Ivy sprinted through the streets of Atrican, dockside at her back. She flew through the district that held her home, and then the markets as well. None of her surroundings registered to her at all. The city became an indistinct smudge in her peripherals. A strength unknown to her fueled her frenzied retreat from the thug's den.

She still had the prince's job left to do, and she set her mind to reaching it's destination. If she wanted to keep going, she couldn't think about what she had left behind in that house. Her head was a jumbled mess, unable to process everything she had felt. Everything she had seen. Done.

Deep down she knew she shouldn't be this...thrilled with her actions. Those things she had said to the dying thug. There had been more to it than just an execution. She had been cruel. Mean. Yet it had felt so good. It went beyond getting justice for her friends. Beyond vengeance for destroying her old life. The smile she had made after killing two people both haunted and exhilarated her.

She tried blaming the demon's influence on her, or her dagger's strange magic, but none of it held any weight. She had liked how it felt ending their lives. And not in the sense that it was right to end an evil man. No. She hadn't realized in the moment—or refused to admit it—but she had enjoyed the feel of the knife parting their flesh. The squelching noise it made as it pulled out their blood.

Oh, God. She stopped her mad dash toward the noble district and leaned both hands against the nearest random structure: a store front fitted with several glass windows displaying an assortment of dresses. Reflected in the pale light of the full moon, her haggard self stood panting and breathless. Splatters of dark red dotted her clothes and face, a purple bruise already forming around her left eye. Her long hair had come out of the bun she had set it in, flowing wild down her back.

"What is wrong with me?" She asked her reflection. "I don't want to feel like this!" She pounded a fist against the glass. "Have I always been so terrible and just never knew it?"

Her vision swam and she fell to her knees, sobbing. The worst part of it all? She still had one man left to kill, and she wanted to do it. The part of her that wanted to finish what she had started cursed her for falling into this self-made trap. She had done exactly what she had tried to avoid.

She sucked in air, barely able to breathe, wheezing through each attempt. Her lungs were on fire, her legs numb, and the rest of her body sore from the fight with the thug. How long had she been running anyway? She had no idea where the energy had come from to make it all the way here from dockside.

"Hey!" A male voice called out. "Who's there?"

Ivy choked out a laugh. A patrol, now? Of course. Why not? Thankfully she still had plenty of power left in reserve. She had hardly used any at the safehouse. Without so much as a glance toward the guard, she opened herself to the witch world. It came instantly, wrapping Ivy in it's bleak chaos.

"Huh?" The voice said. "I swear I saw someone at Lady Calpiones' shop. Sitting right there."

"Lay off the ale on duty, Cas," another said, "there's nothin' there."

"I haven't had any! Not tonight."

Ivy stood and tried to wipe her face, but winced at the touch, her cheekbone aching. Through the haze of unshed tears, the witch world was a complete blur. She stumbled around randomly, effectively blind, eventually just letting her heavy eyelids fall. She didn't know how long she wandered, but only dared to look again when the darkness in heart had drained away.

She found herself in the middle of a lush, well groomed garden. Hedges trimmed into the likeness of various animals sat atop fragrant flowerbeds, looking down at her. All of it shined bright in the silvery moonlight. Two stone fountains made up the center of the yard, each spitting out a steady stream of clean water from a winged horse's mouth. Beyond the gardens lay a three-story brick manor sprinkled with shuttered windows along its surface. A rock paved pathway led from where she was standing to a solid white door.

She took in a long breath and then let it out in a fit of sobbing laughter. There was no doubt where she had landed. Before Rose had given her the location of the thugs, she had also read through the notes given to Ivy about the Bloody Prince's target. Her sister had no idea what any of it was for—and had promised not to pry—but it had pointed to the lowliest of scum noble: a man named Baron Romsdale. He took what he wanted like most of his kind, whether that be goods, money, or people. His garden certainly attested to that fact. It was a glaring reminder of the disparity between someone like him and the people who lived dockside.

She hadn't ever seen the mansion before, but she knew. Her power had led her here, and she trusted it more than...well just about anything at this point. The revelation was a punch to the gut, but undeniable. Of the people she knew, the Bloody Prince was a crime lord with his own agenda, Rose a secretive witch. And after tonight, her own judgment would forever be suspect.

That left only one thing she could put absolute faith in. How crazy had she become? If her younger self had seen into the future, she would not have believed it. What she used to think of as an evil influence was now her source of truth. But the witch world had never lied to her. Never hid something from her. In its own way it had a life of its own, always...helping her.

She gritted her teeth and moved forward toward the back door of the manor, not quite sure of her intentions. There were too many conflicting emotions swirling around in her head. She could at least find out if the prince's accusations were true. Against her expectations, It was unlocked and swung open on well oiled hinges. Ivy scoffed. The nobles must feel so safe behind their walls that separated them from everyone else.

She strode inside like she owned the place, its unlit interior devoid of life. She didn't need to, but toured the first floor in its entirety. There was a foyer, two libraries, a sitting room, a dining room, a massive kitchen, and a few empty bedrooms. It all seemed so unnecessary. Extra.

Old habits died hard, and she had pocketed a few golden trinkets along the way that no one would probably even miss, but could feed a family for a month. Once satisfied there was nothing else of interest, she headed for the stairs, and stopped on the first step. Her investigation had gone by too fast. The further she went up, the sooner she would come face to face with a decision she wasn't sure she was ready for. She actually already knew what that decision would be, and that scared her more.

The second floor as far as she could tell contained all sleeping quarters, most of which were barred by shut doors. She didn't bother trying any of them, confident that the lord would not deign to rest on the middle floor. He likely kept any live-in servants up here.

At the peak of the mansion's opulence, the lord's chambers were obvious. Down the hall that opened up from the stairs sat a set of arched double doors that looked like they belonged on the front of a church. Rather than the church's holy symbol carved on their face, they had some kind of little furry animal etched instead. It might have been a squirrel. Who used a squirrel as their family crest? Ivy shook her head. It didn't matter. She was just delaying the inevitable by questioning it.

She pushed against one door, and found that it too was not secured. Stepping within, she ignored the lavish displays of wealth around her that put the rest of the manor to shame. Her gaze zeroed in on the rise and fall of the blankets atop an ornate canopy bed. Two sleeping figures disturbed the sheets from beneath. She tiptoed over, the floorboards staying silent under her light footsteps.

Standing at the edge of the bed, she studied the closest blanket lump. The form rolled over, and Ivy's entire body went cold. Lying just an arm’s length away from the Baron, a girl no older than Ivy rested against the pillows. Evidence of recent crying marred her otherwise smooth cheeks. An icy calm settled over Ivy. All anxiety and hesitation about her motivation died in an instant. This could have been her had she not awakened in front of the thugs.

She placed a hand over the girl’s mouth, and after a few lost breaths, her eyes flicked open, as wide as saucers. Her muffled scream vibrated against Ivy’s hand, and she tightened her grip.

“Quiet,” Ivy said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to ask you something. If I let go, you promise not to cry out?” The girl stayed still for a moment, then nodded. “Good. Now, did this man hurt you?” Ivy jerked her head to the side to indicate the girl’s bedmate.

Ivy didn’t have to release the girl. Her eyes were wet, but she simply nodded again. It was all Ivy needed. With her free hand she unsheathed her dagger at her hip. The windows were curtained, but the flickering light of a nearby dying candle bounced off of its dual-colored blade. The inky blackness from before was still there, but it allowed the candlelight to touch it. A gleam of steel flashed in the dark, and somehow the girl’s eyes grew even larger.

“It’s not for you,” Ivy said, but the girl just started shaking her head over and over again. “Just…be quiet.”

Ivy lifted her hand, and blessedly the girl only scrunched her legs up close to her body and hugged her knees. Her gaze followed Ivy as she rounded the bed to the baron’s side. The pudgy, aging man had more hair on his upper lip than his head, and his breathing came in short, staccato snorts. He was laying on his back, sheets pulled down past his waist, exposing his sweaty, hairy chest to Ivy’s blade.

She raised it, and a little squeak escaped the girl’s mouth. Not wanting to risk the baron rousing, Ivy drew up her other hand, supporting her grip. An identical method had served her well earlier in the night. She struck down with combined strength of both of her arms, sinking the blade down to the cross guard. Baron Romsdale jerked awake. His fish-eyed gaze found Ivy’s face at first, and then drafted down to the dagger already deep within his heart. He opened his mouth, and for a moment Ivy thought he might curse her or call for help, but only a quiet, moaning wheeze came out.

Ivy wrenched Her weapon free of him, and a spatter of blood followed it. It began to flow freely from him, darkening the once pristine sheets. His eyes rolled back into his head, and any small amount of autonomy over his body left him, as he lay back bleeding out. The whole thing had been barely fifteen seconds. Not long enough. Scum like this needed to last longer. Entertain her as compensation for all of their crimes. They needed to let her bask in the pleasure of the kill.

Ivy was smiling again, and she shot her dagger wielding hand up to cover her mouth. Up close, its pristine, bloodless blade reflected the mirth in her eyes. This time it had been somehow better than the first. She would wake him up and kill him again if she could. Maybe several more times just to see the terror in his face as his life left him. He had gotten off far too easy...

“No, no, no,” a quiet voice was crying nearby, and Ivy had almost forgotten about the young girl abused by the baron.

“Don’t worry,” she said, turning her attention to the girl who was staying on the bed, but backing as far to one corner as possible, “he can’t hurt you again.”

“Don’t worry?” she asked, her gaze wild, flicking from the corpse of the baron to Ivy, “don’t worry?! They’re gonna think I did this!”

Oh. Damnit. The girl was right.

“Just tell them what really happened,” Ivy said. She pulled out a solid gold brooch she had pilfered earlier and set in the girl's lap. "Here."

The girl wore a blank expression. She regarded the gold briefly before returning her attention to Ivy.

“Are you serious?”

Ivy flicked her knife as she had once seen a guardsman do with his sword after putting down a rabid dog. Of course, the movement was purely visual in her case. Her weapon never needed cleaning. Maybe it really did drink from its victims like she had teased the Prince.

“Uhm, yeah?” Ivy said.

“So what, I tell them an insane woman appeared above me, murdered the baron, and then what, just disappeared? I assume that’s your next step?”

Insane? Was it that obvious?

“What are you—” Her words came out weak trying to deny it

“You’re a witch, right?” the girl asked.

Uh oh. Where’d she get that from?

“Huh? Of course not.”

“I could blame it on a witch, sure, but that’s too easy. Too predictable. No one would believe it, especially coming from me! You’ve killed me!”

Before Ivy could respond, the door behind her clicked, and she instinctively dropped into the witch world. A tiny bit of her power had restored itself, and she stayed still. To one side she recognized a member of the couch family, but she could no longer pick out the girl on the bed save for the quavering, twisted shape to her right. In front of her, another form emerged not too dissimilar from the girl. Its long spindly appendages held something that brightened the colorless world, and it moved in closer to her, its dark, multi-faceted eyes searching.

“My lord?” a male voice called out. “I heard voices, is everything—” A metal clattering filled the room as the creature-man dropped what Ivy assumed to be a lantern.

“Mister Cromwell,” the girl said, “I swear—”

“Young master!” the male voice shouted. “Young master wake up! Come quickly!” The broken shape of the man rushed to the doorway that Ivy could pick out amongst the chaos. “Miss Marisol! Run to the guardhouse near the market! The lord has been attacked!”

Great. This had been going so well, too. The man came back towards her—or rather the girl—and their forms entwined into a combined mess Ivy could not decipher.

“What have you done, girl?” the man asked.

“No, no, I swear!”

They kept shouting at each other, but Ivy didn’t have the patience to listen to their argument, trying to decide her next move. The baron was dead. Nothing could change that now, and even if it were possible, she would make sure to kill him again. He deserved it. But the girl? Ugh. In some part, Ivy had done what she had to protect her, yet now that had failed miserably. She owed it to the girl to see this through. But then, she couldn’t let even the suspicion of her being a witch live on. So…damnit.

She couldn’t just let them execute the girl. After a step towards the entangled pair, she let her power fade, and the back of a man dressed in an immaculate tailed black coat shot into her regained sight. She lifted her dagger and struck. Again, it sunk into flesh as quickly as it might cut freshly churned cream. The man went tense, and then all strength fell from his grip around the girl’s shoulders. Ivy retrieved her weapon, and he crumpled to the floor, leaving behind the image of the sobbing girl.

“What the-”

Another male voice came from the doorway, and Ivy spun just in time to see him draw a one-handed longsword. He lunged at Ivy, and she rose her dagger to block—somehow successful at avoiding death—but the impact wrest her blade from her grip. A cry escaped her lips, the force of his blow sending her to the floor, her wrist and already injured shoulder aching from the impact. Another strike came, and Ivy remembered she was no swordswoman. She was a witch.

The witch world blinked into existence, and the path of his sword swing no longer made any sense to her changed perspective, nor mattered. She rolled to her side, not knowing where she would end up, and thankfully it had not been in a path that led to her being skewered. Down a small rolling hill, her dagger stuck out not unlike the demon. In the pale, shadowy witch world it shimmered as a beacon of scintillating…darkness. She didn't quite understand it, but that was pretty normal within the witch world. All she knew was that unlike most everything else, her dagger seemed to actually keep its form. She reached out, and her arm warped along the flowing curve of the hill, her fingers grasping the hilt.

Above her the man who had attacked her—or what she assumed was him, and the quivering form of the girl still faced each other. Voices broke through whatever barrier now separated her from them due to her roll.

“What have you done to my father?” the man asked.

Ivy wasted no time, and followed the path the witch world showed her to where the man stood. Once again, she dispelled her power, and found herself right in front of the man this time. She lashed out with a wild slash, the edge of her blade taking him across the chest. He lurched back, the unsuspected attack staggering him, and Ivy dove forward, the point of her blade thrust out. Unfortunately she misjudged the distance, and only managed to stab air.

The Baron's son recovered quickly despite the smear of red growing across his chest. Ivy froze up, having assumed it would be over already. Her eyes shut tight on instinct when his next strike came. A swish of air ruffled her hair on the top of her head. Only by pure luck had her cowering saved her from being decapitated. But it did not stop his boot from stomping down on her.

The force of it flattened her to the floorboards. It felt like she had been run over by a carriage. Twice. Rough hands plucked her from the ground and threw her atop the bed. Somehow, she still held onto her dagger, though the man had pinned down her wrist with one arm, while holding his blade up to her throat with the other.

"Who are you?" he spit through gritted teeth.

Ivy might have answered with some kind of witty remark, but that would require catching her breath first. She squirmed against his grip to no avail, and then rocked back, sending a foot up high. Her heel connected a solid blow to his chin. It didn't push him off of her, but the weight atop her lessened. With a growl, he flicked his wrist that held his sword but she had given herself enough of an opening to scramble backward. Steel scored her collarbone instead of her throat.

The nearly forgotten girl still atop the bed screamed as Ivy attempted to climb over her, away from the Baron's son. Fingers wrapped around Ivy's ankle and yanked.

"Let go, you bastard!"

Ivy kicked again and again, but it was useless. It wouldn't catch him a second time. He pulled her back across the bloodied corpse of the baron and the frantic girl before she remembered her power. It bristled to be used deep in her core and she let it out. Except...nothing happened. The hand locked around her leg shot a bolt of pain all the way to her heart. The witch world would not take the man with her.

He lifted his sword for the final strike, and Ivy did the last thing available to her: she threw her dagger at him, praying the blade would hit first. The hilt bounced off of his forehead, but it caused him to momentarily loosen his grip. Ivy dove into the witch world, scooping up her dagger in a fluid movement only made possible by its stark contrast with the rest of the environment. She leapt off the bed, trusting her power to guide her.

Not a second after landing, she returned to the Baron's room...behind his son. His head swiveled left to right as though searching for her, but it was too late. She stretched her hand up high and stabbed. This time it sank true, plunging into the base of his neck. Like the others before him, he lost his strength and went slack the moment her blade dealt a fatal blow.

Ivy fell atop him as he collapsed into the sheets, the gash just below her throat bloodying Rose’s borrowed tunic. She’d have to figure out her clothing problem later, but one thing at a time. Rolling off of the now corpse of the baron’s son, she took her dagger with her, and a satisfying squishing sound followed its extraction. Again it hit her how messed up she was. When it was all happening, she didn't think about it. But Ivy had murdered five men tonight. She had no idea if the two of them really deserved it. Maybe if they knew of the baron’s transgressions and did nothing about it. But still. Five men. Dead. Because of her.

Ivy sat up, and the girl she had thought she had been saving was now off the bed, cowering in a corner, hugging herself and trying to appear as small as possible. Her eyes peeked just above her knees, watching Ivy. She noticed Ivy’s regard and jumped, a small scream echoing out from her throat.

“You really are a witch,” the girl said.

“Calm down,” Ivy said, pushing herself upright. Her hand and wrist throbbed from blocking the baron’s son’s sword, and every other part of her ached from when he had kicked her. She didn't want to think about how bad her cut was, but it stung more than all the rest combined. Not to mention the two small injuries she had gotten from the big thug earlier in the night. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but I’m no witch.”

“You come and go like the wind. One moment, idle, absent, and forgotten. The next you appear in a whirlwind of steel and death.”

Whirlwind of steel? The imagination on this girl. Ivy possessed approximately zero training in bladed or hand to hand combat, but this girl made her sound like stabbing a butler in the back made her some mythical sword master.

Voices and stomping footfalls brought her mind back to the situation she was in. The situation she had put the girl in.

“Come on,” Ivy said, “we have to get out of here.”

The girl flinched. “We? Us? Together? With you?”

Ivy walked over to her and offered down a hand.

“Do you see anyone else?”

Eventually—it might have only been seconds but felt like hours—the girl took Ivy’s hand and she helped her up. All pretense of stealth abandoned, Ivy sprinted for the door to the bedroom, dragging the girl along. She bounded down the stairs two at a time, her short stature barely allowing such a maneuver. Who knew how the girl behind her was doing, but their hands stayed clasped.

When the pair made it to the ground floor, a small company of soldiers were already awaiting them. A wide eyed maid stood off to one side near an unlit stove. Beside her, two men barred the front doorway leading outside, while three others stood beyond them in the foyer, facing Ivy and her charge. Several upholstered chairs and a single sofa filled the rest of the entryway, but Ivy had already assessed their quality on her way in: lacking. Wait, why did that matter right now?

Of the three men closest to them, two held burning torches, and a third stepped closer. Through the flickering firelight, Ivy could pick out the insignia emblazened on his coat. It was the same as Rose’s only with less frills. He shot a glance to the maid over his shoulder.

“We were told of an attack,” the sergeant said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“I,” the maid started, “I only did as Mister Cromwell bade. I don’t know anything.”

“Yes…of course. And where is this Mister Cromwell now?”

The girl beside Ivy stepped up. “Dead,” she said, and Ivy’s heart sank. The girl only had one way out of this, and Ivy knew what it would be. She had suggested it herself, in fact. Unfortunately for her—and Ivy’s conscience—Ivy would not allow herself to be taken. She didn’t really blame the girl at all. It was really her only way to survive this mess, and Ivy had actually put her in the position to begin with. Yet still, the act of turning her in put a bad taste in her mouth. Ivy felt for the last of the darkness in her heart and fell into the witch world.

“The witch did it!” the girl yelled. Her alien form beside Ivy twitched and lurched. “Sergeant you have to help me! She killed everyone!”

“A witch?” The sergeant asked. “What witch?”

“Huh? She’s…wait. No! Where? She was…I swear there was a witch…I think. Yes! There was!”

“Jameson.”

“Yes sir.”

“Check upstairs.”

“Yes sir.”

Ivy wasn’t really sure why she was sticking around. She hadn’t moved from the spot beside the girl, and watched as the pulsing forms of the guards moved around the room, one passing by her to check on the carnage she had left upstairs. After maybe a minute or so he returned, and Ivy awaited the inevitable. With her use of power upstairs and now the waiting, her strength was waning, but she still had time left. Time left to see the consequences of her actions through. The girl would be executed. Should she feel bad, though? Even if they weren’t in this situation, Ivy had no doubt the girl would report her anyway. They all would. Should she just kill them all?

“Three dead upstairs,” the voice of Jameson said, “one likely the baron, though I never met the man, so can’t be sure.”

“It was the witch!” the girl screamed.

“There’s no one else here girl,” the sergeant said, “Jameson?”

“Third floor is only bodies, sir.”

“Why’d you do it? How’d you do it?”

“I didn’t! I Swear it!”

The girl's form rushed forward, and Ivy heard the snap of a bowstring. A yelp filled the air, and then silence. The girl's witchy body in fell into itself, and then stopped its twitching.

“Thatcher, what the hell was that?” The sergeant asked.

“She rushed you, sir.”

“And you didn’t think I could handle a single distraught girl?”

“Talk of witches makes me antsy…uh, sir.”

“For the love of,” the sergeant sighed, “we’ll have to get the Lord Magistrate down here to clean this mess up. Maybe even the Governor. Not gonna be happy to be woken up at this hour.”

That would have to be Ivy’s cue to get out of here as soon as possible. She picked a path at random in the witch world that led…somewhere and jumped along its curving, spiraling lines of confusion. A few moments later, her power ran out, and she found herself in the middle of the empty market, near where she had first met Rose.

She sat at an abandoned grocer stall that would be filled with two-day old meats in a few hours when the sun came up and thought about what she had done. The world was a better place without Baron Romsdale. Without the dockside thugs. That had never been in question. The problem was the cost. The baron’s servants, his son, the girl. Did they all have to pay the ultimate price? No, but to Ivy, they could all be considered her enemies. The Baron might be the worst of them, but how could anyone blame Ivy for the deaths of those who would smile and cheer at her own execution. An execution based on nothing but being what she was born to be. Screw them all. She could—would—shoulder the deaths of their “innocent” lives to rid the world of someone like Romsdale.

What about her own sanity? Could she really accept herself after learning her twisted desires? Her body was battered and bloodied, cut and bruised, but still she smiled, spinning her dagger with one hand. Yes. Yes she could. Why did it matter if she found pleasure in it? She had done nothing wrong. Had done good, in fact. And she would do it again.