Collateral Damage

by Steve Beaulieu

  Cara slunk around a corner and waited for the men to do their duties, the screaming of terrified children driving sharp nails of regret into her heart. She hadn’t come fast enough.She could have tried.She should have warned Father Olon about waging war in a place so impoverished. The citizens didn’t care who their master was so long as they were fed. A voice spoke to her, one of a dead woman, one that would never forgive Cara for becoming the enemy.

  Traitor! You let him hunt the same doorways in which I was slain!

  “What else could I do? Starve to death, or maybe become one of those women who sell the most precious thing about themselves beneath a red light? So what if I’ve stolen?So what if I’ve fought the authorities? So what if I’ve killed? I did it to stay alive. You were gone. Or would you rather I died that night too?” Her reply was low and harsh, a futile attempt at silencing her long-lost mother.

  She felt the rain falling only after her cloak had already been soaked through. Cara made her way back to her apartment—one paid for in blood and broken bones. She unlocked the door and shed her clothes. It was only days before her twentieth birthday, a decade since she was one of those wailing orphans. She stood in only her underwear looking out over the city.It was dark and appeared calm but she knew just across town, a bloodbath was being cleaned up and a message had already been sent to the men in the dark blue uniforms—those with unblinking eyes.

  Every single night child was to blame. Hunt them all down like dogs until they’re left with still hearts and maggots in their eyes.

  Her gaze turned eastward to the obsidian building towering above the rest, the Altars of Night, Father Olon’s domain. Cara could feel the pull of his presence just looking at the great black tower. She knew at that moment he enjoyed the luxury of finalizing his plans for his annual masquerade ball, completely uncaring of who lived or died in the poor side of the metropolis. The hate she felt burning in her heart was one that had been nurtured to grow by her master’s monstrous behavior and by coming to the realization that the man who took her in was also the man who took everything from her. Cara no longer cared that it was by his hand she still lived, a reality she struggled with for years. His time had come. His death warrant had been sealed in her mind the moment he sent his dogs to hunt such sacred ground, a place of ghosts to her. It was the graveyard in which she should have been buried long ago.

  Cara sat in her bed, surrounded by the gloom of dawn’s grey light.Sleep had evaded her once more and her mouth was dry. She was an assassin by trade, death her only true companion for most of her life. She rubbed her eyes and attempted to keep her internal resume at bay, yet it came, hard and fast, pointing its finger and calling her a hypocrite, reminding her she was a murderer. Cara cared nothing for that internal voice of fear which grew in its intensity by the day, it wouldn’t stay her hand anymore, not after the desecration she witnessed. A second voice had emerged, one from her childhood, it came with a vengeance to drown out her self-doubt.

  You know the answer, what must be done…

  Her mother was an innocent woman in life, but in death, she became a thing so hungry for vengeance it nearly split Cara’s skull with its demands.

  “The night children need a mother, not a father.” She whispered to herself, feeling her matronly tormentor receding, eager to witness Cara’s true brutality.

  • • •

  Father Olon sat in an elaborate throne constructed of steel in the shape of swarming demons. He ruled the metropolis with a bloody fist, rarely did anyone challenge him or his children.Those who did often found themselves bleeding out in some dark alley. He lived an existence of dark luxuries with an army of trained killers at his command. His mind went to his daughter Cara, her growing distaste for the way he handled business carried on the wind as it was whispered from trembling lips to anxious ear amongst the young ones.

  “Father, your guest has arrived,” a servant said.

  “I’ll be along in a moment,” Father Olon answered.

  Cara made his blood boil. She was no better than he, her adoptive father. He stood before an enormous mirror to adjust the black stole and robes he wore. The Father of Darkness had witnessed her ferocity, a heartless killer she was. He sneered at his reflection, remembering her christening day.

  The blood of a shadow sister drenched her as she recited her vows to remain faithful to Olon, to obey his every command. In her gaze, he saw nothing, no remorse, no pity. She was everything he could ask for in a child. Her loyalty needed no contract, or so he thought…

  “Why has your heart grown so suddenly, daughter?” he puzzled to himself.

  His guest was seated in a great library, filled with tomes of the supernatural, books of spells and endless pages of incantations. There he kept his one true weapon, the Tome of Life.Any soul who signed it in their blood would be bound to Father Olon forever.

  “I was told I have a job, Father?” The girl turned her scarred face up to Olon. The fingerprint of the house fire would never leave her.She might have been considered beautiful if it weren’t for the scar tissue consuming half of her body.

  “You do, one that will prove yourself to be a loyal daughter.”

  “What task do you have for me?” Bailan asked.

  “The shadow sister, I want her dead.”

  Bailan hesitated but tried to keep herself composed. “Cara?”

  “Does the job seem out of your expertise?” he asked expectantly.

  “No, Father,” she answered, bringing a gloved hand up to brush her hair from her eyes.

  The shadow sister was acclaimed to be Father Olon’s greatest mercenary, her hands had spilled the blood of countless men before she had seen fifteen years. Her reputation more than preceded her. She was soulless, many claimed—absolutely remorseless. Bailan wondered as to what sacred law her superior had broken to be marked for death, but then she recalled the fate of Gertrude which marked Cara’s ascension in rank.

  “My word is absolute law.Any who wish to be among my flock aren’t allowed disobedience,” he said, partially answering the questions running through the novice’s mind.

  “I can feel her turning against me with every sidelong glance,” he continued as he poured himself a glass of scotch. “She covets my throne.”

  “I will handle it,” Bailan said, her voice was steady yet her insides trembled.

  “That’s a good girl.” Father Olon smiled.

  • • •

  Cara expected someone to come for her.After she refused to be the death bringer in the ghetto, it was inevitable. She assumed her very position as his right-hand child after slaughtering her own superior. The old man wasn’t above sending a night child to silence her. She wasn’t sure where the dreams of dethroning Olon truly came from, only that her mother’s voice wouldn’t be silent since he laid out his plans for her former home and its residents. She grew tired of his overbearing ways and one morning awoke to the thoughts of her sitting on the Throne of Spirits and ruling an empire greater than his could ever become.

  Cara didn’t see herself as a good guy in the scheme of things. She didn’t plan on spreading Father Olon’s wealth amongst the needy, or building shelters for the homeless. She wanted to rule the Altars of Night in her own way, to reclaim herself before she became nothing more than a blood slick blade in his hand.

  She slipped into the night, a sister to the growing darkness, a hunter looking for blood. Cara wore her weapon belt affixed with blades and donned a black cloak. On her waist, she hung her pistols, but would only use them once her presence was detected. The masquerade would soon be underway and she sought one last dance with her master before driving a shaft of cold steel through his heart.

  The citizens of the metropolis knew better than to be on the streets after sundown, the time of the night children. The men donning the midnight blue suits and silver badges patrolled in cars with darkened windows.They brought fear to the hearts of the ordinary folk just as much as the did Father Olon and his children. They cowered in their homes
, fearing the twisted priest of the Altars of Night would send his flock to ravage them and that the police were just as hungry for blood. The ghettos became nothing more than slave camps, the masters changing with each war for territory. Hope had become nothing more than a dream to the people, a fantasy so unattainable that it died only in infancy. What little joy they experienced was always darkened by the shadow of Olon’s enormous tower and the daily loss they experienced. Cara didn’t plan on becoming their masked vigilante or to avenge every soul living within the metropolis, only her own.

  The Altars of Night was crowded, its great doors flung open and buzzing with the excited chatter of the wealthiest of the metropolis. Father Olon liked to rub elbows with the elite of the city and once a year threw a masquerade ball in their honor. The food and drink was something the average citizen would never experience as long as they lived. Such decadence the father bestowed upon those who kept him residing in the dark tower with their shady business dealings and bribery. He pretended to be a man of faith, a transporter of fine art, the head of a grand exportation business.All of those titles he flaunted when in reality he was a thief, a liar, and a murderer. The few who knew the truth never had the nerve or firepower to reveal it.Even the chief of police stayed his hand each time it came to pointing a finger at Father Olon, perpetuating the secret war for the streets. Cara had witnessed the Father in action and knew why no one dared to step out of the dark and call him out.He had power.Power that went beyond the natural world, a link to old gods of blood and death. Her hand trembled as she approached the party, her instincts went on full alert. It would be her last night as the daughter of shadows—whether that meant her ascension or her demise was yet to be seen.

  • • •

  Father Olon casually stood beside a bar in the grand reception hall located just inside the black tower. He smiled, watching Bailan as she made her way through the crowd. She would become his new huntress, as stealthy as a cat and as deadly as a striking viper. He ran his hands down his elaborate robes of fine black silkand took a step in her direction. She wore a dress of blood red velvet, and a face mask of the same color concealed her marred beauty. Her dark hair was knotted in a bun at the back of her head with a few stray tendrils framing her face. He presented his hand and she took it. She wore black velvet gloves, a nice touch that appeared as only a feminine accessory yet he knew she did it to cover the telltale scars spider webbing over her pale skin. She was burned badly as a child—pulled from a tangle of smoldering corpses when she was only seven years old. The burns were so severe the doctors never thought she’d regain the use of her hands.That night was all foggy memories.Only the stench of charred flesh and a shadow wrenching her to safety were all that remained of that tragic night. After her tutelage in the dark tower, Father Olon employed the use of dark magic and her dexterity came back three fold.But there was a price for such gifts.

  Bailan was dainty yet strong and moved in absolute silence, she was a killing machine. Father Olon pulled her into his arms as music began to play. The entire ballroom of patrons began to dance, a sea of whispers and masked faces. It would have felt magical for an average attendant but she was there out of duty.

  “Is she here?” she whispered to him.

  “Undoubtedly,” he answered.

  “I’ll make my rounds, Father,” she said.

  He nodded and slowly released her to her work. Father Olon dressed as a priest, though most whispered rumors behind his back how unholy he was. His great tower was crafted in the image of age-old sanctuaries, yet with a wickedness instilled in each stone and malevolence in the mortar holding it together. He studied the darkness of many religions, mythologies, and cultures, incorporating them all into his own faith, one of greed and death. His true power came from the Tome of Life, hidden in his library there in the Altars of Night.

  • • •

  The book was bound in the flesh of an oracle and inked in the blood of any seeking the fortunes it had the power to grant, yet the cost was becoming a servant to the master of the book, Father Olon. The Tome of Life kept most of the city at his feet. The book had its rules.Those who enter into the contract must do so willingly, and from the day of signing, they would be bound to whoever possessed the ancient book until death took them. Cara wanted to claim it for her own but that meant killing the man who spared her life.

  Life? I would call it servitude or more like becoming a destruction machine.

  Cara stuck to the shadows of the building and crept around the side of theAltars of Night to a heavy wooden door. She picked the lock and made her way down a dusty staircase to the crypts. Those catacombs would lead her to the heart of the tower. Her heart memorized all its hidden passages over the years of roaming its halls as a child, learning her way in her new existence. Sister Gertrude, her former teacher, taught her the ways of the blade and taking lives. Cara grew superior to the other girls her age and when it was her time to replace Gertrude, the old woman knelt solemnly before her in supplication, awaiting the killing blow in those same musty walkways. She was placed amongst the skeletons there, paying tribute to the sacrifices she made for Father Olon, but not before her lifeless corpse was drained of its blood, a bath to mark her replacement as superior to all. Cara’s memories of Gertrude brought back the realization that she too would kneel before her predecessor one day. Bailan came to her mind. In that moment, like some glimpse into the future, Cara realized the reason why Father Olon seemed so calm amidst the torrent of rumors. He had already given the order. A soft hiss, a blade being unsheathed, caught her ear and Cara rolled to her left. A clanking rang out in the black corridor of the catacombs of the Altars of Night, a spent dagger hitting the cobbled floor.

  “My blood won’t erase those scars,” Cara said.

  “You’ve been marked, Cara. Your time has come.”

  “Not my time.His.”

  Bailan stepped into the side corridor to find Cara standing firm, the sister of shadows refused to flee.

  “Your anger springs from the same well as mine,” Cara said.

  “Who do you think you are? Some kind of hero? After all you’ve done, you’re insane.”

  “I’m not looking to be anyone’s savior but my own.”

  “Savior?” Bailan scoffed.

  In a flick of her wrist, she sent a second dagger sailing toward Cara. The sister of shadows spun and the blade glanced off the wall behind her. She responded by drawing her pistol. Cara wasn’t concerned with making a sound anymore, it was clear Father Olon knew she’d be at the Masquerade ball.

  Bailan froze as she lifted another dagger. Cara stepped forward to backhand the apprentice assassin, knocking the mask from her face, and placed the cold barrel of her gun against Bailan’s scarred forehead.

  “You defend the same man who left you a disfigured orphan. How sane are you?”

  The frigid tip of Bailan’s blade came to rest below Cara’s chin. She could feel it trembling.

  “Let me finish my business here,” Cara demanded.

  “I can’t,” Bailan answered. “My name was signed in blood.”

  Cara couldn’t believe it. “He swore he’d never force the children, that they served him of their free will.”

  “Not the new generation,” Bailan said. “It was how my arm healed so rapidly.”

  “You’re more enslaved than I, forever.You know that, right?”

  “Until I die,” Bailian said softly.

  “Let me finish here.”

  “I can’t.If you fail he’ll suspect me. He’ll make me pay by the book—with my soul.”

  By the book—the way of saying eternal damnation on Earth and pain unending. Cara nodded as far as the blade at her throat allowed.

  “Then you’ll have to try your best to kill me.”

  Bailan’s eyes went emotionless.She was banishing any love she ever felt for Cara, the woman who taught her to do just that before taking a life. The way the girl’s eyes watered made Cara wonder if she too had a voice she couldn’t silence.


  “He took your mother as he did mine,” Cara said.

  She watched the tears roll down the scars on Bailan’s cheek.

  “He’s going to know.”

  “If he dies tonight it won’t matter anymore,” Cara said. “If I possess the Tome, I will have the power of erasing the debt you hold.”

  Bailan’s hand withdrew.She sheathed her blade. “Go!”

  Cara ran through the catacombs.The voice in her own mind began to call for vengeance once more. She wondered how many night children were haunted by what their lives should have been. The sound of ballroom music played softly in the distance, calling her onward to her destiny. She readied herself to kill anyone who might stand in her way, even if it meant her fellow night children.Especially if what Bailan said was true and they too had signed their names in the book of life. The catacombs emptied out into a dark hallway.It climbed upward toward the main walkways of the tower in a semicircular fashion. Cara knew where she would find her master’s tomes and he would be drawn there by her intrusion.She decided to make her stand there. It would make it more of a one on one battle to lure him to protect his treasured book, the key to his power over half of the city, and spare her the act of killing her adopted siblings unless the master called for them.