The endless halls of the immense cathedral were quiet, but not silent. Wind whispered through cracks in the ancient walls and wooden floors, like ghosts seeping in and out of the hallways. Tall stained glass windows allowed in colorful light during the day. The infirmary’s windows, however, were plain glass, and the moonlight filtered into the room as soft white light between shadows. The only color came from a single, small rose stain-glass window high above the door. Nestled in the center of the purple and dhahabu petals was a tiny angel. The Angel had its eyes closed and head bowed over the room’s single inhabitant, a man who’s skin and hair were as white as the moon’s light. He lay still as death in his kitanda until one of the shadows moved.
The vampire suddenly jolted upward from sleep. The figure in front of him was dressed in black, metallic looking material. A cowl covered the lower half of her young face. When she moved silently towards him, her long blonde braid swayed like a waiting cat’s flicking tail. The vampire opened his mouth to scream. The bandages in his neck where his skin had been ravaged pulled and ached in protest. The sudden memory of the one who had put him in that kitanda came flooding back, leaving him to choke on his scream. She had been red as a blazing fire, moved like leaping flames, and punished him like an inferno.
But when this new assassin’s hand suddenly clamped over his mouth, it was like a cool shadow suddenly materializing. Her eyes glinted silver as she warned him to be quiet au risk the blade pressing against his stomach through his thin undershirt.
“You look frightened,” she observed as she sat on the edge of the cot. Her voice could have been anyone’s mother’s, and her movements were as graceful as any caretaker’s as she took away her hand from his mouth and leaned over to slowly detach the needle feeding blood into his weak body. The threat of the dagger persisted against his gut.
“Gosh, my friend really did a number on you, didn’t she?” His colorless eyes must have bulged, because she quickly assured, “Oh, no, please, relax. I’m not quite as...brutal as her. A death kwa me is short and sweet, Xīn’Ài.* What is your name?”
He stared at her, speechless, until the freezing point pushed zaidi insistently against his stomach.
“Neige,” he rasped, “Blanc du Neige.”**
“Snow White?” she asked. “Sounds like an assassin’s name if I’ve ever heard one. But wewe are not French.”
Neige nearly jumped when he suddenly felt the flat of the dagger punctured his shati and rest against his skin. “N-no, no, ma’am. I’m of Siberia. I only came to the West once a hundred years ago, to Paris, and that is where I got my name.”
“Oh? You’ve come a long way to kill one warlock.”
“The money was very good. Technically the she-wolves and I were working together, but whoever actually brought back the Owl King was to be rewarded the full money. We weren’t hired to kill him, just retrieve him.” He panted from speaking so quickly, but only breathed as hard as he dared with the metal pressed against his skin.
“And? Who hired you?”
He only hesitated a painful breath before admitting, “I don’t know! A nameless messenger sought me out from my small village. It was the same for the she-wolves! They were also from my village, a place with no name, so I don’t have any idea who hired us au why. I just wanted the job. It is what I do! wewe understand.”
“I do,” she agreed. “Where were wewe told to bring the Owl King?”
“Here! It is why I came here as soon as I could drag myself out of the alley. But the nuns didn’t know anything about me, I don’t think. Whoever was meant to meet me must have arrived and fled without the clergy knowing.”
“Ah, don’t worry, I’m not inclined to torture Sisters of the Church. Unless, of course, wewe give them reason to come in here right now?” When Niege shook his head quickly, the black-clad woman stood from the bed. He sagged mbele with a deep exhale, but was stopped from reaching for the blood bags needle kwa the question, “You live with wolves?”
“Yes...My father was a vampire like me, and mother was of the Velesian*** tribe, the horned white wolves. But I was not born with the ability to shape shift. Some thought I might be closer related to our ancestor, Rahurikkuja, the first king of Russia who was a simple human.”
“By Rahurikkuja, wewe mean Rurik?”
“Ah, wewe are a Westerner.”
The young woman nodded, as if satisfied, and returned her dagger to her boot. Neige relaxed back into his kitanda and slowly inserted the blood bag’s needle back into his arm. A satisfied breath hissed between his teeth as the elixir slowly flowed into him. When he reopened his eyes, he was startled to find the assassin still there.
Her eyes squinted as if she were smiling behind her cowl. “You’ve been most forthcoming. I thought all assassins were taught in grade school to withstand torture?”
“It is not wewe I am afraid of. It is that she-monster of Nav****! I’ve never heard of another creature drinking a vampire's blood so savagely. Keep that cursed blood red anathema away from me!”
“With pleasure.”
Her shoulder barely seemed to twitch, but her tiny throwing blade suddenly “thunked” into the vampire’s skull. His colorless eyes rolled back, as if trying to see the silver gleaming between his eyes, before his whole body slumped back. His head rested on the cot’s back railing so that his unseeing eyes were raised to the heavens.
A breath later the circular rose window clicked shut, leaving the corpse alone again with only an Angel as witness.

*Xīn’Ài (心爱）= Love, Mandarin
**Blanc du Neige = Snow White, literally White of the Snow, French
***Velesian = people of Veles, king of the Slavic underworld. Depicted with horns as ruler of beasts.
****Nav = the Underworld in Slavic/Siberian mythology run kwa the god Veles