Exhilarating. This body moved better than expected. King could hear the horrified cries of the household servants even before the blood finished cooling. Footsteps thudded, skirts rustled, and panicked voices collided in a frantic chorus.

  "The whore killed the young master!" one shrieked.

  King glanced lazily toward the hysterical servant, boredom curling across his borrowed expression like smoke.

  How tedious.

  He didn't have time to finish the thought.

  A blur of movement sliced across his peripheral vision. Fast, silent, predatory.

  King pivoted sharply.

  A woman with straight black hair and a chef's uniform was already lunging at him, body low, blade forward. But this was no kitchen girl. Her eyes were flat, empty, and cold, the eyes of someone who had killed on command more than she had ever cooked.

  And the "knife" in her hand?

  A monstrous cleaver nearly the length of his forearm, polished to a mirror sheen.

  Held like a sword. Balanced like a sword. Swung like a sword.

  The chef didn't waste a breath.

  She slashed upward in a blistering arc.

  King leapt back, but not cleanly enough. A sharp tug snapped against his scalp.

  A lock of white hair drifted through the air, lazily spiraling down like snow.

  His eyes narrowed.

  "Cute."

  Four tentacles burst from his back with a sick, wet snap, striking at the chef like whips.

  But the woman moved. Beautifully.

  Her footwork was quick, dancer-like, sliding across the ground with ghostly smoothness. Each tentacle thrust met only empty air or the faint brush of her uniform sleeve.

  Then she struck.

  The cleaver spun in her hand, the polished steel catching the light for a heartbeat before plunging into motion. A circular slash, too fast, too sharp.

  SHRACK.

  All four tentacles dropped to the floor, twitching violently.

  Pain burned white-hot through the vessel's spine and King staggered a step, hissing through his teeth.

  "Mm. The help has fangs," he growled. "How quaint."

  The chef said nothing.

  She simply reset her stance, shoulders loose, blade angled, breath steady, as if King were a slab of meat she had been ordered to carve.

  And then she came for him again.

  King slipped around the chef's next slash.

  The oversized knife tore through the air where his throat had been a heartbeat ago. Behind him, severed tentacles twitched once on the ground before disintegrating; fresh ones pushed out of his back with a wet, irritated pulse.

  At first, the woman's swings had seemed blisteringly fast.

  Now, with the girl's eyes adjusted and this body loosened up, he could see the gaps.

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  The shoulder roll before overhead. The tiny weight shift before a low sweep. Fast, yes—but not insane. Not anymore.

  Competent. For a mortal. King decided, tilting his head just enough for the blade to whistle past his cheek. If this stayed one-on-one, this would be over already.

  The cleaver shrieked past again. King slid sideways, a tentacle lashing out to force the chef to reset her footing. He never got to follow up.

  Something else moved behind him.

  The air thickened. Heavy steps. A presence like a falling wall.

  King spun.

  A hulking chef in stained whites loomed at his back, big enough to block out half the ruined garden. He wore a tall chef's hat, his blond beard matted, blue eyes fixed on him with dull, singular focus. Both fists were laced together above his head, already swinging down in a double axe-handle meant to crush his spine into the dirt.

  He didn't hesitate.

  One tentacle shot forward like a spear, punching straight through his chest.

  For a fraction of a second, King expected bone, lung, the tearing resistance of flesh.

  Instead, his body broke apart like a punctured skin of liquid. His torso burst into thick, golden oil.

  It sprayed over him in a hot, greasy wave—across his face, his hair, his chest. It clung to skin and clothes, dripping off eyelashes, soaking into the soil at his feet.

  King froze, more from surprise than impact.

  What the—

  Oil puddled and ran around his boots, catching the light from the burning wreckage of the garden.

  Up above, on the mansion's rooftop, another chef stood watching.

  This one was lanky, shoulders slouched, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His expression was almost bored, too cool to care.

  He took a drag, then flicked the cigarette up into the air.

  "Meteor," he said quietly.

  The lit end of the cigarette swelled mid-flight. The tiny ember bloomed, expanding in an instant; fire popped and flared, breaking apart into multiple burning orbs. They shot down toward the garden like falling stars, each one roughly the size of a basketball.

  The first crashed into the grass with an explosive whump, blasting dirt and flowers into the air. Another struck a stone path, shattering it, flames spilling outward.

  King moved.

  He darted between the falling fireballs, body low, sliding across the slick, oily ground. Heat rolled over him in waves, too close, licking at the grease stuck to his borrowed skin.

  If one of those hits while the girl's body is covered in oil— King grimaced as another meteor slammed down inches away—that's going to be irritating.

  A staff this skilled, this coordinated… all for one dead noble.

  He could feel the pattern now. The way they closed in, the way they focused on him and nowhere else.

  Because I killed their young master. Everyone who can fight is coming out of the woodwork to jump me. Either to avenge him, or to make sure someone pays so they don't.

  And worse than that:

  A place like this definitely already alerted the Peacekeepers. If I drag this out too long, I'll be fighting them too.

  A meteor exploded just ahead of him, forcing him to cut his dodge shorter than he wanted.

  The female chef didn't miss it.

  She moved.

  One second, she was standing back. The next, she was already on top of him, body blurring. There was no wasted step, no warning shout—just pure, murderous acceleration. She shot forward so fast that the image of her seemed to tear, the cleaver a silver line slicing through the air.

  King barely started to turn when the blade came down.

  Steel bit into his leg.

  For a heartbeat he didn't realize it was gone. Then the ground tilted sharply under him and his right leg spun away across the tiles, landing with a dull slap.

  Pain punched up his body. His remaining foot skidded on the oil. Balance vanished.

  And in that one stolen instant, one of the fire-meteors dropped out of the sky and hit him dead-on.

  The impact slammed him into the ground. Fire swallowed his world—hot, blinding, hungry. The oil on his clothes and skin caught immediately, turning the flames into a second skin that wrapped him in searing light.

  …Ah. That stings.

  The flames roared, crawling up his arms, devouring white hair. Smoke coiled around him.

  A shadow fell over the blaze.

  The black-haired chef landed lightly beside the spot where the hulking oil chef was reforming, his liquid body pulling itself back together, oil sliding up into the rough outline of a man.

  Both of them watched him burn.

  Up above, the lanky chef drew another cigarette from his pocket and lit it with an unhurried gesture.

  He exhaled, then spoke in the same calm, detached tone:

  "The chefs of House Jhael are used to butchering both criminals and animals," he said. "Don't think you're special."

  On the ground, King lay half-curled in the crater, wrapped in fire.

  Troublesome. Flames ate at borrowed flesh. But nothing I haven't deal with before.

  His lips—Magnolia's lips—curled into something hungry.

  As usual, I will just slaughter my way out.