why is he telling me all of this? Amon glanced and found his eyes remained cloudy.

But she would need to consider it later. 

A heavy knock rattled against the front door.

“Farran Irvain? It’s Detective Bramos.”

Amon rolled her eyes. He made it sound like he belonged to an actual police force rather than a group of volunteers.

She turned to Farran, ready to insist business was still business, but he clutched a steak knife in his shaking hands.

“I can’t. They have people in the jails. It’ll be a fate worse than death. I’ll tell you where I hid the rest of the loot, just—”

Farran held out the knife to her. “Please. I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m a shit person, but please.”

Amon glanced between him and the knife. The knocks grew more robust, the detective shouting louder. He would draw attention to the house. If she wanted to get the job done, she couldn’t hesitate. It wouldn’t be her first time getting her hands dirty for a job.

She took the knife from Farran. “Where is it?”

“A storage box at a bank in Upper Noatten. Say you’re my wife, Maxine. You’ll need these.” He handed her a signature card and a key.

“If you lied, I promise I will summon you back from the Void before you have a chance to see the Crimson Gates.”

Farran nodded. “I understand.”

Amon grasped him by the back of the head. In one elegant stroke, blood coated her front, and he slumped in her grasp.

Gently, she placed him beside the two other bodily masses. She eyed his wife, or rather what remained of her. She couldn’t leave this house looking like she killed someone.

Ignoring the pounding on the front door (besides bringing down the reinforcement bar), she rushed up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Everything was in disarray, which made it easier for her to find a pair of clothes to slip into.

However, her leather gloves were difficult to replace. They cracked and flaked with the blood and tightened around her hands. But if she took them off, her Mark would be present for anyone to see.

“Since it’s a Divine Mark,” Faraldin explained to her, “no magick will be able to cover it unless it’s from the God who placed it. You’ll need to cover it for now, or else this glamour will do nothing for you.”

The knocks downstairs turned into solid bangs.

They’re trying to break down the door. Amon was running out of time.

Grabbing a plain headscarf, she wrapped the black fabric around her wrist and hand. It would do for now. People wore stranger things out in public.

Just as she dashed for the stairs, the front door burst open, and several volunteer officers rushed in.

Shit.

Checking the window that looked out below, she saw a small crowd gathering outside the entrance.

That takes out that option.

Which left… what?

Officers stalked through the hallway. She slid under the bed, grateful Faraldin gave her a slimmer form for her glamour. Still, it was a bit of a tight fit as she kept her breaths slow and even—wary of any who may hear her.

All she could make out were the scuffed boots of the two officers who entered.

One of them whistled. “Seems they were looking everywhere for something.”

“Did you see the bodies? Must have made Farran watch before doing him off.” 

The other shuddered as one walked forward, fingering the clothes left behind. He paused by Amon’s discarded clothes, picking them up.

“Do we have a hound? Maybe we can figure out where this culprit went.”

“Those are women’s clothes. I doubt she could have been solely responsible for all that mess.”

Amon rolled her eyes.

“Either way, it’s the only lead we have. The handprints lacked any identifiable patterns that forensics could use. Footprints are a common measure and a common form of footwear. But women’s clothing? And it’s not even good quality fabric, so it couldn’t have belonged to anyone from here.”

One of them approached the bed. “Which leads to another thing. Farran’s body is still warm. He can’t have been dead for long. And this blood hasn’t dried yet.”

“If she just killed him, she can’t have gone far.”

“And Bramos has been at the door for at least ten minutes. She couldn’t have left without us noticing.”

“You think she’s still here?”

Amon tensed as the closest officer knelt beside the bed. Her heart drummed in her ears, drowning out all other sounds as the officer lowered his head.

Without thinking, she held out her left hand.

Go away, go away, she thought. Please, go away.

Her Mark lit slightly under the hair wrap—its outline visible but not so much as to reveal where she hid.

The officer’s arms trembled as he lifted himself back up.

“No dice?” His comrade asked.

The officer only hummed, and they both left the room.

Amon resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief. She stared down at her left hand.

What was going on?