Hired to Kill The Millennium Wolf

My name is Ivy Varnholt, and I’m the best assassin there is. Don’t take my word for it—ask the whispers in Nocturne City’s underworld. They’ll tell you about the shadow who slips past wards, the blade that finds its mark before the target even blinks. Vampire, werewolf, witch—I’ve ended them all, and my ledger’s written in blood. You could say my skill comes from my vampire half, those cursed gifts that make me faster, sharper, deadlier than any human could hope to be. But I don’t lean on that excuse. Power’s nothing without control, and I’ve honed mine to a razor’s edge. I’m crouched on a rusted fire escape, the city sprawling below me like a beast that never sleeps. Nocturne City—half neon, half nightmare. Skyscrapers stab the sky, their glass reflecting the rain that’s always falling, as if the gods themselves weep over this place. Down there, humans hustle through their lives, oblivious to the truth. My kind call them Dustborn, a name spat with pity or scorn. Supernaturals—vampires, werewolves, witches—rule the shadows, and I’m one of them. Half of one, anyway. My father was a vampire, a lord of the Crimson Syndicate named Darius Varnholt. Eyes like rubies, voice like silk over steel. He could’ve had any immortal beauty, but he fell for a Dustborn—my mother, Eliza, a nurse with a laugh that melted a bloodsucker’s heart. Their love broke every rule. The Syndicate doesn’t smile on mixing blood; they call half-breeds like me abominations, stains on their precious full-blood lineage. But rules bend when you’re powerful, and Darius was untouchable. Until he wasn’t. Someone—vampire, rival, I never learned who—put a stake through his heart when I was ten. Mother followed a year later, grief eating her from the inside. That’s when I learned the world doesn’t care about love. It cares about survival. The fire escape creaks under me, but I’m still as stone, watching the alley below. My target’s late, and I don’t like waiting. My black leather jacket blends with the shadows, my boots—silent, custom-made—grip the metal. A silver dagger rests against my thigh, its edge laced with a witch’s venom, potent enough to slow even a werewolf’s healing. It’s my only weapon tonight. This job’s a walk in the park. Being half-vampire means half the weaknesses—sunlight stings but doesn’t burn, and there’s no bloodlust to cloud my head. It also means twice the enemies. The Syndicate tolerates me because I’m useful, but they’d gut me if I slipped. A flicker of movement catches my eye. There—a hulking figure lumbers into the alley, breath steaming in the damp air. Werewolf, by the scent: musk and iron, like a storm rolling in. My client, a witch from the Ember Coven, hired me to take him out. Said he’s been roughing up her couriers, stealing potion shipments. I don’t care about her sob story; the payment’s good, and that’s enough. I draw my poisoned dagger, fingers steady despite the pulse of adrenaline. Half-vampire or not, I’m human enough to feel the thrill. I move like the wind, years of training guiding me effortlessly. I’m within inches of him when the wolf’s head snaps up, nose twitching. Damn. He’s caught my scent—maybe the leather. No time to curse my luck. I leap with the precision of a cat, my dagger flashing as it severs his carotid arteries. He roars, claws sprouting as he staggers, but the venom’s already working, slowing his shift. He lunges, faster than he should be, and I twist aside, his claws grazing my jacket. The rip of leather pisses me off more than the near miss. “Bad dog,” I mutter, driving the dagger into his side. He howls, but I’m already moving, slicing tendons behind his knees. He drops, and I wipe the bloody blade on his clothes. “Tch, tch, tch,” I say, smirking. “Just not fast enough.” The alley falls silent, rain washing his blood into the gutters. I check my watch: two minutes. Not bad. I slip the dagger back into its sheath and vanish into the maze of Nocturne’s backstreets. The city’s alive tonight, even at 2 a.m. Neon signs buzz, advertising dive bars and 24-hour noodle joints. A vampire couple glides past, their eyes glinting like cats’ as they size me up. I meet their gaze, a warning in mine: try me, and I’ll gut you. They move on. Smart. Nocturne’s a predator’s playground, carved up by factions who hate each other but play nice to keep the Dustborn clueless. The Veil Accord, they call it—a truce to hide our world. Vampires of the Crimson Syndicate sip martinis in penthouses, running media empires and blood banks on the side. Werewolves, like that dead one back there, claim the docks and warehouses, their packs brawling over turf or smuggling routes. Witches keep to themselves, brewing curses in lofts or selling charms on the dark web. Then there’s me—freelance, untethered, answering to no one but the highest bidder. Half-bloods don’t get covens or packs. We survive however we can. My apartment’s in the Low District, a crumbling brick building squeezed between a pawn shop and a laundromat that never closes. The wards on my door—witchwork, courtesy of a favor I’m still paying off—hum as I unlock it. Inside, it’s sparse: a bed, a weapons rack, a fridge with more blood bags than food. I may not have bloodlust, but I do enjoy blood. I’m not proud of the thirst, but it’s part of the deal. I pour a glass, the crimson catching the dim light, and sip slowly. It’s synthetic, lab-grown, better than feeding on some poor Dustborn. I’m a killer, not a monster. The mirror by the door shows a stranger sometimes. Pale skin, sharper than human but softer than a full vampire’s. Black hair, always tangled in the morning, frames eyes that shift—green one day, gold the next, depending on my mood or the blood. A scar cuts across my left brow, a memento from my first job, when I learned trust is a luxury I can’t afford. I’m not as beautiful as the Syndicate’s porcelain queens, but I’ve got my own edge—sharp, unyielding, the kind that makes men hesitate and women stare. Not that I care. My beauty’s just one more weapon in my arsenal. I strip off the torn jacket, tossing it onto a chair, and start cleaning my gear. The dagger’s blade gleams under the cloth, but my mind’s elsewhere. Jobs have been steady—too steady. The underworld’s restless, more contracts than usual, like something big’s brewing. Werewolves snarling at vampires, witches whispering about lost artifacts. Even the Dustborn are twitchy, their tabloids screaming about “animal attacks” that smell like cover-ups. I don’t ask questions; questions get you killed. But I feel it, the way you feel a storm before the thunder. My phone buzzes, a burner I swap every week. Unknown number, encrypted. Only a handful of people know how to reach me, and they don’t call to chat. I answer, keeping my voice flat. “Speak.” “Ivy Varnholt,” a voice says, low and smooth, like velvet over a blade. Not one I know, but the confidence screams power. “Your reputation precedes you.” “If you’re looking for an experienced hooker, this is the wrong number,” I say, leaning against the counter. A pause, then a chuckle—cold, deliberate. “Patience, assassin. This isn’t a street brawl cleanup. We need precision. A target who doesn’t fall easily.” My pulse quickens, not from fear but curiosity. Most targets are small fry—rogue shifters, greedy witches. This sounds different. “What do you want me to do?” “Congratulations on your kill tonight,” the voice says. “It’s what I’m good at,” I smirk. “This next job won’t be as easy,” he says. I laugh. “For me, it just means better pay.” “We’re offering ten million dollars.” Ten million dollars. My jaw tightens. That kind of money means danger, the kind that leaves bodies—or no trace at all. “I’m listening.” “Good,” the voice says, dripping with disdain. “This one’s worth your time. He’s a wolf, and he’s trouble. Details will be sent to you later.” The line goes dead before I can reply. I stare at the phone, the screen dark, my reflection faint in its glass. A werewolf, and a big enough threat to warrant ten million. My gut twists—not nerves, but instinct. Whoever this wolf is, he’s no ordinary mark. A moment later, the phone beeps, a message flashing on the screen. I open it, expecting a name, a location, the usual. Instead, a photo loads—a man’s face, all sharp angles and storm-grey eyes that seem to pierce through the screen. My breath catches, not from fear but something else. I recognize this face.