by A Clarkson
Ira tried to bring Clarisse and Bill a basket whenever she got the chance. In some ways it was a nonverbal thankyou for the years of support they gave her. Ira snorted at the reality that they had come almost full circle, it was an apple Ira had been trying to snatch that day Bill found her in the market all those years ago.
Standing at the gate, Ira took a deep breath to prepare herself for the lecture that was to come. Clarisse did this every few months. She would badger Ira about needing to talk about this and that, and eventually Ira would consent to sitting down and hearing what Clarisse had to say. More often than not it was a lecture on safety and being more careful. Clarisse wasn’t a big fan of Ira’s job out in the fields, thinking Ira could do better in a safer position in the city. But as much as Ira hated the slugs, she loved being outside, and couldn’t imagine working all day cooped up in some office, or working security in the palace.
If she was honest with herself, Ira knew that the fields were one of the few places she relaxed these days. The other was when she was hunting in the rugged bushland beyond Valvera.
Ira loved the calm and quiet of being outside. The peace and relief she felt when she was beyond the flashing lights of this feral city.
Ira noted as she made her way up the path that the cottage’s chimney was cold. Had she missed them? Clarisse was a cold-blooded woman who never left the fire unlit when she was home. Perhaps the older woman grew sick of waiting for Ira and headed over to intercept her as she had last night. Well that would be fine too, she could leave the fruit and run back home. They would cross paths eventually.
Her thoughts ground to a halt when she opened the door and saw the blood streak on the tiled floor of the small entryway.
Ira helped Bill lay those tiles only last spring, and something had left a large streak of blood across them leading into the house. It looked like something had been dragged.
Ira's breathing increased. Her heart raced. She wasn’t able to process what she was seeing. All she could focus on was the fact that Bill would be very upset to see his tiles ruined. He was so very proud of those tiles. And Ira knew that a blood stain like that would never come out.
In a daze, Ira realised she was now in the lounge. She couldn't remember moving, having instinctively followed the bloody trail.
Bill laid on his side on the floor of the lounge, one bloody hand outstretched, the other trying in vain to hold closed the huge gash that opened his belly.
Ira had been wrong, the blood streak wasn’t caused by dragging, but crawling. Bill had taken this fatal wound the moment he opened the front door, the assailant having shredded his gut in a single blow. Bill then crawled into the lounge, smearing his life blood across the floor. His face was frozen in a grimace of pain, his eyes staring sightlessly toward the kitchen, one arm stretched out as if he had still been pulling himself forward as he took his last breath.
Turning, Ira looked to the kitchen to see what Bill was so desperately trying to reach. There, on the floor of her beloved kitchen, lay Clarisse. Her glassy eyes staring at the rafters above, a look of peace on her face, as if she was at peace when she finally succumbed to death
Her body had been carved up, every inch of her skin cut and burnt. Blood across her arms and legs showed that someone methodically took a knife to her skin, dragging out the kind woman's death until her body could take no more and she finally bled out. The blissful expression, so at odds with the state of her body.
Unable to look any longer at the vacant face of the woman who raised her, Ira looked around, only now noticing that the kitchen had been destroyed. Cupboard doors were ripped from the hinges, and glasses and plates lay smashed across the floor. What looked like the remnants of breakfast was still sitting on the table, having somehow miraculously survived the destruction.
Looking back at the blood pooled on the floor around the body - Ira couldn't bring herself to see this cold form as Clarisse - Ira saw that the blood looked like it had congealed several hours ago.
This happened earlier this morning. Had Ira still been in bed asleep? Was she out delaying her visit in a childish attempt to avoid whatever conversation Clarisse wanted to have? All while the woman was being tortured and bled to death as her husband crawled to her? Unable to save either of them?
Ira felt like she might explode. Her skin felt too tight, her body unable to contain the enormity of the emotions swirling through her body. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see. All she could think was what if she hadn’t been so incredibly immature and selfish? What if she had been here?
Didn’t people always say that you would know if something happened to those you loved? That you would have a sense that something was wrong? Wasn’t Ira supposed to have known they needed her? Why hadn’t she known? Why hadn’t she felt anything?
A noise from the bedroom above jolted Ira out of her stupor. They were still here. The bastards that did this were still in this house. In this home. This sanctuary, that had been desecrated by these monsters when they butchered Clarisse on her own kitchen floor.
How dare they stand in this house for a moment longer. How dare they breathe the air of this house for even another second. This air belonged to Bill and Clarisse and she would carve out the lungs of those who dared to take it from them. Take out their eyes for continuing to even look upon this house for a moment longer.
The pain in her knee long forgotten Ira pivoted on her feet to meet the monsters who took Bill and Clarisse from her.
Standing right behind her, having not made a sound as he approached, stood the hazel-eyed man from the lock. The jaguar among lions.
His arrogant smirk from yesterday was gone and the stern expression he now wore was frightening in its severity, though his eyes were clouded with something that looked very much like sadness. Like grief. Like pity.
"You!" She snarled, her voice ragged.
Before he could move she flipped the wine bottle still gripped in her hand and threw it straight at him. He dodged at the last second, but not far enough, and the bottle collided with the side of his head with a satisfying thunk. He stumbled back before losing his footing and collapsing against the far wall.
Desperately seeking something else to lob at his head, she tore open the fruit basket in search of something with spikes. Her moment of hesitation cost her as someone grabbed her from behind. Giant forearms as thick as her thighs pinned her arms to her sides.
“I will gut you, you stupid sonofabitch!” Ira growled. “I will strip the body off your skin, and carve you to pieces! I will make you wish you had never been born!”
“I am not to blame for these deaths.” The hazel-eyed man said with a calm and quiet voice. Not pacifying, as if trying to soothe, simply softly spoken in a deep timbre as though he had no need to raise his volume. As though he knew he would always be listened to no matter how softly he spoke.
“I will kill every last one of you who even dared to look upon her face!” She barely recognised her own voice; it was so filled with hatred and violence.
“You need to calm yourself.”
Ira saw red. She snapped her head back, hearing a satisfying crack when the back of her head hit cartilage, and slammed her foot down on her attacker's instep. His hold loosened just enough and she dropped her weight, slipping from his arms into a crouch. The basket now again in reach, she snatched the best weapon she could see - a pineapple. Turning on her heel Ira began to bludgeon the man who had been holding her. She was pleased to see that the combination of the fruit’s weight and spikes made it a passable alternative to a morning star, and he was quickly forced to seek shelter.
Turning back to her primary target Ira retrieved the basket of fruit and began to lob each piece at the hazel-eyed man who continued to lean against the wall. She had gotten in a good hit with the wine bottle.
“Ira,” he said desperately as he tried in vain to shield himself from her barrage of juicy projectiles. “You must listen! We did not do this.”
She froze. How did he know
her name? How did he know who she was? Who was this man?
Before she could formulate a response Ira felt a heavy weight on the back of her head and everything went dark.
Chapter 4
The Barge
Ira awoke disoriented and sore. Her head hurt. Her arms hurt. Her knee hurt.
When she tried to open her eyes the light burned, and just made her head pound harder. Trying again, she slowly raised her lids and found she was no less disoriented with her eyes open, than she had with them closed.
She seemed to be in a small room that she didn’t recognise. The walls were dark and made of wood, and the ceiling looked lower than usual, though it was hard to tell from where she lay handcuffed to a low cot in the corner.
Ira had forgotten Bill’s cardinal rule, always keep your opponents in front of you. She turned her back on the big guy and now look where she was.
The room was reasonably dark, though a bright light shone through the doorway into the room beyond.
Her rousing hadn’t gone unnoticed by her captor, and she was quickly joined by the hazel-eyed man. He wore the same burgundy and black uniform that she had seen him in at the lock, his hair tied back with a leather cord.
His visible weapons were gone, though she imagined he wore a concealed knife in one or two places. He simply didn’t strike her as the kind of person who went unarmed very long.
He prowled rather than walked into her room, before placing a small stool at her bedside. Sitting, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, easily within reach if her wrists weren’t restrained.
It felt oddly intimate. She felt exposed and vulnerable. She hated it.
Staring daggers at him to convey her hatred, she silently seethed, plotting the murder of all those who held her prisoner.
He stared at her, and she was once again surprised to see sadness reflected in his hazel eyes.
He sighed and said in his deep, quiet voice, “I did not wish to meet you this way”. She wondered if he ever raised his voice, and suddenly had the irrational desire to make him do it. To hear him yell and curse.
Sneering at him, she responded acerbically, “I’m so sorry to ruin your plans.”
“I hoped to encounter you after seeing you at the lock. Perhaps invite you to dinner.” He sighed again, as though he had been thoroughly put out, though there was a definite twinkle in his eyes and he seemed to be fighting back a smirk.
She was momentarily struck mute. Was he flirting with her?
“You have some nerve!” She seethed. Pushing all of her hatred into him in those words.
“I am sorry for your loss.” His tone was earnest, the words spoken even more softly than his usual quiet volume, as if silently apologising for the insensitivity of his behaviour. “Who were those people to you?”
She didn’t know what to say. Who was this man? To have butchered the two most important people in her life and then offer condolences?! What did he want from her?
“How dare you.” her voice vibrated with anger. “How dare you speak of them. How dare you pretend to care!”
“As I told you before, I did not kill those people, Ira.”
There it was again. Her name. How did he know who she was?
“No? You and your henchmen just happened to be in my parent’s cottage as they lay butchered on the floor?” She didn’t think her voice could be more heavily filled with venom if she tried. “What were you doing there if you are not responsible?”
For the first time he looked shocked. Until now his solemn and somewhat disappointed expression stayed unchanged since he entered the room. Now he seemed confused.
“What do you mean your parents? Those people were not your parents Ira. At least, certainly not your biological parents.”
Ira had never claimed Clarisse and Bill as her parents, and yet at this moment, with their lives so recently lost, and this emptiness in her heart, she would not consider them any other way. They had done their best for Ira, and she loved them. To her, they were the only parents she had ever known.
This man, who murdered them, this man who claimed to know who she was, this man, whoever he was, had no right to question her relationship with Bill and Clarisse.
She owed him nothing, and owed them everything.
His eyes burned with questions, and she could see the confusion and curiosity stamped across his face. Seeming to understand that she would say nothing more on the matter he fisted his hands together between his knees in clear frustration before continuing. It was obviously important to him that she have more information.
“We were at the house for two reasons. Firstly, as I previously mentioned,” he eyed her meaningfully “we know who is responsible for your parent’s murders, and have been tracking him for some time.”
He paused before saying ‘parents’, as though it was a concession he was making against his better judgement. She felt somewhat mollified at his acceptance of Bill and Clarisse’s relationship to her, even if it was made begrudgingly.
A part of her wanted to believe he hadn’t murdered her family. He seemed sincere, and earnest, and in spite of him having clearly kidnapped her, a factor she was still getting her head around, she was inclined to trust this man. Maybe it was the bump on the head.
“The murders started in Caldessa, and we followed them here.”
He paused, running a hand over his face as though unsure how much to tell her. “He appears to be looking for something, and my companions and I are trying to stop him.”
“What is he looking for?”
“That is yet to be determined.”
“Why would he go after Bill and Clarisse? What could they possibly know?”
“That is also yet to be determined.”
Scowling, she considered his words.
“If you do not know what he is searching for, why are you trying to stop him?”
He considered a moment, shame and sadness colouring his eyes. Clearly whatever he was about to share was something that he was not happy about.
“Bill and Clarisse,” he paused a question in his eyes as though wanting her to confirm he had their names correct. She nodded once.
“Bill and Clarisse were his twenty-second and third victims that we know of.” He paused again, as if allowing her to absorb the meaning of his words. Her brain short circuited at the sheer number of deaths on this man’s hands. So much bloodshed. And for what?
“He began his rampage in our home, and has travelled over the land before finally coming here. In this city alone he has murdered a total of four people, your parents being his most recent victims that we know of.”
“Why?” she asked softly. Not even necessarily expecting an answer, but simply needing to give voice to the ache that was forming in her heart.
She hadn’t had time to process the reality of what happened to her parents, and this conversation was making it too real. They were gone. The ache in her chest grew, moving up into her throat and behind her eyes.
No!
She could not break. Not now.
If she did, she wasn’t sure what would happen. What would be left when she broke apart? When she gave in to the rage, and the hurt. When the pain exploded from her chest and consumed her. Would there be anything left?
No. She couldn't allow herself to be swallowed by her grief. She needed to keep it together. Needed to hold it all in until she found who was responsible and made them pay. Made them regret that they ever darkened the doorstep of that little cottage.
She opened her eyes, not having been aware of closing them. The hazel-eyed man sat staring sadly at her as he watched her pack tight the cyclone of emotions and push them down. Burying them deep within her.
When she finally met his stare she once again saw regret flicker in his eyes. In an instant it was replaced with his trademark smirk.
"If you are momentarily satisfied that I was not responsible for the death of your parents, maybe my medic can see to your injuries without suffering threats to his life." H
e raised one arrogant eyebrow in a look that screamed condescension, but his eyes danced with humor.
"Why am I handcuffed?" She ground out between clenched teeth.
This time there was definitely a flash of humour, but his voice remained quiet and calm.
"It seemed prudent. You were convinced I was responsible for those deaths. I’ve never seen someone do so much damage with a fruit basket. I needed to be sure you would hear me out when you woke up, and felt you would not have done so without the restraints."
"And now?"
He rose to his feet.
"Honestly,” he looked her up and down and Ira felt an unwelcome blush rise to her face as he casually lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “I am quite enjoying the view."
His eyes sparkled with mirth as he fought the urge to laugh.
"You bastard! Let me go!" She struggled against the bindings but a sharp pain from her healing knee made her stop.
He frowned at her hiss of pain and moved to leave the room, clearly having no intention of releasing her until his medic saw her.
"Wait!"
He stopped in the doorway, looking back at her over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched in question.
"You said you were at the house for two reasons. What was the second?"
This time he couldn't hold back the pleased smirk as his eyes danced with humour.
"I was following you."
Having dropped that small bomb he left the room. Leaving Ira to reel in the knowledge that this man, whoever he was, knew something about her, knew her name, and was following her? And kidnapped her?
Her confidence in his innocence dimmed somewhat.
Despite everything he said, he knocked her out, took her somewhere, and tied her up. What innocent person would do that? He also knew things about her, at least he knew her name. What else did he know?
Ira felt like there was more to this than she knew.
Could she trust what he told her? Were there more victims? And even if there were, what was to say he and his men weren't responsible? Both Flor and Pete said these men were trouble. Hired killers that she needed to keep her distance from.