Swiftcurrent Creek Fresh cut grass, one cold beer

He seemed interested, and that brought a gleeful light to her eyes. "An assassin kills enemies," she said, casting her voice low and eerie to emphasize the deadliness of the dreaded assassin, "secretly, of course. Assassins sneak in and kill adversaries before they are even seen. Sometimes physically, but usually with poison or trickery." But Ira was still a princeling, as he vehemently reminded her, and someday would be a king. She bobbled her head to show that she understood this desire. "An assassin king," she suggested, "might never have to worry about being slain in his sleep by an ambitious underling, for he is master of stealth himself."

Assassin wolves was, of course, somewhat ridiculous. They could not operate as assassins ordinarily would, with special gadgets and quick knifework. But Jinx's definition of an assassin was keenly similar to that of Shearwater Bay's headhunters mixed with a poisoner.

She paused in her walk suddenly, detecting something like distress in the way he carried himself and spoke. It seemed he was more concerned about his supposed curse than he initially let on. "It is possible," she said gravely. "Where I come from, cursing others was a common thing. It takes an exceptionally strong and faithful individual to produce a lasting curse, though." Frowning, she refrained from approaching him and swiping her tongue over his face, feeling it was an inappropriate motherly response to offer. She took a step toward him, but stopped there, inviting him to take whatever comfort he required. "Curses may be broken, princeling, if you can determine the source of the curse. What symptoms do you have of this curse? How long have you had them? Do you have any enemies?"