"Not tonight," he murmured under his breath. He drew the thin dagger from his boot, the steel humming against the leather sheath. Then he moved, a shadow among shadows, the mist swallowing his footsteps.
Ahead, the figures paused under a skeletal birch. One of them , tall, skinny, barely more than a boy , tugged at something in his coat. The shorter one, wiry, jittery, peered over his shoulder like a rat scenting a trap.
"You said she wouldn't come," the short one hissed. "You said she'd be with the council all night."
Beckett stilled behind the trunk of an old oak, close enough to hear the edge in their voices, his breath forming a thin cloud that vanished instantly.
The tall one , Jaron. Beckett recognized him now. Young blood, barely shifted twice, Rhys' nephew if rumor was true. Always sniffing around the council chamber, too eager for secrets, too clumsy to hide them.
