by Nia Arthurs
Damien arches an eyebrow. “I’m working.”
“Multi-task.”
It takes a bit of coaxing, but I finally get Damien moving around to the song. We dance for the rest of the set.
Chapter 6
Alistair
I shake the dust from the top of the box. It is about the size of a novel in height and about three inches deep. Theories are shooting through my head, but they are merely suppositions until I can open the box.
My fingernails peruse the seams of the container. The edges are sealed tight. Perhaps a pry bar would dismantle it? I shift the glow of the flashlight along the box and shake my head. This metal won’t give so easily. It would be best to turn my efforts elsewhere.
I trace my hands over the lock. That’s strange. The bolt is no ordinary clip. In fact, I hold it closer to my face, it reminds me of the special latches we had at Ladheug’s fortress.
But that makes no sense. Why would the league store a box here?
My tools are limited and the lock on the container will require a heavy-duty cutter. I’m certain I can visit a shop tomorrow and purchase one. Or perhaps the bed and breakfast that I’ve booked for the night will supply the tool.
Carefully, I stuff the box in my backpack and scale the rope until my feet safely touch the landing. I’m grateful that the attic floor held. I’d half-expected to crash to my death on the platform of the manor hall.
Grabbing the rappel hook, I let it clatter to the floor. The noise is suddenly thunderous in the pitch black house. The stillness is telling. My instincts scream that someone is here. I stiffen and slow my breathing.
Assassins are trained to hear beyond the obvious. The sound of a heart thudding against the chest, the scent of sweat falling from a shaking temple. We have learned to disguise our own reactions to blend in to the night. The unnatural stillness becomes a signal in itself.
I listen closely, but the quiet does not linger. In fact, the silence is rudely disbanded by the harsh tones of rap music. I blink once and then twice. The lyrics of the song are rather crude. I know enough about modern pop culture to realize that the house has probably been invaded by a pack of young vagabonds.
The suspicion is confirmed when a candle is lit. The small flame pierces the darkness, illuminating a group of three young boys about nineteen years of age. They are all dressed in black coats, black shirts, and black pants, reminiscent of the robed assassins.
In their hands, they hold a long, blue water pipe. I turn my gaze in disappointment.
The ancient assassins once deemed smoking herbs acceptable; however, the league no longer regards dependence on drugs as suitable. In a lifestyle that depends on quick reflexes and a clear mind, marijuana and other drugs could mean the difference between life and death.
Personally, I steer clear from anything that could influence my mental state. My mind is all that I have in this world. It saddens me to see young people tampering with something so addictive.
As they settle down, an idea pops into my head. Perhaps their presence in this manor tonight was not by coincidence. I slip closer. The first two boys have already taken heady drags from the bong. I move quickly before the last one can follow suit.
“Hey, what…” he startles.
I muffle his words with my gloved hand and drag him backward into the darkness.
“Man, where did Luis go?” the first boy glances around.
I’m half-way outside by the time the second boy takes note. Keeping my grip on the young man, I make sure to keep his eyes away from my face.
“Boy, cooperate and you won’t lose your life tonight.”
My threat finds its mark. The boy stiffens with fear. I have no intentions of killing him, but for the time being, the young man is best left in the dark about that.
“I-I don’t want no trouble,” he stutters.
“How often do you and your friends come here?”
“About o-once a week.” He licks his lips, “I promise, man. We don’t mean to make no trouble. We just want to light up a bit. That’s it. We’re not hurting anybody.”
Once a week? That’s fairly often. Perhaps the boy and his friends have seen something that could be of use to me.
“Are you and your buddies the only ones that use this place?”
“Yes,” the boy swallows audibly, “everyone else thinks it’s haunted.”
“What would make them think that?”
“Every year, on the day this place burnt up, people say they can hear scratching and moaning.”
The story does not move me. I don’t believe in ghosts. Even if they did exist, I’d wager that the living have more power to hurt than the dead.
“Why aren’t you afraid as well?”
He lifts his chin. “I’m not scared of no ghost!”
I appraise him seriously. “You should be afraid of what you’re doing to your body. You using needles?”
He looks away. “That’s none of your business.”
His response is telling. I should just leave him be. The kid is no concern of mine. I’ve gotten all I needed from him anyway. I’m about to let him go when I realize I can’t let him walk back into that lifestyle without warning him.
Yanking the dagger from my jacket in one fell swoop, I place it against his neck.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“J-Jimmy.” He moans.
“Jimmy, you look like a nice enough kid. You know what drugs do to nice kids?”
He nods.
“Good.” I lower my voice to a threatening rumble. “So, don’t let me catch you taking another hit, do you hear me, Jimmy? I’ll be watching you and if I see you slipping up just once, I’m gonna come for you, Jimmy. You understand?”
“Y-yes.”
I think I’ve done enough for one night. Whether or not he uses again is up to him, but at least I’ve done my share to steer him down the right path.
Shoving the boy forward, I escape into the forests. I know these paths well. My mother and I used to tread them when I was young. The sharpest memory of her that I have is locked up in these trees.
She used to have a garden in the foliage. She called it her secret place. My mother took me there once. It was beautiful with brightly hued flowers and benches made with the most exquisite craftsmanship.
I also recall her imploring me to keep the garden our secret, but this could be my own additions to reality. My life in the manor has been buried so far in my memory that I can never tell what is real from what is imagined. Undoubtedly, the years have embellished the recollections I hold dear.
It is a sad reality, but one that I’ve come to accept.
The walk to the bed and breakfast offers enough time for me to contemplate the conundrum of the metal container. If indeed, the box belongs to my father, what ties would he have with the league of assassins? Was Maveth right? Is my father truly seeking my death?
I cannot accept it and yet, my gut is screaming that it is true.
Chapter 7
Kendall
Everyone is screaming, it seems, at the top of their lungs.
“Encore! Encore!”
The band has obliged twice. Francis, their stoic manager, has already informed the organizers of the event that the band has to rest. He’s standing on the other side of the curtains with a hard expression.
I’ve only met Francis once, but I can already tell he’s not a fan of anything but hard stares and condescending frowns.
“Sorry, guys!” Jace lifts his hands and urges the crowd to quiet down. “We’ve got to head out now.”
The crowd does their best to argue with him, but Jace holds firm. Eventually, the calls turn to applause when the audience realizes that they won’t be able to coax anymore songs from the talented group.
I’m surprised when Morgan and Jace urge me back onto the stage. Shyly, I wave to the crowd. I hope no one goes googling me tonight. I don’t have anything fancy in my catalogue like the rest of the band does.
The velvet curtains
drop in front of us. Though we can still hear the shouts from the crowd, they can’t see us.
Trey immediately hops from behind his drum kit and flings himself at Jace.
“Dude, the hair was killer!”
“Shut up,” Jace laughs and shakes his head.
The green mane happily bounces with him.
Morgan squeezes her husband’s hand. He holds on to her palm tightly. I watch their strange exchange with a curious expression. Since I’ve been on the tour, I’ve never seen Morgan or Will act in a newlywed kind of way.
I mean, I understand that they’re professionals. It would be gross to see them necking on the couch during the day, but somehow… I don’t know. They’ve been married for two years and they never call each other by anything other than their first names. They don’t hug. And they don’t kiss. Ever.
Still, the way Will treats his wife is the way I would want my husband to treat me someday. The keyboard player is so caring and considerate. There’s no doubt that he loves his wife. Who am I to judge? As long as it’s working out for them, it’s none of my business.
“Hey,” Trey nudges me in the shoulder with his drumstick, “we have to do some autograph signings. Will you be okay?”
“She’ll be fine.” Damien steps us to us.
I shrug my shoulders. “What he said.”
“Great,” Trey slaps his hands together. “We’ll meet up in the lounge in an hour.”
Trey glances at Jace to ensure that the timing is right. When the green-haired lead singer nods, I smile.
“We got it. Go, go and be famous!”
“Thank you, dahling,” Morgan pretends to throw a scarf around her neck and strolls out toward the backstage area with her husband and band-mates.
Damien turns to me. “You hungry?”
I press a hand to my stomach, pretending that I have to think about it. I’m always hungry, but according to polite society, that’s not a good thing to openly express.
“I could eat,” I say daintily.
Damien laughs and sweeps his hands forward.
“After you.”
“Thank you.”
We exit through the opposite door and head toward the elevator. As I stroll, I realize that the décor in the fancy center is quite similar to the one at La Ruba. When we wait for the elevator, I’m more firmly pulled back to the day I met Alistair.
“What’s so funny?” Damien interrupts my recollections.
“Huh?”
I glance at him, slightly surprised that a handsome, brown-eyed, brown haired British guy isn’t behind me.
“You’re smiling.”
“Oh,” I tuck my hair behind my ear. The curly strand pops right back out to rest against my cheek. I clear my throat nervously. I didn’t mean to get lost in my thoughts like that.
The elevator doors open to the private lounge. Hoping that Damien won’t pursue the conversation, I move into the gaudy underground of the elegant Welsh auditorium.
The scent of smoke still lingers in the air. I can imagine the other artists who pursue less than legal activities in here while preparing for the show.
Red velvet curtains cover the walls. Plush maroon sofas situated in an L-shape rests on a beige colored carpet. Strange abstract art is framed on the walls. This place is sort of creepy. I’m about to suggest that we go somewhere else when I see it.
Five large gift baskets stand like little soldiers on the counter of the bar. I stand in awe as I note the five jumbo Oreo packs nestled amongst packages of chocolate and champagne. I’m home.
Yas!
“Kendall?”
Damien’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. All I can see are Oreos. It’s been two days since my emergency pack of Oreos ran out on the tour bus.
For the past forty-eight hours, I’ve been focusing on the band and my tambourine skills. The nerves successfully pushed chocolate from my mind. But now I’m back and ready to go.
“Sh,” I extend my arm behind me, indicating that he be quiet.
Slowly, patiently, I draw closer to the nearest gift basket. Pressing my hands against the plastic, I feel the contours of the cookies against my fingertips. My heart is dancing like a little girl in a new dress.
Damien comes up behind me. I can feel his regard, but I really don’t care. He kills people for a living. I have an Oreo obsession. If he expects me to accept his very immoral and illegal quirks, he might as well accept mine.
“Do you want me to open the wrapping for you?”
I nod, since I’m suddenly incapable of speech. When Damien walks forward, I read the amusement in his eyes. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m crazy. I probably am.
When the assassin finally frees the clear plastic from around the package, I grab the Oreos and hold them to my chest.
“I guess you love cookies.”
“You have no idea.” I moan.
Damien tilts his head in an adorable fashion.
“You open to sharing?”
I hesitate.
Come on, Kendall. If you share, you can eat more with a good conscience.
I listen to the tiny voice and nod my head. Damien and I settle on the huge, red couches. They’re more comfortable than they look. We munch in silence for a few minutes, but soon he dives into a conversation.
“Back in the elevators, what were you thinking about that made you smile?”
I pause mid-bite. Shoot, Damien’s more observant than I’d thought.
“Um,” I swallow and brush the crumbs from my white peasant shirt, “I was thinking about how Alistair and I met.”
“Really?” Damien shifts in his seat and leans closer, his eyes alight with interest. “How did you two meet?”
“We met in one of the elevators at the hotel where I work. I was late and I kept pressing the button. He pointed out that pushing the button wouldn’t make us go any faster.”
Damien smiles. “That sounds like him.”
“Yeah.”
His expression changes, “when did this happen exactly?”
I think hard.
“About three weeks ago. It was a Wednesday I think. Why?”
Damien smacks his forehead. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
The handsome assassin shifts in his seat. “That was the day I told Alistair about Shadow. He was staring into space the entire time. I couldn’t figure out why he was so distracted.”
“Well, did you?” I blink, not sure where Damien’s going with this.
“I did,” he taps his fingers against the couch. “He was distracted … because he was thinking about you.”
“Oh,” I glance at my cookie and then widen my eyes. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Damien sighs. “I’ve never seen him act that way before.”
“Are you sure it was because of me?” I insist. I know me. I know I’m not the sort to inspire any kind of daydreaming.
“Yeah,” Damien stares deeply into my eyes. “And I can see why.”
Chapter 8
Alistair
Neezy’s Bed and Breakfast is a quaint Victorian style house with wide pillars and a sweeping front porch. The house sits a few yards back from the road, perfect for a little peace and quiet during one’s travels.
I dust my feet off at the door and step in to the warm light. The scent of warm porridge and fried sausages tempts me. I haven’t eaten since I left London early this morning. I’m eager to peruse the box for clues, but I choose to eat a bit before pursuing the mission.
Stepping lightly, I push the dining room door open. Immediately, four pairs of eyes swing up to meet mine.
I move forward confidently.
“I’d like to rent a room.”
The patrons around the table simply stare at me. I must look a sight. Bat droppings and cobwebs are etched so deeply into my clothes that I have no clue how I’ll get them out. I run a hand down my chin and wait for someone to speak.
Suddenly, a door to my left bursts open. A tall, buxom wo
man in her late fifties, wearing a flower pattered dress saunters into the dining room. She bears a tray heavy with freshly baked bread.
“Here you go!” she places the platter on the table. When she glances up, the woman takes note of me. “And who is this handsome fellow?”
“My name is Alistair Rinaghi.”
I use my fake identity to keep people from asking questions. Howard is a rather common surname, but I don’t want to be linked in any way to the manor that perished.
“Sir, you’ve come to the right place. My name is Neezy. I’m the owner of this place. Come, let’s get the business out of the way so you can eat.”
I admire her direct manner and follow into the lobby where I secure a room and agree to abide by the rules of the home.
“Now,” Neezy claps her hands together when the transaction is complete, “let’s eat!”
Her loud, boisterous habits take a bit of getting used to. Still, I’m warmed by her welcoming face and by her respect of my privacy. When I refuse to participate in the table conversation, Neezy rolls right along, completely unperturbed.
The food is hearty and well-cooked. I eat every morsel on my plate before retiring to my room for the night. The decorations are rather antiquated, but everything is clean and airy. The bed is large enough for my frame, which was something I didn’t expect. I’m quite satisfied with the accommodations.
I prepare for bed and close the windows tightly, securing the latch’s string. The dresser is then pushed against the door as an added defense. I need to sleep, but I have never been able to do so without taking precautions.
The electric lights buzz in the night. I like the noise. Stillness makes me uncomfortable. It is too easy for an assassin to hide in the quiet. Pulling my backpack close, I unzip the pouch and extract the metal box.
In the bright lights cast from the bulbs above and the lamp on the nightstand, I can solidly affirm that the latch design cannot be bought in a hardware store. When I studied under Ladheug, I learned the history of the assassins. This lock design was a section of that history.
In the late fifteenth century, the Firenzes (the Spanish league that sent assassins to the New World) came under attack from the Demartians. Each time the Firenzes planned a battle, the Demartians knew of it.