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               The fox sat

on the edge of the pale blue bed with a small dark journal as black as his fur.

Names of people, dozens of names, were written in the journal. He surveyed the

name at the top of the list, encircled in red ink. His mind wearily searched backwards

in time to find something, anything, which would give him a clue as to who the

person was. But he could not focus. The noise of the midnight drunks echoed

throughout the ancient house. Its dark oak walls creaked with dread as someone

let out a hearty laugh. The shadows on the floor from the lantern danced to the

melody of the voices below.               Throughout

all the noise, there was a light knocking at the door that led to the hall. The

fox perked his ears and stood straight, but all he could hear was the people

downstairs. He was probably hearing things again. He focused again on the name,

that name that was etched into his mind. Every time he thought of the name, the

past forced its way into his mind. He would try and quell the unending battle

of his conscience with rationalizations of, it

wasn't your fault to you had no other

choice. Though he knew he had had another way out. There is always another

way out. But all those lives taken. All those innocents hurt. He had a choice,

but he chose the cowards way out. The fox peered over to the lantern on the

dresser beside the bed. The fire. That unending flame. The screams. The

torment. The-               A light

knock sounded at the door again. This time he gracefully got up and to the door

in four long steps, making no sound. He placed one large black ear on the solid

wood. He could hear no one, except for the people. There was no one outside. He

slowly opened the door to an empty, dark hallway. Portraits of different

species lined the walls coupled with landscapes of different lands. Five doors

down, the hallway cut to the right and the fox thought he saw a fleeing shadow.

Without hesitating, he pursued the shadow, only armed with a dagger hidden in

his leather belt. He got to the end of the hallway and again, he saw the shadow

disappear down yet another hallway. After the third hallway, the figure

lingered, challenging him to follow. And he did. Down twisting passages to the

point where he did not know where he was. He had lost the figure, and even if

it was right in front of him, he would never be able to see. The darkness in

this part of the house was deafening. Only a couple times had he ever

experienced true darkness like this, and that was in the catacombs with Nardo.

But even though he had been surrounded by dead bodies for hours on end, this

blackness was much more eerie. The fox wandered dizzily for a few yards,

bumping into tables a couple of times, before emerging into a good sized

mahogany painted room.               The room was

illuminated by a large fireplace that cast shadows onto the portraits. The

walls were decorated with paintings and portraits of wolves, wearing warrior's

armor and monarch's robes. There were large windows that ran from the floor to

the ceiling, a large column separating them. He could hear the rain hit the

windows with a ping sound, but he had not heard rain before he came in.               Something

whispered next to him. He looked down and a little wolf pup was staring up at

him. He looked dirty, like he had been out on the street for weeks. The fox had

to wrinkle his nose at the smell of him. The fox was about to ask where the pup

came from, but the wolf looked past him and upwards. He turned and followed the

wolf's gaze.      As soon as he saw it, he

forgot the wolf was even in the room. It was a painting of a village. Young

foxes were running around wooden homes in a small clearing of a pine forest.

Older foxes working in the large field next to the village or washing clothes

in the river that ran through. From here, the village took the shape of a

broken heart. And in the middle, near the river breaking the two halves of the

heart, a black fox sat alone with a small blue jay.  His violet eyes stared down into the river,

but the eyes in the river were as red as blood.               "Stunning.

Isn't it?" a low, feminine voice called from behind. The fox turned and a

grey female wolf sat in the large leather chair near the fireplace. She had not

been there before. And where did that pup go? "Valentino DeGellari painted

it."               The name

sent a chill down his spine. But he would not give the figure any hint of what

was going through his head. "Who are you?" the fox asked.               "The

owner of this house of course," she said, getting up from her seat. Her

long red dress fell to her ankles which were adorned in diamonds, like her

ears. "You and your friends have been most welcome here. We do not get

many mercenaries here. You are a sight to behold."               She was

slowly walking towards him, and he had to take two steps back. "I do not

know what you are talking about, signora,"

the fox said.               "Mmm.

Italian. You are special." He

had backed up to where his naked fur touched the cool glass of the windows. He

could feel the vibrations of the rain on his back. "Oh, do not be afraid.

I swear I will not hurt you that badly."               She was nose

to nose with him before pressing herself against him. He did not feel any

sensation but that unmistakable sense of an impending end to someone's life.

One paw brushed the cerements covering his upper chest. She brushed over the

scar down the center of his chest and lingered there for a few seconds before

continuing downwards. She wrapped her other arm around his waist and looked

into his violet eyes. "I know where you hid the book."               Before he

could say anything, she had unhooked the dagger from his belt. The wolf tried

to catch him in his side but the fox was too fast. He grabbed her arm and spun

her around. He placed the dagger up to her throat and held her there. She

struggled and screamed something in a language he did not know.               "If you

know who I am, then you would know not to start something with me, signora."               She pulled

away from him and brandished her own blade, a small kitchen knife. She looked

at him, her emerald eyes twinkling red in the glow of the fire. She brought the

knife up, exposing her vitals. She lunged at him but he caught her arm with his

free paw. He threw his dagger into her gut and pulled up. He felt the warm

liquid flow onto his paw and splatter onto his pants. Her knife clattered to

the floor and her arm went limp. He looked into her shocked green eyes, his

expression professional and serious. She coughed out the words, "We have

your scent, traitor."               He spun

around and flung her onto the glass before kicking her square in the back. He

did not know if the crack was her spin or the glass shattering. The glass

exploded into a firework of white, showering him with sharp snowflakes. She was

gone in a second, with a thud coming from below. He looked over the ledge and

looked down at the broken body bloodied in the rain. Her body, twisted and in

contorted, spew blood onto the dust. Blood flowed from her body and formed a

crimson flower around her. The rain chilled his heart, but he felt no remorse.

"We will see who has who's scent, signora,"

he whispered.               He was still

staring down at her when a little voice spoke up behind him. "Is...is she

dead?"               The fox

turned. The little pup had returned and looked at him with a small twinkle in

his eyes. "You should not be here, piccolo.

Go back to your family."               He looked

confused by the word. "Family?" he asked. "My family is...I

don't know where they are."               "Well

you better go find them," the fox said. He walked past the pup and to the

doorway.               The pup

called after him. "What's your name, mister?" The fox paused. He

looked back at the pup who stared back at him. "Are you the man they call

the Black Death?"               "You

should not listen to children's stories, piccolo."               When he

turned and took a step forward, the pup grabbed onto his stained linen pants.

"What is your name, Mister?"               The fox

looked curiously down at the wolf. He had on a little grin and his eyes were

shining red in the glow of the fireplace. "My name?" The wolf nodded

and the fox sighed. He gave a small bow and said, "My name is Valentino

DeGellari."               "Like

the guy from the painting."               "Nothing

like that man," he spat the word

out.               The wolf

cocked his head. "I do not understand."               "Let us

keep it that way, piccolo." Was

the last thing he said before disappearing into the dark. The wolf looked after

him but saw nothing. Except for a few seconds when he saw two violet eyes

glancing back at him before they were sucked back into the darkness.               The wolf

smiled. "Valentino DeGellari. We have your scent."