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The Onyx Skull was one of countless businesses that fed Roman’s wallet, so between this and the simple fact that he was a Shadowmaster walking a Gray Zone, people gave him a wide berth. No amount of drugs or alcohol could make them stupid enough to get in the way of the Wolf of the Hollow.

As Roman crossed the room, he caught sight of four Shadowmasters standing in a group by the stage. Willow Adams and Kylar Lavin worked directly under him—the only two Shadowmasters who didn’t first answer to his dad. The other two—Blaine and Larina, brother and sister—only came around when Donovan requested they keep an eye on him. Roman had decided he hated Blaine the moment he met him, and he’d quickly learned that his sister was just as awful. The only thing Larina had going for her was her looks—beautiful, blonde, and blue-eyed, the three B’s most men fell to their knees over. The rest of her was as poisonous as cyanide.

Roman tore his eyes off the group and focused on the job at hand, trusting Kylar and Willow to get rid of those two within the hour.

Colorful lights oscillated through the smoky gloom of the building. Hundreds of people crowded the dance floor, their bodies oiled with sweat, eyes bleary with substance abuse. Everyone present was here because they wanted to be, so even if the rabbit messenger would’ve drifted from her post, she would’ve been easy for Roman to pick out in the crowd, simply due to the way she held herself.

She stood under a white neon sign featuring a pair of watchful eyes, hands gripping the straps of her backpack. Her posture was terrible—toes pointed inward, shoulders slumped. Her black rabbit mask and plain, all-black outfit gleamed under the strobe lights. The string that held the mask to her face had mussed up her hair—a thick and wavy fall of strawberry-blonde frizz that likely hadn’t seen a brush in days.

Her head snapped his way as he approached, though she didn’t budge an inch from her spot against the wall. Her shoulders curled forward, as if anticipating a punch to the stomach. Pathetic.

Roman stopped several feet from her, and Otto took his leave with a respectful dip of his chin. Roman assessed the rabbit messenger, wondering how much of his time she was going to waste before she finally spit out her words.

“Are you Roman?” The messenger’s voice was high and timid, and although the mask hid the entirety of her face, Roman could feel her eyes on the small tattoo high up on his cheek.

“Breed, payment, and whereabouts,” he instructed.

“Hound.” Her voice was quiet; he had to strain to hear her. “One hundred thousand gold mynet. The canals on West Montgomery.”

“One hundred thousand is a Green’s pay,” he said. “Grays charge double, and I charge triple.”

Her hands twisted the straps of her backpack with a white-knuckled grip. “Three hundred thousand?”

“You know basic math,” Roman clipped. She shrank back, hair slipping over one shoulder. “Yes or no?”

Her head bobbed. “Y-yes.”

“My clients are to pay in full at the time of the agreement. Is your boss aware?”

Another nod.

Roman took out his phone. The messenger mirrored him, her hands trembling.

“Cold?” Roman smirked.

A light passed over them, turning her mask a vibrant shade of purple, the sharp grooves that accentuated the eyes sparkling.

“Nervous,” she mumbled, bumping her phone against his. A beep sounded, indicating the wire transfer.

“At least you’re honest.” He glanced at the screen, making sure the right amount was there, and pocketed his phone. “Meet me back here tomorrow night. I’m assuming your boss wants the head?” It was the most valuable body part, but once in a while a client wanted more. A claw, the spine, sometimes the poisonous barbs on the tail—all ingredients for certain spells and potions. They fetched lower prices and catered to a limited clientele, but it was worth it for some, if the demand was there.

She gave another nod.

And then she paused, leaning forward a hair’s breadth. Roman felt her attention on the pendants glimmering in the hollow of his throat. One in particular—and that made him stiffen.

“Is that the Skull of Obitus?”

“No,” Roman lied, and walked away.

In a back alley in the district of West Montgomery, behind a thick wall of fog, Roman slayed the Hound.

The monster put up a good fight—they always did—but in the end it was no match for him. By the time he cut off its head, he had hardly worked up a sweat.

Blood sprayed as the head thumped to the ground. The body followed a moment later, crumpling like a boneless sack of flesh. The blood draining from the neck sizzled like acid as it trickled between the cobbles.

Roman took a moment to catch his breath. He pocketed his blade and wiped the lone drop of sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist.

The alley was dark, the only street light on the block too far away to reach him. The fog was so dense, he could barely see the corpse of the Hound bleeding out on the street as he retrieved the canvas bag from the back pocket of his gray jeans and shook it open.