“Godsdamnit!” Alburt cursed. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing?”

“I can’t see a thing…,” was all Slono managed to reply. The man’s voice, although panicky, was barely audible.

Alburt hurried to where his compatriot crouched, still a few steps away from the crib, with his hands clutching at his face. He had seen no flash, heard no sound, yet the chalked marks upon the floor burned with a smokeless, almost lightless flame. He felt weakness in his bones, sickness in the pit of his stomach, when his gaze went to those dancing lines of flame.

“Here, jerk,” Alburt said to his smaller associate as he roughly yanked the assassin out from amidst the magical markings burning on the stones. “You stay put until I finish the kid-I can manage everything.” With that, he picked up the lifeless body of Wanno, dropped it across the magical lines, and used it as if it were a bridge. He stepped gingerly, careful to put his feet only on the corpse or on the places where Wanno’s robe was splayed on the floor. Alburt made his way to a location from where he could peer over the side of the high-walled crib and view what was inside. His eyes grew wide instantly, and then he reached down and stabbed repeatedly, viciously.

“Crap!”

“Wazwrong, Alby?” Slono was still swiping at his eyes, but it was evident that some vision had returned to him already, for he was peering in the direction where the bigger thug stood.

“The li’l fart’s gone!” Alburt growled. “Jus’ plain vanished!”

The smaller man suddenly realized that the infant’s crying had stopped at the very moment his eyesight had been lost. “Some rotten magic trick,” he suggested.

“Naw,” replied Alburt. “I stuck the damn blade all over the whole crib and didn’t feel it sink into nothing but the mattress. Magic maybe, but it sure as shit ain’t invisibility. The flamin’ sprat just ain’t here anymore.”