How they grip us through thick and thin,

These barnacle dead!

This lady here's no kin

Of mine, yet kin she is, she'll suck

Blood and whistle my marrow clean

To prove it.

-Sylvia Plath, All the Dead Dears.

The storm may have blown over but the rain had not abided as Zevran paced the muddy paths along the docks of the city. The various vendors had long packed up and gone home, the downpour and darkness had driven off any customers. Zevran was more paranoid than usual in this weather, his low hood exaggerated the pounding sound of rain and wind. His sight obscured by the mist and dark. He kept looking over his shoulder, the sounds around him warping into imaginary footsteps. Every time the street was deserted.

Two nights he had walked these same paths, in the same dreary weather, for the same reason and the same result. There had been no sign of The Antivian Whore or her crew and Zevran knew that this night would be the same, except that tonight was the night.

He had stayed in an empty room in the inn opposite The Song after receiving the note, watching and waiting for anything untoward; looking for possible spies of this, so-called, Lady of Cats, but seeing no-one suspicious approach the whorehouse. The wait had been excruciating and Zevran couldn't help his thoughts drifting to Elaria. Storms always made him think of the mage, and this one had been no different. The scent of gathering lightning was one that he'd smelt on her skin so many times that it was difficult to break the association. Now his thoughts of her were tinged with fear. If Giovanni had killed her then word would have spread by now, this single thought calmed him. She's not some delicate flower, if I could not kill her then I doubt he could. Thinking of the Crow Master made bile of hatred rise in his stomach. The man was known amongst his cell for his particularly vicious training techniques, he was a complete sadist and, though Zevran did not completely disapprove of a certain level of consensual fiendishness, he certainly drew the line at mutilating young recruits. When Rinna told Zevran of the types of cruelties he had inflicted upon her it had prompted the assassin to confront her cell Master. It had turned badly quickly, ugly words were said, daggers drawn and only Zevran's own cell Master had stopped the elf from killing Giovanni. He obviously still remembers that slight. The man was more dangerous for his adaptability than his cruelty; he had many masks that he used for different roles meaning he had a lot of friends unwilling to believe what they saw as malign rumour mongering. I lost a lot of contacts for that duel, but it felt good to scar that smarmy face.

It had seemed an age before his two days were up but the night finally came. He'd paid Vita's hourly rate so she could watch when he needed to stalk the docks. She knew something was going on but Zevran told her only as much as she needed to know and no more.

The dirt roads of the poor parts of Antiva City, such as the docks, became almost impossible to navigate in the rain. Mud clung to everything, dragging down cloaks and boots, even Zevran's light step could not escape its grasping clutches. Winds were pounding relentlessly off the Rialto bay as he turned into the warehouse district near Palmero port. Here mountains of goods were waiting for transport to different destinations; rows upon rows of huge wooden buildings held everything from Antivian wine and salt to fine leather and fish.

He began searching carefully for numbers on the buildings, being very much aware that this place was heavily guarded. As Zevran turned the corner he heard the distinctive sound of rainfall pinging off heavy plate. He hid in the shadows of the awning just in time as at the end of the row a guard weighed down by steel, squelched through the dirt. There's no way he can see his peripherals in that helmet and there's a gap between it and his breastplate, enough for a dagger to slip into. He counted the steps until his opponent's death. When he came within striking distance Zevran pounced. The Rose's Thorn was unsheathed and drenching in the other man's jugular blood in one precise, silent sweep of the assassin's skilled wrist. The ground drank the life from him as quickly as it did the rain. Searching the corpse thoroughly but finding only a few coins, he left them and moved on.

As the numbers on the warehouses crept up so did the amount of guards and not just men in heavy plate. Zevran hid from three Crows who thought they could not be seen on the rooftop of a warehouse. Perhaps not seen but certainly heard. His senses were sharpening with the adrenaline from the kill and he could hear their whispered talking on the wind. They were not the last Crows he was to encounter.

Two archers were on the ground, they were covering a large area between warehouses eighty and ninety. They both had a good line sight, one looking left and the other right but their traps were not only poorly made but poorly placed. Zevran enshrouded himself in shadow and picked his way easily between the small spring traps to the junction where the two Crows stood. Their deaths were clean, quick and silent. The dagger shimmered under the moonlight, red with blood, at the same time as the pommel of Starfang knocked his other opponent unconscious. He was still out cold when Zevran put him into a more permanent sleep. As he wiped the gore off his blades with his cloak he heard a footsteps coming towards him. Guardsmen by their steps, no less than two but no more than five. With no way of moving the bodies in time he slunk back into his shroud of night and waited silently.

The four guards were clad in the same heavy steel as the first one had been, with the same ridiculous helms that blinkered them. When they eventually saw the dead Crows they quickened their steps. Zevran had to stifle a laugh as one of them blundered into a trap which crushed the badly made greaves and bit into his shin. The armour must've protected him somewhat however as he limped forwards, all of them being slightly more careful than before. When they reached the scene of the crime Zevran was close enough to hear them speak.

"Blasted Crows," the injured man spat as they stood in a circle around the corpses.

"Why are they here anyway? What's so important that they sent a whole cell to the warehouse district?"

"You don't ask questions of the Crows and you don't end up dead," the wisest of the four said.

"The Captain said they were looking for something."

"Well somebody obviously doesn't want them to find it," the wise one gestured towards the corpses.

"Who would kill Crows though?"

"You ask far too many questions, Lupo. Good guards don't ask questions. Now let's spread out, see if we can find the son of a bitch who did this."

They dispersed quickly, taking the four different routes possible from the junction where Zevran was hidden. Checking the numbers on the doors around him he followed in the steps of the guard who asked too many questions. The slick mud was even thicker in the warehouse district which made it difficult to sneak, but the heavy rainfall silenced any sound that Zevran's feathered step would make. The guard unexpectedly took a right turn at the next junction, saving his life, as the assassin moved straight across. He quickened his pace now as the numbers went into the hundreds.

The buildings gained storeys as he got closer to his destination and perched on the flat roofs he could hear the fluttering of more Crows. He evaded them easily, moving quietly under the awnings out of their line of sight. The density of Guardsmen also thickened, but he had no more trouble with the oblivious warriors than he did the rouges.

The door of the four storey building numbered '135' had been broken into. The heavy padlocks had been picked and lay splattered with mud on the floor. Zevran cautiously drafted through the cracked door like a breeze. The darkness of the windowless building was complete but the assassin's sixth sense told him that the room was long with a low ceiling. He delicately ran his fingers over the rough wooden walls to find his way, being careful not to splinter his hand. His feet touched the ground lightly before he put his weight on it, wary of rotten floorboards. He could hear the muffled sounds of voices and footsteps pacing, on the floor above him. This place felt somehow familiar. Though the smell of slowly rotting pine evoked a feeling it brought no tangible memories with it. If I go to the end of this passage, I will find the stairway up. Trusting in his instinct he ignored several doors that his fingers found and crept towards the end of the hallway. When he reached the stairwell torchlight streamed down, illuminating the banisters. Taking the time to adjust his eyes to the fire he began to hear the whisperings more distinctly. They must be in a room on the next level, he thought slinking towards the stairs.

Halfway up, one of the steps gave a loud creak. His hands went to the pommels of his weapons as he waited for the sounds of movement from the room. He could feel his pulse quicken as he stood in silence. He licked his lips in anticipation but the attack did not come, the men seemed to be too engrossed in conversation to hear small sounds from outside the door. He pressed upwards; all his senses alert for any indications that he had been noticed. The landing above him was well lit, with torches glaring in their brackets. There were several doorways along both sides, the first floor being as extensive as the ground one. The voices were coming from the first room to his left. He crouched next to it, putting his ear to the wood to hear more clearly what they were saying.

"I don't think I can pick this one, sir."

"What do you mean you can't pick it?" the second man's voice was as oddly familiar as this place was, but once again it seemed such a long time since he'd heard it that he could not immediately recognise to whom it belonged.

"Well truthfully it's not the lock that's the problem, sir. The doorway seems to be sealed with magic."

"Magic?!" the anger behind the tone immediately conjured a face to go with it. Gustavo Menza, that old Crow's still alive. Menza had been Zevran's formidable Master throughout his time with the Crows. The man must be pushing sixty, a rarity in our line of work.

"Both of you go find me a mage," Menza ordered. Zevran was about to step away from the door when the third man spoke.

"I should stay with you..."

"Are you disobeying an order?"

"No sir, it's just these reports, two Crows and a guardsman have been killed..."

"Do they bear the marks of the Cat?"

"No sir but..."

"Then get out and do as your told or you'll follow them to the grave," shouted Menza. When Zevran heard the shuffle of feet he hid next to the frame, so the door opened outwards, hiding him. When he heard the complaints of the two men die down he entered the room silently.

Menza stood with his back to him but he turned as Zevran clicked the door shut behind him.

"Who are you?" the old man said. He had not remained alive so long by being arrogant; he drew his sword.

"I suppose there is no harm in you knowing," after all you'll be dead soon. Before he could pull down his hood however Gustavo spoke.

"I'd know that voice anywhere," the old Crow did not stop the surprise in his tone. "But I can't say I expected to see you here, Zevran." He did not sheath his sword, even though the elf did not draw his. "I suppose you're working for her are you?" There was a sharp note of fear in his voice, though Zevran could not tell whether it was a ploy to make him over confidant. The man thinks he knows me well. Perhaps he did, once.

"That would depend on who 'her'is."

"The Lady of Cats."

"Is she why you're here?"

"Are you working for her or not?"

Zevran sighed. "I work for legends not myths."

"She is not a myth, my friend." The assurance seemed to settle the old man but the elf was still surprised to see him sheathe his longsword. "I have seen her, felt her voice inside my head. She's been capturing Crows, turning them to Cats or killing them, sending us pieces of their disfigured remains, eyes and feet. Sometimes their scratched to pieces sometimes they're even," he pulled a disgusted face, "chewed. When Aldo came asking questions about her I thought we stood a chance, I thought he would help us win this war but when he went missing, I was sure all hope was lost."

"Aldo returned to The Crows?"

"You misunderstand; it's gotten bad enough that we need the outside help. I never thought I'd live to see the day when we didn't kill a turncloak, but she's that dangerous. Though if she's got to Aldo..." his voice trailed off. Perhaps the old Crow is truly scared.

"That does not answer the question. Why are you here?"

"When we realised Aldo was gone we searched his room at The Bawdy Lass, he was meticulous in his documentation. We traced his last known whereabouts to this district but the lead had gone cold until we found this door." He motioned the entrance way behind him. It was heavier than any of the others and carved with intricate runes. It was very different from the rest of the buildings architecture but it tugged at the familiar within Zevran. Then, in an almost blinding instant, it hit him. This was where the first job Rinna and I had together ended. I remember it so clearly now.

It'd been on a long job before they reached the door. Their two cells had been grouped together for the indomitable task of wiping out the Guild of Sailors, in a takeover bid funded by the Llyomerryn based Felicisima Armada. The two elves were the best of their respective groups and were asked to take out the head of the Guild together. They'd fought well as a team, killed his bodyguards as though they were two people with one mind. Every man who faced the duo was struck down in a whirl of blades as they'd fought back to back like they'd been doing so their whole lives. They'd sliced through the warehouse district cleanly and efficiently; only to be stumped by this door. The adrenaline had coursed through them and without the release that further death would bring; they sought other ways to quell their passion. Rinna's mouth had tasted of sweat and blood but it had only inflamed his need for her. His still bloody hands had pressed her up against the heavy door and much to their surprise, it had opened.

"Well it seems that I've turned up at the right time. I know how to open this door."

"But will you?"

"Maybe, after you answer a few questions."

"Very well," the old Crow conceded. "What would you ask of me?"

"I want to know who funded the contract on Rinna and I."

Menza winced, "It wasn't a contract; more an executive decision." Zevran pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, signalling for the man to continue. "Giovanni called a meeting after you attacked him; he'd managed to persuade the majority of the Masters that you deserved to die for your insubordination. Ignacio and I tried to veto the decision but what could the two of us do against twelve other Masters, when the vote was cast it went heavily out of your favour. The best I could do was volunteer Taliesin for the job, hoping that he would spare your life."

"But not Rinna's."

"They had to have some blood after what you did. Rinna was expendable. Once we were told the nature of...your relationship with her and how she died, the Masters considered it to be punishment enough."

"Rinna was expendable was she?" Menza winced at the anger in his voice.

"And that is why my friend, the passion she evokes in you, still, after so long. It is a powerful thing, something which the Crow training was designed to break. Men make themselves weaker when they love; it opens them up to all sorts of betrayal, even the greatest of us. We kill or are killed by what we love; you may have had to learn this the hard way, but sometimes that is the only way. You know this."

"Yes I do," he seethed as he slowly drew both his swords, giving his old Master the chance to do the same.

"It does not have to be this way, Zevran," his voice was a resigned whisper.

"Oh it does I'm afraid, my friend," and he leapt.

Steel rang against star metal as the old man blocked the longsword but The Roses Thorn was too quick and found the straps between his leather armour, slicing deep into his sword arm. He gasped at the pain as Zevran slunk backwards. He feigned a low cut to the back of his opponent's knee twisting up to strike at the exposed inner thigh, but his ruse was seen through and the attempt was blocked. He focused his attacks on Menza's weakened arm, and though his blades didn't find flesh he gained a lot of ground, pushing him back against the wall. The Crow quickly shifted from defence to attack, attempting to gain back the ground, he fought with all the quickness and viciousness that Zevran remembered, as he danced out of the way of the blows. One of them he was not quick enough to escape but the old man grunted with the effort of the strike to Zevran's side. Though the blow hurt, his breastplate took most of the damage. Pain had always been a motivator for Zevran and he seized the moment that the Crow expected him to be reeling to launch an aggressive attack. Starfang found the wound that his dagger had created. His opponent almost dropped his sword in pain. As Menza staggered backwards Zevran pressed him further; blades moving in a blur, probing to find further weak spots in the old man's defence. He whirled one last ferocious, double bladed strike at his opponents arm and at the same time curled his right foot around the back of Gustavo's knee. The old Crow had put all his effort into blocking the blades and did not see the trip coming. He fell backwards against the wall with a resounding thud. Zevran kicked the longsword from his desperate grasp, breaking Menza's fingers in the process.

"Love is stronger than you think," words Elaria had whispered to him came unbound from his lips as he slit his former Masters throat from ear to ear. Blood sprayed from the corpse, quickly pooling and draining towards the sealed door. The strange wood seemed to drink the gore, varnishing it to a dark red hue. As the runes were touched by the stain they glowed with a bright white light and Zevran could hear a mechanism working behind it. It creaked as it opened.

Zevran was careful not to slip on the blood as he pushed the door open slightly further. The device on the back of the heavy door seemed to lighten the load; otherwise it would have been too heavy for one man alone. As the opening widened he slid through the gap leaving the door ajar.

The room beyond was larger than Zevran remembered it being. There were no torches at all save for the one illuminating Aldo Rossetti in the middle of the room. He was barely recognisable, blood and bruising marred his face. Bound to a chair and gagged, he seemed to be barely conscious but he stirred as Zevran moved towards him.

"Are you alright, old friend?" He removed the gag from between his mouth, noticing that some of his teeth were missing in the process.

"It's a trap," the man's look of fear was palpable and Zevran turned in time to see the door slam behind him, seemingly of its own accord. His weapons were in his hands in a flash as he searched for his opponent, he couldn't see anything moving in the shadows, his night eyes had been destroyed by the bright fire of the torch lighting up Aldo. Braska, I was too hasty. He heard the whir of the blade before it could bite into his shoulder and ducked underneath it spinning to face his opponent. As soon as he moved however he felt a crippling pain in his knee as an arrow pierced between the slats of his armour, through flesh and tendons, pinning him to the ground. The pain was intense but he turned to see the four archers behind him, all wearing the same black leather armour.

Do not harm him, the voice resounded in his head using an intonation and annunciation that was bone chilling familiar. There was a haunting undertone he had never heard in that voice before. It can't be her, he thought, there is no way. All of the approaching fighters were elves, four archers came from behind him, three heavily armoured warriors and half a dozen rouges from the front and sides forming a circle of bodies around the two injured men. They all sheathed their respective weapons at the strange voice's command. Two of the lightly armoured elves stood aside to let a figure clad in blood red robes into the centre. Zevran could feel eyes staring at him from the blackness made by the heavy cotton hood. As she moved towards him the pungent stench of rotten flesh that seemed to come off her almost made him gag.

You have done well bringing me this present Aldo Rossetti. I will not have it said that the Lady of Cats breaks her oaths. She turned to her contingency of men. Take him past the flock of Crows; see to it that he's uninjured. All of the elves responded immediately to her orders bar one of the warriors.

"Wouldn't it be better just to kill him, milady?"

Mercy to those who help us; death to those who do not.

"As you say, milday."

The others had quickly unbound the weakened Whisper and two of the rouges half carried him out of the room. Zevran struggled against the shaft but the pain was too excruciating to move. The woman seemed to notice and Zevran felt the warmth of a healing spell extend down from her. It felt wrong though, somehow corrupt. The spell did much to soothe the pain, but the arrow still remained through his knee and only more advanced curative magic could restore the shattered bone. The stabbing did not stop the questions racing through his mind however and he was glad to realise that the woman could not hear his thoughts, though she spoke within his head.

"Who are you?"

An unnatural laughter resounded around his aching skull. Do you not recognise my voice, Zevran Arainai?

"Yes but...it's impossible." That haunting giggle seemed a mockery of every time he had heard it before. His head screamed with the pain, waves of terror crashed against him.

Nothing is impossible. As she pulled back her hood the smell of rotten flesh became unbearable, he choked but could not turn his eyes away from the horror before him. Most of the corpse had deteriorated in the years since its death though some grey flesh still clung to the cheekbones of the gleaming white skull. The skin of the throat was still there, a vicious blackened wound crossed right across the maggot strewn flesh. The perpetual grin and empty eye sockets furthered the eerie nature of the dead things movement as it swept closer to him.

What? Don't you recognise me? The teeth chattered in laughter, so close to his face. The smell of decay hit his stomach hard and he had to fight to swallow the vomit that rose to his mouth. The movement of his coughing made his leg move further down the arrow. As he gasped with the pain bile rose through his sinuses and a horrible burning sensation filled his head.

Perhaps you'll recognise me if I do this, the thing lifted up its gruesome head and the sound of tearing flesh rent the air as she exposed the grisly wound. The skin around it was festering and it moved in the most unnatural way as maggots crawled around the grotesque black mark. He turned his head away, shielding himself from the smell and the guilt.

"Rinna?" he choked out the question, half not believing it could be and half knowing that it was so.

The same giggle split his head open. Merely the body of what you call Rinna, though the body does remember you well, Zevran. But enough talking we must leave before the Crows descend.

The thing that Zevran still refused to believe was Rinna, tugged the arrow out of the floor and lifted him into its surprisingly strong arms. The pain was too much. He slipped away.