Chapter 30 · Last Hunter

"Don't move, Archivist. This blade's silver, and it likes the taste of marked skin."

The knife sat flat against the bite scar on my throat, cold enough to sting. My back was jammed into the record shelves, spines of old contracts digging into my spine. He'd come through the service door like he owned it — big, quiet, smelled like gun oil and someone else's blood.

"Wrong throat," I said. "The mark you want burned out doesn't come off with a knife. Trust me. I've tried worse."

"Funny." He pressed harder. A thin line of heat opened under my jaw. "Everyone I've done this to says something funny right before they stop talking."

"How many's that? Everyone."

"Enough that they don't send the young ones after me anymore." He tipped his head, studying the mark like it was a price tag. "Last hunter standing. That's what they call me now. Should tell you something about your odds."

My heart was going too fast for the calm I was trying to hold in my voice. "Somebody's paying you to erase a rejected mark. That's specific. That's not a job, that's a favor."

"Smart mouth for someone bleeding on my knife.