by O. J. Lowe
Again, I looked at myself in the mirror, splashed cold water across my skin and tried to feel alive again. I’d use the term human, but the truth is, that ship buggered off a long time ago when it came to feel that way. I rubbed the water into my face, hard enough to make it go red with the force applied against it. Some days, I just felt old and this was one of them. Silently I cursed Levitt, and Punjabi Parvati and Eric Steele and Wynsor Castle and Matthew Black for the misfortunes they’d brought down on themselves and by extension me. A nagini, a wizard, a werebear and a vampire. You’d have thought it’d be enough to remove one half-breed and a fallen god from existence. Clearly, I was wrong.
I reserved double curses for the memory of the Heavensent and how he’d offered so much, delivered only a fraction of it. He’d claimed to be the ultimate assassin, a weapon wielded by no other. Revenant’s were exceptionally rare; he’d gotten his name for being the only being who’d ever willingly left Heaven. I personally found the claim he’d gotten bored with it up there to be a little apocryphal for my liking, but it is what it is. A shade possessing the earthly remains of a long dead thunder god. It should have been a destructive combination and yet where was the Heavensent now? The shade had been killed, the bones ground to dust, the location of the god’s power a mystery. Because I knew this from a long time ago, when gods die, especially before they fall, their power bleeds into their earthly remains. It was no doubt the reason the man in the hood made the bones a gift, something to sweeten the pot where Job was concerned. Not many knew his true name, that they’d met a true figure from the bible, one of the most screwed-over characters in history all because God wanted to prove a point to the devil.
Cursing the objects of one’s misfortunes had its charms, but it was a largely impractical way to wander through life. Better to focus on forging your own luck. Once, I’d had nothing but my wits and my blade. Killers have been made with less. Killing for money though, that’s an art, a sacred compact not easily broken. There are those who flit through life deserving to be killed and maybe, just maybe, there’ll be someone willing to cough up the coins for it.
Feeling somewhat more heartened of all the possibilities of the waking hours ahead, I finished dressing myself, an impervious vest beneath my shirt, the collar starched almost as sharp as a blade, whiter than a virgin’s first dress, my suit a shade of coal black. Yes, I was aware it made me look like an undertaker. Perhaps that suits me. What I’ve long since learned is that the death business is distressingly as much about image these days as anything else. I think it’s all down to the Novisarium’s increasing attraction towards freaks. Because someone dresses like a clown and screams while they kill someone, it apparently makes them a better assassin. The whole charade makes me physically sick if I’m honest. Not literally. It’s been years since I’ve vomited.
Of course, the clothes are only a part of my working outfit. A pair of silver blades adorned my person, one strapped to my ankle, one at my back, a custom-made Raptor holstered beneath my arm, a potent .44 calibre revolver, loaded with silver bullets soaked in holy water. In the Novisarium, if you’re going to play, you play to win. If you want to win, you need the best tools.
For years now, it’s been a well-kept secret that I live in the midtown district of the Novisarium, an exquisitely private penthouse. Once I read a monograph that the true killer eschews all manner of material wealth, preferring a simple existence. While I can see the merits of that, I’d long decided to play against stereotypes, made the choice to live in the last place anyone would expect to find me. The security here is top-notch too, always a plus. Sometimes I use the place as a training exercise too, challenge would-be graduates of my school to make it in and try to kill the resident, never telling them that it’s me. Always wear masks, hoods and balaclavas are an assassin’s greatest ally. It’s rare any of them succeed even getting to the front door. Those who do are instantly promoted to one of my all-stars, though that four of the previous five to do it no longer inhabit the land of the living tells me that perhaps I need to rethink my strategies.
I hit the sidewalk, always liked to stroll my way to the office to organise my thoughts ahead of the working hours, though I didn’t always do it. Some routines, once interpreted, can have deadly consequences. Best to vary it up.
It’s not paranoia if there’s genuine danger someone might interpret my movements. The skilled assassin does what nobody would expect. I lived close to the office, close enough to walk anyway. Sometimes I drove, a range rover with armour plating in the garage, though I tried to walk as much as possible. It’s good for the health after all. Sometimes, in a city the size of the Novisarium, it’s not always possible though.
Walking the streets at any hour of the day is always an experience, there are occasions I play a little game I like to call ‘spot the tourists,’ people who showed up here to take a walk on the wild side, not entirely sure how they’re going to get home or pay when the inevitable bill for their time here comes due. It’s always the hidden costs that get you, walking the neon-soaked streets of midtown, it’s easy to forget that the deadliest predators are always the prettiest. Some of the pedestrians were like me, honest professionals on their way to work, going home from their job. In an eternal night, working hours take a fluid meaning, there’s always someone doing a job somewhere. I’ve heard it said about other cities, but the Novisarium is truly the one that never sleeps. Vehicles from every world of every make and design patrolled the roads, some of them didn’t even have wheels, hovering a good foot or two above the tarmac. You can buy anything here; it doesn’t mean you should. I once wanted one of those hover vehicles as a status symbol, they’re an absolute bastard to insure and the fuel bills will cripple you. What can I say; every man has a mid-life crisis. An attempt to recapture their fading youth with some overtly frivolous vehicle they look ridiculous in. That was mine, though I never went as far to buy it.
One of things I’d become very good at in order to stay alive was spotting when something was out of place, the limousine pulling up alongside me was one of those things, it’d followed me for three streets now and I came to a halt. Again, paranoia. It’s not a bad thing.
The door opened, two men and a woman emerged from the back, all much of a muchness, the same expressions of forced neutrality, the same off-the-rack dark suits of varying design. The men wore ties, the woman didn’t.
“Cassius Armitage?” the taller of the two men asked, an upturned nose that made him look as if he was perennially on the verge of smiling, his eyes the same shade of brown as his hair. I studied him with quiet indifference, tried to work out what set my teeth on edge about them. A man as long-lived in this game as me always recognises another predator whenever he sees one.
“Who’s asking?” I replied politely.
The shorter man, dark-skinned and blond haired gave me a hard look behind wire-rimmed glasses. Though he packed a real gut on him, he moved with strange grace, like the flowing of water. “Us,” he said from a mouth packed with surprisingly small teeth. “We need you to come with us.”
“Do you now?” Part of me was already wrestling with the idea of throwing down with them. They didn’t look overtly threatening, believe me, I’ve been threatened by the best over the course of my life. There are those who resort to threat, there are those who resort to bargaining, I find them both equally pathetic. “And who are we?”
“What my colleague,” the woman said, her voice firm but friendly. She looked like she had Chinese heritage, her hair an onyx black, a delicious frame upon her. Once upon a time, I might have examined her with an appraising eye. Once. Not anymore. She had the thinnest lips I’d ever seen, like they’d been drawn on. “What he’s trying to say is that our bosses request your presence in relation to a job.”
“Sorry,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t deal with lackeys.” It’s true. I’d made it a policy long ago. It saves confusion, misinterpretation. If someone wants to hire me, they can do it themselves, directly.
&nb
sp; The blond man muttered something under his breath, either an insult or something vaguely arcane. I gave him a withering look. “None of that now,” I said. Now they were close, now I’d had the chance to set myself, I could sense the barest whiff of magic about them. My senses aren’t directly attuned to it, but you learn to recognise these things. The most powerful magic-users have the strongest scent.
“They’re aware of your policy,” the woman said. “They ask that you make an exception in exchange for a consideration.” She opened her jacket, showed me the glow within. I couldn’t rip my eyes from them. Half a dozen gold bar was a hell of a consideration. “And that’s just for the meeting.”
I smiled at her. “Well, what the heck. Rules are made to be broken, are they not?”
“Pretty sure they’re not,” the tall man muttered.
I already knew we were going to get on about as well as two cats in a sack.
Two.
How does one get involved in the death business? Well, the easiest and fastest way usually is to kill someone. Is it the most politically expedient? Perhaps not. Random murder is not a good idea, especially not in a city where anyone you attack could be something supernaturally stronger than you. You go after a vampire with a cheap handgun, you’re probably going to find yourself detached from your blood.
Take out the whole idea about getting started, for a moment. When you do have a target, research is important. Assassination is a job, and like any profession, you need the right tools for the job. Without them, it becomes easy to fail. If you’re out to kill a vampire, you take wood, or perhaps fire. There’s even a gentleman named Simon Panabaker who sells sunlight in a bottle, though it’s pretty expensive. (Another rule. Expenses shouldn’t outweigh the reward, though that’s just common sense.) If you’re going after wizards, you use spellbreaker bullets. Most things have a dislike of silver. Demons don’t like anything blessed by Heaven, so on and so on. When you know what you’re hunting, you can prepare that little bit better.
I still remember the days when I was getting started, how much of a challenge it was to find someone to teach me. Most of my skills ended up being self-taught, if it had been today with all the surveillance money can buy, I’d probably have never gotten far. It didn’t mean it was easier back then. Just that the challenges were different. You have to deal with humans, you can exploit the points when they needed to take a piss. You deal with dogs; you can give them drugged meat. I’d wandered about for a dozen years or so, taking chickenshit hits that barely covered my bills until I was discovered by someone better, someone who’d taken a shine to me as an apprentice.
I learned things with him I’d never have discovered on my own, effective means of poisoning targets, easier ways to knock out inquisitive eyes, how to circumvent even the most efficient home defences. I’d learned not just how to hide in the shadows but to become one with them, to sweep down on my target like an avenging bat from Hell.
Everyone has an origin story. I’ve never considered mine to be truly important. I never look back at who I was, I prefer to think about who I am. A man who know himself can never be lost.
There was another man in the limo, though he sat behind the wheel, short and compact with a distinct lack of hair across his skull, his skin the same colour as aged shoe leather. He gave me barely more than a cursory glance as I slammed the door shut behind me, my weapons always in reach. They hadn’t frisked me. Either they didn’t view me as a threat, or they were naïve enough to believe I wasn’t carrying. I don’t know which disturbed me more, that they thought me irrelevant or they were careless. Careless people tend not to last long in the Novisarium, it’s the sort of place that punishes mistakes.
“No drinks?” I asked. “Nothing alcoholic? Isn’t it customary for a vehicle like this to have a minibar?”
“No,” the tall man grunted, turned his attention to staring out the window, the universal gesture that he wasn’t interested in talking. None of them gave me that impression. I get it, I really do. Idle small talk irritates me. I’d prefer to sit in silence than pretend we gave a shit about each other’s feelings. If I wanted to talk feelings, I’d go sit in a fucking peace circle with all the hippies and sing kumbaya. I was more interested in actions than talking.
“Don’t suppose you can tell me anything about your boss. Or why they’re being so secretive.” Hadn’t they mentioned there was more than one? Now I thought about it, that sounded familiar. I hated dealing with multiple people over the same contract, their interests so very rarely lined up, no matter what they might say otherwise. Still, the gold bars the woman had offered me now fitted nicely in my pockets, so I’d see what they had to offer. Maybe they’d surprise me.
“You’ll see,” the woman said.
More silence, I leaned my head back against the headrest and sighed, crossed my legs. Idly I wondered how many of them I could shoot dead if it came down to it before they reacted. The woman sat across from me, the men to either side. She’d be the obvious target, one through the brain at this range would be fatal, magic or not. The two men would be the harder targets, I’d possibly drop one of them, definitely wound them, though the other would likely have chance to react. The driver would have to stop the car in order to get involved, diverting attention from the road at these speeds to get involved in a duel would be fatal. Not that he showed any lack of skill on the road, but there’s talent and then there’s suicidal decisions that limit your lifespan exponentially.
I wasn’t going to kill them. No money had crossed my palm to do it. Doing something like that for free would be unprofessional. Plus, damn it if I wasn’t intrigued. I wanted to know who this boss of theirs was. Or bosses. It took balls to accost me on the street, which meant someone with power. Conclave, maybe. They weren’t vampires, so that ignored either of the courts. The magical power I’d sensed on them, and either they were the city’s biggest bluffers or there was a lot of it, suggested Shining Council.
Perhaps the best punt of the lot. The Shining Council, the self-styled rulers of magic, the five families to give them their informal title. The Valentines, the Nivendis’, the Belladonnas, the Commodores and the Windemeres. Each of them had their own little corner of the Novisarium. Any magic user in the city not affiliated to the Vigilant belonged to them, they didn’t like independent operators. Bad for business. I can sympathise. If I could bring every assassin in the city under my own umbrella, cultivate the good ones and cull the bad, it would make things truly so much easier. A pipe dream. One organisation is an easier target, one I doubt the Vigilant would be entirely able to ignore. Ah well, as I said. Dreams.
How long did we travel? I didn’t know, simply sat back and closed my eyes, preferred to remain within the comfort of my own thoughts, organising my plans and schemes into one orderly mental pile. What did I need? More assassins. Was it that simple? They had to be good, naturally. Better than good.
What else? Funds, of course. Money, money, money, makes the world go around. Without it, you’re nothing. I had the gold, that’d go a decent way, but the school I set up is haemorrhaging money, it was an idea Matthew Black had and one I chose to steal. Why hire them when you can forge them into your image? Why indeed. The school had yet to repay my investment, with the double-edged blade of my next-best assassins doubling up as teachers, it made for a dip in the funds.
What sort of creatures did I want to go for? If you’ve truly got a desire to kill someone for money, the job will find you, the impulses will take you and there’s going to be no chance of you stopping. I do like a wide variety of hitmen for hire, too much of the same can hurt you. Wynsor Castle had been a werebear, Eric Steele a wizard, Black a vampire. Parvati and Job, they’d been the rarities, a telepathic nagini capable of slithering into her opponent’s heads and the supposedly unkillable corpse-hopper. Variety. Like I said.
Maybe I could come to a deal with the Shining Council, if that’s who I was dealing with. See if they had any young wizards that they wanted rid of, those with a flair
for destruction but not much else. Destruction worked for me, if a hammer could become a scalpel, then it was a valuable tool indeed.
The vehicle jerked to a halt and I opened my eyes, stared at the four wizards around me, gave them all an easy grin. “Are we here?”
The woman gestured at the door with a black-painted thumbnail. “Out! Now!”
“And I was just getting comfortable,” I said. “I’m interested to hear what your boss has to say, you know. I’m getting older, but no less curious for it.” The tall man slid out the car, let me go past and I gave him a grin. “Much appreciated, son.”
“I’m not your damn son.”
“You could be. Lineage is a funny thing. Plus, I do feel a strange sense of disappointment since I met you, so perhaps there’s something in that.”
“You got any kids, old man?”
A few dozen across the ages, I wanted to answer, most of them I wasn’t proud of, yet I didn’t get the chance as the wizard drove his fist into my gut, doubled me over and put me on my knees in an instant. I think maybe he’d been aiming for my testicles, given his comment. I groaned, didn’t want to give too much away, but it’d been a good hit, I had to hand him that.
“Nice punch,” I wheezed, raised my head to meet his gaze. Some say it’s a dangerous game with a wizard, something about knowing someone intimately when you lock eyes and see them as they are, but if he wanted to take a look at me, he was going to suffer the backlash of more years than I can remember of killing. Think about what that does to a human soul. I’m just glad I’m not dying any time soon. “I advise you not to do it again.”
The tall man snickered. “We got told to deliver you, they didn’t specify what sort of shape you had to be in.”
“Tony!” the blond man growled. “Leave him alone. We don’t treat esteemed guests like that.”
“Well I’m glad one of you has some semblance of good manners,” I said, rising to my feet, adjusting the collar of my shirt. “They’re just so lacking in some.”