When a citizen of the White City proved their fervor and their dedication on the battlefield, they earned an audience with the Blood God himself. Deep inside the ancient temple that housed the Well of Souls, he and countless others before him had prostrated themselves at the altar, and had risen with new purpose, magic, and a name.

Cambiador hated his name.

To put it simply, it was uninspired. Flat. It described the magic the Blood God had awakened in him, and he would never speak these words aloud, but it lacked any of the drama or flair a magic as ominous and visceral as his deserved. He did so much more than simply change.

The enemies of the White City had named him Skinshifter, and he secretly enjoyed this name quite a bit more. There was an element of horror to it, like he was wearing his enemy’s flesh over his own like a coat. It couldn’t be further from the truth, but the mental image it evoked was both pleasing and effective.

“You okay, Roy?”

Skinshifter turned from his idle examination of the old barn, to where Roja Muerte stood at his shoulder. Robin. It wouldn’t do to forget the names his enemies expected him to call them by. He’d made similar mistakes in his youth, and there were few things as awkward as accidentally outing yourself in the middle of the enemy camp.

“I’m fine, boss,” he answered, letting his magic take over. Stolen muscle memory and emulated habits guided his actions, such that even his closest friends couldn’t tell the difference between his manufactured behaviors and the authentic idiosyncrasies of their dead Hound. “Just trying to isolate the trail.”

Robin frowned at him. “You zone out a lot these days. You sure you don’t want the sensors to have another look at you?”

The man that Skinshifter was wearing was crude, abrasive, and bucked authority. He wouldn’t politely decline an offer like this, he wouldn’t even be cold about it. When put into a situation where he thought someone was pushing his buttons, he would snap, jumping to rudeness and even insubordination to protect his right to autonomy. There were occasionally flashes of memory that filtered through the blood magic, memories of chains and battle and hopelessness. Things like that changed you, and even if the people around you didn’t like it, they expected the behavior. To act more accommodating would be to act suspiciously.

“All due respect, boss, but fuck off,” he said before working his mouth and spitting on the ground. “I didn’t want the spooks screwing around in my head, and they’re good at it. I don’t need you coddling me.”

“Regardless,” Robin said, “I’m here if you need anything.”

Skinshifter watched her rejoin the other members of the squad. Blackout and Exel were raring to go, eager to find another opponent to test their strength against, but that fit with the ghostly recollections that were all that was left of the real Hound. The larger of the two men had been single-handedly responsible for almost half the lives of Skinshifter’s cell, but he hadn’t even registered it as a victory. They craved larger battlefields, fiercer foes.

And you shall have them, Skinshifter thought with a smile.

Robin’s husband had yet to fully recover from the wound Fantasma had given him. The ritual knives and machetes wielded by most blood mages had corrupting magic tempered into the steel, and the injuries they inflicted were slow to heal naturally and actively fought against the magic of life. Vence was still in the field, though, something that Skinshifter knew stressed his squad leader greatly. The man was a worrier by nature. He wouldn’t allow his squad or his wife to return to their work without his support, especially after being so nearly killed.

Skinshifter had been greatly enjoying his assignment, having been allowed nearly four days of relaxation to recover from his “ordeal”. Eating, drinking, enjoying the company of the woman Robin had brought to see him after they’d returned to the Cabal of Vengance’s local barracks. Hound’s wife, apparently. She was a little larger than what most White City natives considered ideal, a bloat that was characteristic of the gross excess of the Rainbow Nations, but she was so willing, so grateful for the chance to be with him. It had been difficult, in the twilight hours after their congress, to resist the urge to split her open, to torture her slowly with her husband’s face grinning and bloodsoaked. But to enjoy himself so thoroughly would be dangerously close to indulging in the same excess that marked the separation of the Blood God’s holy chosen and the hedonistic slaves of the Rainbow Mage.

Still, it was strangely intoxicating. Even knowing the corruption for what it was, even with how the parts of him that were Hound felt annoyed every time someone came to check on how he was feeling, there was a foreign warmth in the way Hound’s friends acted around him. A sense of belonging that was granted by others, and cherished in the granting. In the White City, you took your position with a bloody knife, and held that position by inspiring fear of its edge in those who would seek to topple you. It was cold, and it was lonely. Though it took great personal effort to not slice their throats each and every time they bared their necks, as each day passed in their company he found his bloodthirst contaminated by contentment, his devotion to the Blood God waning in the face of his desire to hear the next joke, enjoy the next meal, share the next bottle of wine.

He would miss it.

Skinshifter returned his focus to the mission at hand. It was the same regardless of what skin he referred to, only the outcomes differing. Cambiador was to find the girl, snatch her from the grasp of the Rainbow Cabals, and bring her before the Blood God. Hound, on the other hand, was to discreetly locate her and return her to the arms of her mother and doting father before the pair of them lost their patience and leveled the continent searching for her on their own.

The girl’s scent was so thick in this area that he wouldn’t be surprised to find her under the floorboards. Knowing what he did about his quarry, and knowing what Hound knew about her, it was unlikely that she wouldn’t go to ground after her location was discovered by the Shepherd. It was only a matter of finding where her trail left the larger cluster, and following it to the end. Hound’s magic had been a liability, in the early days. Difficult to control, and almost impossible to turn off completely. It was, however, rather intuitive once he’d had some time to practice with it, and it was incredibly accurate. He doubted it would take him more than a few hours to find the trail.

His eyes roved over to where the Mundanes were gathered, flanked on either side by a pair of Peacekeepers. It didn’t take much of his concentration to continue his cataloguing of the scents in the area, and smelling the air with his eyes closed could only remain entertaining for so long.

The sensors had already spoken with the three Mundanes and, though they reeked of his target’s magic, none of them had any idea where she was. Justicar, the Cabal of Peace’s head truthseeker, had confirmed it. In the face of magic as infallible as hers, the only choice was to accept the truth, no matter how unlikely, and start thinking from new angles.

A waft of new magic passed in front of his nose, a flurry of scents that had more layers to it than any magic Skinshifter had yet tried to pick apart. There was a gentle smell in it, soft like the smell of rainfall, but it was buried beneath something harsher. Something that burned his nose and made his eyes water, as well as something older, something musty like mildew and sickly sweet like the smell of death. He scanned the clearing for the newcomer, and what he saw made his heart jump into his throat.

Entering from the path that led out of the forest, one of the young operatives attached to the exchange was leading a girl that looked even younger. She barely stood five feet tall, her dirty-blonde hair disheveled, like she never bothered running a brush through it. Skinshifter knew her. It wasn’t the blank expression that he knew, or the pressure of the magic that rolled off her in waves. It wasn’t the way recognition rippled outward through the gathered wizards, nearly thirty heads, all deep in the middle of their own tasks, turning in silence as they realized she was there.

It was the Mantle, a brilliant violet cloak, brighter than any dyed cloth Skinshifter had seen in Avalon, the White City, or the Mundane world. The hood was down, but he knew from experience that it was voluminous, covering the head and hanging low, so low that the only thing you could make out of its wearer’s face was the glow of their eyes. The hem of the cloth was embroidered with a golden thread that steadily pulsated with light, like the beat of a heart. It was the soul of a god, slain then cut into pieces. Blasphemy made material.

This was one of the Prism Council, the Lady Violet. She was, pound for pound, probably the most dangerous of all seven to him and his mission. To face Red or Blue was certain death for all but the most prodigious of the bloodpriests, those sanctified few who kept counsel with the Blood God himself. To battle Yellow was to turn your blade on the mountain. Indigo was a wraith, able to flee beyond anyone’s reach with but a thought, and dealing with Orange was a matter of piling enough corpses in front of him as to hinder his path. As far as the White City’s intelligence went, Green and Violet were the least threatening in direct combat situations, the former because she inherently lacked the bloodlust of the other six, and the latter because she had a support-type magic. That wasn’t to say they weren’t dangerous in their own ways. Violet was the Prism Council’s sensor and their empath, and Green could shape an entire battlefield in a matter of moments.

Having any member of the Council nearby was the highest priority threat to the operation that Skinshifter was aware of, but the one that could literally sense any powers within a mile of her and look directly into minds was uniquely threatening to him. He paced around the building as Lady Violet approached Robin, across the clearing.

“You look nervous.”

It was hard to believe that Lady Violet’s arrival had him so distracted that he’d miss someone walking up behind him, but the black-haired girl’s presence didn’t really brook any argument on that count. He glanced to where the yellow-sashed idiots that were supposed to be watching the Mundanes were standing at attention, doing their best to stare straight ahead like they did when on honor guard duty. A blood warrior responsible for letting a prisoner wander free, especially for something as trivial as looking good in front of a superior, would have been slain on the spot, their soul lashed to a weapon to earn their redemption in battle.

“Stay with the others,” he told her. In the White City, it was customary to couple commands with the baring of one’s teeth, to show your commitment to enforcing the mandate. Even with almost a month of time living in Hound’s skin, he came close. Instead, he did his best to glower at the girl, something of a default expression for his current form, though he always felt conspicuously non-intimidating when attempting it.

The girl seemed to agree, her face lighting up with amusement. “You’re all cops, aren’t you? What’s the difference?”

Skinshifter wished she would go away. The last thing he needed was someone drawing attention to him, which was bound to happen as soon as anyone noticed the girl was gone. 

“I mean, you’ve got the pretty red belt, they’ve got the pretty yellow belts…”

Hound was pedantic. Skinshifter could tell that much, judging from the way the girl’s clearly intentional inaccuracy made his brain itch. In his time running infiltration operations, he’d learned to lean into idiosyncrasies, even when they made him less personable. Any opportunity for someone to notice him acting out of character was a potentially lethal mistake.

“The Cabal of Vengeance and the Cabal of Peace serve very different functions,” he explained begrudgingly. “Peacekeepers are analogous to your police officers, but Vengeants are more like soldiers than civil servants.”

“Hmm,” she answered, looking thoughtful. “And why does Avalon have a detachment of soldiers deployed to our clubhouse, I wonder? Is there a war brewing?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you,” he said, turning back to his examination of the barn. “Go back to the group.”

The girl ignored him. They were on the only side of the building without windows or doors, just a bare expanse of wood that was doing a good job of soaking up the afternoon sun. She walked over and set her back against it, shivering as the warmth of the wood clashed with the chill of the air. With a content sigh, she sank slowly to a seated position.

She wasn’t talking anymore, and Skinshifter was more than willing to allow the silence to continue. He ran his hand along the stained wood of the barn, the feigned examination disguising the fact that all of his focus was on tracking the location of Lady Violet. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, only opening them again when he was satisfied that the girl was still on the far side of the building.

“We have a betting pool going,” the Eastern girl said suddenly. “The whole club is in on it.”

The silence had been woefully short-lived.

“Don’t you want to know what we’re betting on?”

He felt the irritation welling up inside himself, and took a deep breath to calm it. It wasn’t wise to become an emotional outlier when he was trying to lay low from an empath.

“Sure,” he said. “What’s the wager?”

“The wager,” the girl explained, putting a fake cultured accent on the word, “is regarding what we think the Rainbow Nations ultimately have in store for the Mundane world. See, I think you guys will eventually let us into the magic club, but it’ll be restricted. Important people, rich people. Like it’s a commodity. That makes the most sense to me.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt, no longer paying much attention to her. Lady Violet was speaking with the other Mundanes now, which put her a mere forty feet away from the corner around which he and the girl were hiding.

“Emily, being the goodie-two-shoes, think-the-best-of-everyone dreamer that she is, thinks that Avalon means what it said originally, about just wanting true unity between us, though she thinks you guys will go to pretty extreme lengths to get things comfortable for you first.”

That was the closest to the truth, as far as he was aware. Lord Red was an idealogue, fearsome warrior though he was, and his fixation on silly concepts like “birthright” and “equality” were likely to be what unmade his young empire.

“Roman,” she continued, stopping short to bark out a laugh, “Roman believes you guys just want to draw us in so you have a cheap, replenishable supply of slave labor and experiment fodder. Thinks you guys want to turn us all into frogs or teleport us to the moon in fancy magic space-suits just to test your magic out. Rule over us like the dark tyrants in the stories. He’s kind of a romantic like that. Adela doesn’t like that idea much. Said as much the first time she heard it. Something about-”

Skinshifter’s head snapped around, the sudden attention making the girl cut herself off.

“What did you say?” he asked her, his eyes boring into hers.

“Is it that hard to believe?” the girl shot back. “You guys haven’t exactly been going about this whole ‘culture exchange’ thing in a fair way, and this is step one.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Not that. You said one of your friends was against this notion?”

She nodded. “Yeah, the new girl. Roman’s got the hots for her, kind of painful in how obvious it is. I admit, she’s not bad looking, but I think Ro-Ro’d be better off with a girl who smiles more. Someone a bit more memorable. Adela always seems like she’s doing her best to slip into the background, and that’s not where Roman shines. He’s-”

The girl cut off in alarm again as Skinshifter began to laugh. Just a chuckle at first, though it changed quickly into a full belly laugh, and before he knew it he’d actually dropped his affect. The mirth fought its way through his borrowed muscle memory, and the laughter that emerged from his mouth was harsh, a cackling, mean-spirited sound that was laughing at the world. He was moments from doubling over when a sharp voice rang through the clearing, drying the laughter on his lips as quickly as it had come.

“And what are you two laughing about?”

He felt a chill pass over him, like the sun had vanished for a moment, and turned to discover Lady Violet and Robin standing at the corner of the barn, the latter looking at him with alarm, the former with narrowed, suspicious eyes. The girl he’d been talking to rolled her eyes and dragged herself to her feet, acting as though the action took quite a bit more effort than it did.

Skinshifter cleared his throat, trying to slow his suddenly frantic heartbeat.

“The girl told me a joke,” he tried lamely. “Wasn’t bad.”

The girl in question shot him a questioning look, then turned back to meet Lady Violet’s gaze as she arched an eyebrow.

“You would be Marika, then?” she asked. “You friends said you snuck off when the guards were distracted by my arrival. They said you were unpredictable, though I still didn’t expect you to be over here telling one of the soldiers jokes. Let’s hear it.”

The girl called Marika glanced at him again, and Skinshifter nodded at her. As unnatural as the exchange already was, his only hope to make it out of the situation was for things to proceed in as natural a way as possible, or at least have some of the strangeness diverted away from him. Hopefully, he could play the recalcitrant duty-shirker, draw in a reprimand, and sneak off somewhere after-

“He told me that the red-belts were soldiers,” Marika said, shrugging, “and the yellow-belts were like cops. So I asked if the purple clothes were for the kids who were too young to do any serious work.”

Skinshifter’s mouth fell open. Over Lady Violet’s shoulder, he saw Robin’s eyes widen, though it looked like she just barely managed to not gasp. Skinshifter’s fists clenched as he saw the malevolent twinkle in Marika’s eyes. The girl had sabotaged his attempted recovery, and she didn’t even realize the situation. He wondered if he would have enough time to rip out her tongue before-

“Get away from him,” Lady Violet said suddenly.

Marika cocked her head to one side. “Really? I mean, it was a funny joke. You don’t have to-”

Skinshifter’s hand was mere inches from the Eastern girl’s mouth when Lady Violet caught him by the wrist. The impudent bitch’s eyes widened in surprise as she stumbled backwards, Robin stepping in front of her as Lady Violet twisted his arm around with what was clearly amplified strength, forcing him to his knees.

This was unexpected. There hadn’t been any records of enhanced combat capabilities from the Prism Council’s youngest member. It was a shame that he wouldn’t be able to report this to his superiors.

“He’s been under a lot of stress lately,” Robin said, and Skinshifter felt another pang of that mixed revulsion and longing as he realized that the woman was actually trying to defend him. It was so ingrained in her, to come to his aid, that she would probably have overlooked anything short of him eating the girl’s tongue after he’d ripped it from her mouth. Which he would have. “The capture, the assignment, he’s-”

“Not Hound,” Lady Violet finished, and though he couldn’t see her, he could smell the workings of her magic. “An impostor. I’m not sure how, or how long, but this isn’t your subordinate.” She jerked her head at Marika. “Get her back with the others, and send Xalaster and Justicar over here. We need to get to the bottom of this quickly.”

Robin hesitated for only a split second before she grabbed the Mundane girl by the arm and hurried her away, out of sight around the corner of the building. Skinshifter watched them go, and once they’d vanished and he was left with nothing other than the mounting realization that he’d well and truly failed, his mind drifted back to the interrupted conversation he’d been having with the girl.

And he began to laugh again.

Before he could get into the swing of his mirth, Lady Violet twisted his arm savagely, and the laughter stretched into a subdued scream as the muscles in his shoulder tore. She didn’t say anything to accompany the injury. Just held him there as he panted into the soil.

He’d failed. That was beyond certain. The operation was now blind to the activities of the Rainbow Cabals, and he wouldn’t be able to track the girl, regardless of how close he’d come. It was obvious that the Mundanes that were being questioned knew where she was, were involved with her deeply enough that the girl’s scent was plastered on them thicker than the sharp, bitter-smelling stain on the barn’s wood. 

Lady Violet’s reinforcements came around the barn, and a bag was slipped over his head as they led him off toward interrogation. In the darkness behind the thick cloth, Skinshifter grinned wide. There was nothing more he could do, but that didn’t mean it was over.

For, in the four years since the Blood God had named her Fantasma, Adela had never once failed.