Azzie bolted upright in bed, clutching at the sheets that should have been there.
They were not, however. She was sitting on a street so cold that the chill was prevalent even through the fabric of her dress. Her legs shook under the strain of supporting her as she stood.
It was a vision. Of that much she was sure. There had been no rushing sound, no sensation of paused time. Something was different.
Perhaps she was getting used to it.
Or maybe she had just woken up in the middle of one. She had a feeling that would be the case. Azzie was about as likely to become accustomed to having visions as one would to being burned alive.
She caught a glimpse of a familiar red cloak sweeping around a corner. She followed.
The murderer was present, but he was alone. No victim.
This wasn't the same as the other times.
She looked up slowly, eyes widening, and so occupied she hardly noticed the woman smiling beguilingly at her future killer.
Azzie recognized the building.
It was colder out than it had been in her vision. Azzie huddled against the freezing wind. It tore bitingly at her hair and clothes, numbing her skin.
Still she ran, wishing all the time that she had brought her broom. She cursed the gale that slowed her progress. The broom would have gotten her there faster, but in her haste she had not considered the benefit.
She reached her destination in time to she the prostitute, as she obviously was, get pushed against the wall. The woman tried frantically to scream as her breath was forced from her throat.
He raised the knife.
"Stop!" Azzie screamed, raising her hand.
The would be victim struggled out from underneath his grasp during the distraction. She darted into an adjoining alley.
Her exhausted liberator leant heavily against a lone, scrawny tree, trying to get her lungs to function again. It was a daunting task.
The killer turned towards her and for the first time Azzie saw his face. It was a mildly handsome, pleasant featured face. At the moment it was twisted by rage.
"You ruined it." He hissed, taking a step towards her.
She suddenly regretted not having brought Henry with her. Maybe he had followed. She had trod all over him enough.
"I warn you." She said, her voice sounding as confident as she felt. "I'm a witch."
He sneered. "What have I to fear from some country fool? You'll turn me into a frog, will you?"
Azzie suddenly felt rage welling up inside that was akin to what she had experienced upon finding his last fatality. How dare this wretched example of a person judge her? How dare he?
The fear was gone.
The man lunged at her, and as he did, his arm burst into flames.
"I told you."
Vimes rubbed his blurring eyes. He had been looking at this one slip of paper for entirely too long. The watch house was empty except for himself. His clock said that it was nearing four o'clock in the morning.
Too late for this. Too late for anything, really.
He had been hoping something would occur to him if he thought long and hard enough. Nothing had. The words were every bit a puzzle as they had been.
Right under my nose, is it? He thought. As he did, the message clarified.
He straightened. It couldn't be. Even that little bastard, crazy as he was, wouldn't try that. Would he?
Vimes' concentration was abruptly torn away as something outside his window exploded into fire.
Azzie sniffed. There was a smoky odor in the air far too strong for what she had done. She turned around.
The pathetic sapling that had fought to grow in a very anti-environmental city had been transformed into a torch by the spell. It blazed up into the sky.
Oops.
The tree was burning, but Vimes paid no attention.
So that was what he was going to do. Kill one Right in the Yard; show everyone how much smarter he was than some copper.
Not tonight.
Vimes was surprised to see the young witch standing beside the bonfire. For a moment he wondered if his earlier assessment hadn't been wrong. Maybe they were working together.
Then he saw how the killer looked at her as her beat the flames down from his scorched arm. There was no partnership there.
"Don't. Move." Vimes said, raising his crossbow and pointing at the man. "You're under arrest."
The man had the gall to laugh. "Am I?" he asked, turning towards the Commander.
Vimes almost dropped his weapon in shock.
The face was unknown to him, and could have belonged to anyone off the street. But his eyes…
Vimes recognized that milky blue gaze. "You're a Rust."
The man smirked, confirming the suspicion. "Allan Rust, to be exact. Strong family resemblance, isn't there? My brother – "
He never finished the sentence.
An arrow flew silently through the air and imbedded itself in his chest with absolute precision. Those pale eyes lost any likeness to humanity they ever had and went blank. He crumpled.
Vimes spun around and searched for a form against the backdrop of the city, and found nothing but the dark, dark night. He cursed.
Clumsy footsteps approached, loud in the tense hush. Henry Willington slowed to a halt, panting. "Azzie, what –"
He stopped and stared. "What in the hells?" the young man went quiet before posing a question. "Mr. Vimes?"
"Yes?"
"I quit."
Somewhere in the shadows, an assassin slipped out of his hiding place. He went back the way he had come, through little known alleys and secret passages. His work was complete.