Abe stared up at the crumbling house, mouth slightly ajar. “I thought you said this was your childhood home.”

“It is,” Anita said. “It was in a bit better condition last time I was here.”

“Yeah, I’d hope so,” Abe muttered, noting the ripped “Condemned” sign on the peeling door, the broken window, the sagging roof.

“Come on,” she sighed, gingerly pushing open the metal gate. “Let’s get this over with.”

They walked up the cracked sidewalk. Abe glanced around. It was eerie, actually, how quiet this part of town was. He could imagine that at one point, this could have been a nice place to live, but now the houses were boarded up, the remaining storefronts had bars on their windows, and the few people he had seen walk by kept their heads down and ignored his stares. It was hard to see anyone here having a happy childhood. But maybe that was just him.

Milton crept toward the apartment door, trying to tread lightly so as not to make the ancient floorboards creak. It had taken weeks of false starts and lost leads, but he finally tracked down his target, and was close to fulfilling his contract. He flinched as the floor seemed to scream under his left foot. He had thought this whole assassin thing would be a lot easier. At least it looked like it in the movies. Really, it entailed much more waiting around in his car than he expected.

He finally reached the correct apartment. Well, he thought he did. Turns out his hand didn’t make the best notepad. He squinted at the scribbles, confirming that yes, this was the right place. He shifted his backpack, suddenly worried he had forgotten the rope. The client had been very particular – this had to look like a suicide. Milton shook his head, trying to pull himself together. Of course he had the rope; he had packed and repacked his supplies at least three times last night.

Finally, he took a deep breath, and prepared to break down the door.

The street was dark, the only light coming from the full moon and a few street lights casting a yellow glow. Ben sat in his car, trying to simultaneously calm down and amp himself up. His eyes were closed, and his listened to angry rock music while taking deep breaths. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the car door open, and someone sank into the seat next to him.

“Are you sure you want to do this? You seem really twitchy,” Harper noted, rolling her eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said, giving himself a shake. “You just startled me, is all. Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

She just rolled her eyes again, then studied the driveway at the end of the street. “So, it’s down there?”

She glanced sideways at him, his face clear and unconcerned, a faint smirk permanently twisting his mouth. She felt the familiar, burning fury rise through her, spreading heat from her heart to her finger and toes. None of her anger manifested in her face, in tension in her limbs. She looked as calm and emotionless as the object of her fury. She stroked the handle of her warhammer, the familiar sensation of worn leather and cool metal soothing her rage. She itched to wield it, feel its heft in her hand, the satisfying thud of bringing it down on her foe’s skull.

She had been gifted Samryn, her warhammer, from the Dwarves she lived with as a child. Her father, the prince of their elven clan, had sent her there as a child. She had always been different from her kin. Where most elves were serene and cold, inside and out, she only had the appearance of it. Inside, she had a passion, a fire, a fury that no other elf could understand. No other elf, besides her father; the only one who seemed to understand her, who she had practically worshiped. He knew that she would never truly belong with the elves, would grow bored with their dullness and need something more. He had encouraged her energy, teaching her all the skills a warrior would need.

It had taken Zephena months to stake out the temple, and another month to put her plan into motion. There were paladins at the gate, and at the main doors in and out of the temple, ready to run through intruders with swords or pikes. More paladins and clerics roamed the halls, and a myriad of servants and staff filled the offices. In theory, it was impenetrable. Zephena grinned to herself, watching a cart make its way toward the front gate. In theory, and she loved proving people wrong.

She watched silently from the trees as the cart stopped, and the paladins in their shining armor and sky blue tabards conferred with the driver, and checked the contents. It was the monthly ale delivery – the Guardian of the Order had it brought in specially. The temple made its own brew, but the Guardian preferred the drink of her homeland. It was lucky for Zephena the Guardian had such a delicate palate; everyone came to gawk at the merchant, and try to nip a sip on delivery day.

Which meant that the kitchen door would momentarily be unguarded. Zephena squinted, and watched as the few shadows moving inside swiftly vanished. She grinned again. This was going exactly to plan.