No. You need to stop and think.

I shook my head, noticing for the first time that my hands were shaking. I looked at them, bloody and black-clawed, and I remembered something.

It had to have been three years ago, a little bit before my father had been murdered. He said to me, over some stupid thing I'd dug my heels into, 'that's the best of you, son, but you need to be able to own it. That kind of stubbornness can bring profit or red ink."

And it was true, I always hated being pushed, in any direction or for any reason. I had lost control, and then circumstances had **** me to act. But if I just moved, right here and now, just for being caught up in the moment, it would only earn debt in the ledger.

I took a deep breath, looking back at Anna.

Anna, who had a brother. I'd forgotten in the heat of the moment.

"Idiot." I muttered. "With all that commotion, he's got to already know something's happened. Can't go back."

Think, just think.

"I'm already sat at the table, coins are down, the cards are drawn; can't exactly walk away, either." I followed the thought, point by point, and came to a conclusion. I had no proof, of course, but it fit. I'd been blinded by panic, by hunger, and by the boiling rage that still seethed in my gut; it wouldn't be strange if I had a pursuer. A mercenary, or some sort of hunter; I'd even heard tell of a church dedicated to killing vampires and werewolves and such. My father had been a reader, and most countries had some specialized **** for my ilk.

Now that I'd killed, I couldn't ignore the real possibility that I'd end up on some fucking hit list.

Think deep, you idiot. You're merchant-born, your real weapon isn't some knife or claw. It's thought, coin, and words.

I looked at Anna, at my knife, and at the farmhold.

Well, then. What do have in your pockets, merchant; what do you have to use?