by Rina Kent
I push the weapon further into the nurse’s neck until I feel her swallow against the metal.
Finally. A reaction. I was starting to wonder if I’m hallucinating and ended up kidnapping a fucking statue.
“I said morphine.”
As if I’m not holding a sharp object to her neck, the nurse turns around to face me so abruptly, I almost slice her throat by accident.
I curse my injury and lack of reflex for not forcing her in her place.
A trickle of blood travels down the translucent pale skin of her neck and soaks the hem of her blouse’s collar, but not an ounce of fear crosses her petite features. If anything, her strikingly huge green eyes look at me with a sense of... acceptance? Numb acceptance. No matter how big her doe eyes are, they show no sign of life. I’m not even sure if she’s seeing me or past me.
What in the bloody hell is this nurse?
The wheels in my mind spring to life despite the haziness. Was she sent to finish the job the traitor couldn’t?
I scan her tiny frame for any bulge of a weapon in her uniform or any movements.
Negative.
If she were an assassin, she wouldn’t have let me surprise her that way. Still, if she isn’t, then she would’ve either fought or tried to run away by now. Fight or flight. That’s human instinct. She didn’t even scream for help.
All she does is stare at me with expectation as if asking me to do something. Whatever the fuck that is.
“Do you understand English?” I waggle the scalpel in her face. “I said morphine.”
“Your temperature is relatively high which means you’re suffering from an infection.” Her feathery, low voice drifts in perfect English, the French accent is hardly noticeable. “You need antibiotics before morphine.”
Another pulse of pain causes me stagger. “Then give me those and give me the bloody morphine.”
She makes no attempt to move. Instead, she continues staring at me, as if I’m not pointing a blade at her.
“Do what you’re told and I’ll leave you in peace,” I hiss. “Or would you rather die?”
Her previously apathetic eyes sparkle with something similar to anticipation, but not quite. Excitement? Thrill?
Fuck me.
Even the craziest killers I had the pleasure to end clung to life when a gun was placed to their heads. Even if they try to hide it, survival instinct always kicked in.
Not Nurse Betty here. She’s completely unfazed by the possibility of death.
What the hell is wrong with this woman’s head?
And why the fuck does the surge of life in those previously-dull eyes transfix me?
She never averts her attention from me. When she does, it’s only to concentrate on the scalpel’s edge. Like maybe if she stares at me hard enough, I’ll fulfil her wish.
I have no time to fulfil anyone’s wish. With the pain shredding my shoulder, I have to make an effort to even breathe. My entire body is drenched in excruciating heat and the taste of nausea is acid to my throat.
Fuck this.
I pull her by the arm until my face is inches away from hers.
She gasps, bright eyes widening, and a slight tremor registers under my stiff, sweaty fingers.
“Give me the fucking meds,” I rasp in my harshest tone, fingers digging into her arm. Nurse Betty here needs to know who she’s dealing with. I hate to threaten innocent people, but this is an emergency and I need to get the fuck out of here.
Something shifts in her expression. Instead of the familiar fear I expected, those eyes fill with pure disappointment. They used to be bright green but turned into the dullest, mossy colour like the colour of a forest after a storm. As if she put all her hopes in me and I let her down.
She points at her cart. “It’s in there.”
“Fetch them.” I release her and narrow my eyes on the outline of her tiny back. Nurse Betty’s movements are automatic. She doesn’t even try to hide her bored expression.
A commotion outside rips my gaze from her. I catch muffled words about why the nurse is late and if they should check. Police. Just what I bloody needed.
I snatch the bag of meds from her hands.
“You have to eat first.” Nurse Betty doesn’t pay attention to the conversation filtering through the door. Either she doesn’t hear them or she doesn’t care.
Considering how fucking weird she is, my bet is on the second.
I half jog to the window and look at the ground below. I can jump to the next floor and climb down from there.
Nurse Betty’s voice filters from behind me. “It’s the third storey.”
Didn’t stop me before. At least this time, it’s a bad shoulder, not an injured leg.
The commotion gets near. Dizziness threatens me again. I shake my head and yank the hospital sheet then use it to strap the meds to my middle. I swing my leg over the edge and hold onto the window’s frame with my hands. I grit my teeth when my entire weight is pulled by my arms. Pain rips through my hurt side and the bandages soak in red. A rush of blood to my head almost blacks me out.
A bitch. Gunshots are always a bitch.
Nurse Betty’s tiny face peeks from the window. A slight spookiness mars what used to be impassive features. Her rosy lips part in a perfect O. She’s so fucking beautiful – which is a weird thought to have while clinging on the edge of death.
But I live for weird.
“You’ll fall,” she whispers as if a louder voice will actually cause my descent to hell.
“Not the first time, Nurse Betty.”
Her nose scrunches as if she smelled something foul. The change in those soft features is the last sight before I swing my legs and kick the second storey’s window. The glass crashes, shattering all around me.
Broken glass slashes into my shins and back as I roll onto the room’s floor.
That fucking hurts.
But not as much as the gutting pain in my shoulder. Blood is dripping down my wrist and arm from the soaked bandage.
Gasps and cries fill the room of patients as I dash through the door and into the fire escape. I use all the energy I have left to boot myself out of the hospital before the police find me.
I need to collapse somewhere. Give my injury a little time to heal. Then, I’m going after the fucking traitor who almost got me killed.
A little time to heal is an understatement.
Three days later and the burn in my wound won’t go the fuck away. As if the bullet is still lodged inside.
The injury reduced me to a bloody cripple, unable to go far.
I lie on my back in the old motel that I managed to drag myself into. I sneaked back here late at night because I already rented the room before my mission.
The dusty fan buzzes in the ceiling. Its crooked blades resemble a dying bug’s wings.
My gaze drifts to the nightstand. The meds are almost done. I only have one more shot of morphine. I’m saving it for desperate times.
As much as I want more morphine, it’s impossible to go anywhere.
A description of me is plastered in the local newspapers that I managed to steal from the tenant next door. Which means I’m tied to this town until I’m smuggled back to England.
I can’t even stay in this motel for long. Besides the filth that I’m sure is making my injury worse, someone is bound to notice and report me to the police. Issues of small towns and a foreign man with a funny French accent.
The French always make out the accent. Not that they do better in English, anyway.
Except for Nurse Betty. She spoke nearly perfect English.
But that petite thing was fucking weird on way too many levels.
Movement catches in my peripheral vision. I grab my gun and jump up.
Adrenaline rushes through my limbs, camouflaging the pain.
I stalk to the figure moving behind the curtains. If the traitor has come to finish his job, then he’s in for a fucking ride.
I slowly push the thick curtains away, pointing
my gun ahead.
Instead of a traitor, I find a white fluffy feline. The cat stares at me with pitiful eyes and meows. He must be hungry.
I loosen my hold on the trigger.
Careful not to strain my shoulder, I rummage in the takeout on the coffee table and retrieve the ham. I hold it in my hand and offer it to the cat. He eats with a satisfied purr. He even lets me pet him.
I barely remember anything about my life before The Pit, but I recall an orange cat. My companion on the streets.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. The cat jumps from the window after he finishes eating.
Not even a thank you.
Fucking ungrateful cats.
I lie back on the bed and check my phone. A blocked number.
About time.
“Get me the fuck out of this town,” I bark as soon as I answer. “One more day in this boredom and I’ll die before the traitor gets to me.”
A low chuckle filters from the other side. Storm might be one of the few people I’d call a friend, but he’s such an arsehole most of the time. “Are you sure you want to come back after you’ve been shot like a bitch, Crow? The team won’t leave you be.”
I groan. Team Zero will have my arse for getting involved with the police. It’s a fucking disgrace for assassins who make sure to live in the shadows.
“I’ll take the mocking, but I can’t stand one more fucking minute in this filthy humid place.” Movement catches on my right. My head snaps its way as I tighten my hold on the gun. Cockroach. One more addition to the list of endless rubbish. “I’ll die of bloody infection.”
“Okay.” There’s humour in Storm’s voice. The sadistic twat. “I have good news and bad news, mate.”
“Bad news. Shoot.”
“You can’t come back to England yet. Not only did you make quite the ruckus in a peaceful town, but also, due to a recent terror attack in Southern France, the security’s tight. Smuggling will be near impossible for some time.”
Fuck. My fist clenches and unclenches from around the gun’s slide. “How about your contacts? You’re French or some shit.”
“Half French.”
“What-the-fuck-ever. You speak like the natives. So get me out of here.”
“Can’t. Hades’ orders.”
Double fuck.
If Hades orders something, we only have one option: obey.
The alternative is being killed.
Or worse, not getting our dose of the Omega drug whose withdrawal symptoms are much more horrible than death itself.
“The good news?” I ask. Still cradling my gun, I throw a hand over my eyes to stop focusing on the bug-fan.
“You’ll be provided with your Omega doses on a weekly basis. Ghost and I are divided between Paris and Berlin. One of us will be there once your stash runs out. Find a nice place away from the public eye and focus on recovery until further notice.”
“Sure thing, Storm. I’ll take knitting lessons, too.” I sit up in bed. Ache lodges in my torso. I ignore it and clench my fist around the gun. “Fuck that. This mission was supposed to be a clean hit. Kill the target and retreat. Except there was no target at the designated place and I ended up being shot. If I didn’t duck, I would’ve been dead meat. If civilians didn’t somehow go to the beach that late, I would’ve been hunted like a fucking animal. Someone is betraying The Pit and I need to find the bastard.”
“Hades knows. He already assigned me to look into this. Ghost, too.” Storm takes a sharp inhale – of his cigarette, no doubt. “The rest of Team Zero is busy trying to catch those Rhodes cunts. Their guards grew like moss on trees and it’s becoming impossible to go near them.”
The Rhodes, three arseholes of the second generation who somehow managed to escape The Pit. I smile. I can’t help feeling proud. I was their trainer after all. Good to see my creations being little fucking rebels. Though we’ll get them, sooner or later.
“Hades is getting... impatient,” Storm continues. “He wants them taken care of.”
“He needs to set an example.” Otherwise, other assassins will continue to drift. Hades can control Team Zero’s loyalty through Omega, but it was abandoned after us. The second generation, The Rhodes’ generation, was acquired through kidnapping while they were children to assure better loyalty. If they’re raised as spawns of hell under Hades’ rule, they’re bound to become demons who serve Hades for eternity.
The Rhodes revoked that belief.
“Just stay low,” Storm says. “Leave no traces behind. No one suspects you and lives to tell tales about it. Hades’ orders.”
Translation: no fucking negotiations.
But what Hades doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
I’ll find the traitor and take his or her head back to Hades’ gates of hell.
After I hang up, I pull the duffel bag from under the bed.
Seven shots of Omega — my stash for the week — stare at me. It’d be easier to get rid of them now since no one is at my back. Withdrawal symptoms still cause me to stay up all night writhing in pain, but I’m done living on a borrowed existence.
I don’t need a fucking drug to ensure my loyalty to The Pit. I have no other place to belong to.
That’s why I have to catch the traitor who’s threatening it.
Then, maybe I’ll convince Storm and the rest of Team Zero to detox from Omega, too. The only reason why I haven’t done that already is because Hades watches our every move like a hawk. I also didn’t know whether the withdrawal itself would kill me.
I’m not dead.
Yet.
Which means the traitor should be fucking scared.
A smirk pulls my lips. The promise of a hunt causes excitement to rush through my veins.
Here I fucking come.
But first, I need a safe place to stay.
The safest place in this godforsaken town is some gothic mansion at the top of a hill that looks as old as the queen.
It took me an hour and a half navigating the forest to reach the damn place. I even followed the instructions on the site. It would’ve taken me countless hours otherwise.
On the bright side, if someone’s after me, they will struggle to find me.
Perfect.
I kill the engine of my bike and park it near a tree behind the house. My wound still burns, and I clutch my shoulder while descending.
Now, I have to convince the landlord or lady to accept me.
I remove my helmet and dust off my leather jacket and black trousers. I’ll be a tourist who’s in love with Southern France.
While adjusting my clothes, I mentally practice my rusty French. The French don’t like being spoken to in any language other than their own, and I’m supposed to come off nice.
I glance down at my boots and black clothes. Well, as nice as affordable.
Movement in the first floor’s window catches my attention.
A figure dressed in white stands there unmoving. I would’ve thought it was a fucking spirit if I believed in anything other than Hades’ hell.
Using the trees as camouflage, I approach the mansion. The figure still staring in the distance becomes clearer.
She stands on the thin line between ghost and angel, and couldn’t look any more beautiful.
I would recognise that face anywhere. She crossed my mind more than once since the hospital.
Nurse fucking Betty.
She must’ve seen me but is pretending to focus elsewhere. One call to the police and I’ll be done for.
I can’t allow that, now can I?
It’d be a waste to extinguish the tiny spark of life lurking in those doe eyes, but leaving no traces behind is Hades’ number one rule.
4
Eloise
Something is out there.
I glue my face to the blurry glass, trying to decipher the shadow I swear I just saw lurking amongst the trees.
Nothing but bright green leaves fill my vision.
Dread perches on my chest like a defibrillator.
>
Am I starting to imagine things? Perhaps I should check myself into a mental institute. My shrink is surely not doing a good job at making me feel normal.
A small voice inside me is saying that I should be the one to work towards feeling normal. But like any sense of logic, numbness suffocates it into a dark abyss.
I leave the haunted window and go to my jar. I retrieve a piece of paper and write, ‘I just saw a shadow that turned out to be nothing. If it happens again, I will admit I’m insane.’ Then, I retreat to my dim-lit room. Charlotte hops from her bed at the reception area and trots on my heels with those small legs as if running for a treat.
She’s probably the only reason I’ve remained a bit sane.
I gather her in my arms, kiss her head, and throw myself on the high-platform bed which creaks in protest.
It’s already ten in the morning. I need to sleep before tonight’s shift.
I toss and turn for more than half an hour, counting the minutes with the red neon numbers of the digital clock on the nightstand.
Of course, sleep won’t bestow me with its presence. Even when it does, I wake up a lot more tired than before.
An endless empty cycle.
I retrieve my phone from the nightstand and check the announcement I’ve put on the renting site. I’ve had some interest, but once I started describing the routes to get to my house, the interest faded into thin air.
Only one person scheduled to come over, but that was more than a few hours ago. No one had shown up.
I sigh, tossing the phone away. What will I do now? At this rate, Papa’s house will be gone in a matter of months.
It’s not an option to sit around and do nothing. I might have little to no value for my own existence, but this house is different. It existed for two generations before me. I won’t let the bank’s nasty hands rip it apart.
I could work double shifts. It’s not like I sleep anyway. I only limited myself to one shift because I had to take care of Maman.
Now, I have to take care of our ancestral home.
Charlotte leaves her cushion at the foot of the bed and snuggles beside me, slapping wet licks on my face and neck. It’s like she’s feeling my internal thoughts.