The Dead Cat Tail Assassins

The Dead Cat Tail Assassins are not cats. Nor do they have tails. But they are most assuredly dead.

More worried about some stupid contract than being led around by the nose. Thought you were supposed to be some kind of bad bitches or something. Trifling.

No memories. No past. No life.

People deal with memories of trauma in odd ways

No rest for the dead I guess.

You’ve used this before, then?” the girl asked. “On myself, yes. And cats. Regrettably, they won’t let me experiment on students.

Fennis eyed her above his goblet, sipping wine. “What?” He indicated the retreating server. “Blinking. You forget that sometimes. It can be … off-putting.” “Oh,” Blinking. One of those habits you had to remember, when you were dead.

I’m just saying … the city almost gets laid to waste by an army of mechanical giants, is left with a magical hazard that makes an entire district uninhabitable, and almost three hundred years later that near-death experience is turned into three nights of revelry.” “People deal with memories of trauma in odd ways,” Fennis replied.

She did it for love. And it saved Tal Abisi. Now she’s the city’s patron saint.” “Love? More like caught between a conniving pirate and a megalomaniac.” Fennis gestured at her. “Yet here you are dressed as the Pirate Princess yourself.” Eveen tugged at the gold buttons of her jacket, pulling the white shirt beneath just past the cuffs. “I keep with the fashion.

The girl read it and frowned. “The Dead Cat Tails? Those words don’t make any sense.” “I know right,” Eveen agreed. “Is it the whole cat that’s dead? Or just the tails?

I know! My contract is to kill her, not rescue her—but things got complicated!” “Wait, what?” The girl again. They both looked up to find dawning horror on her face. Eveen winced. “I didn’t whisper that?” “You didn’t whisper it!” the girl said. “You are bad at whispering,” Fennis agreed.