Silent Night

by Emma Couette

  “Where are we?” I ask as he pulls out a key and unlocks the door.

  He smiles as he pushes it open. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  His room is beautiful. A chest of drawers stands against one wall, a weapon rack hangs on another, but my eyes are inevitably drawn to his four-poster bed. His bed, in his room.

  I'm standing in his room, alone, with him.

  Suddenly, I'm nervous, but then he takes my arm and I look at him and it all falls away. He’s beautiful and I want this more than anything. It's the first time I think the assassin might be gone.

  I smile at him and it seems to be all the invitation he needs. He leads us over to the bed, but slowly, giving me time to change my mind if I want. This is why he's so amazing.

  We reach the edge of the bed and he stops, wrapping his arms around me. "If... If you want to stop, just say the word. I would never force you into..."

  "Jax," I breathe, "all I want is you." Then, I kiss him and push him lightly so we both fall back on the bed.

  "Silent..." He warns.

  "I trust you," I say and I do and it doesn't scare me. Then he's kissing me and nothing else matters but him and this and us.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  His hands run through my hair and my head spins.

  I kiss him harder and reach for his shirt.

  He doesn't flinch, just holds me tighter.

  I help him out of it and my heart skips several beats as I separate from him long enough to stare at his muscled chest.

  He kisses my forehead and I brush my fingers across his abs. The thin hairs on his chest stand on end at my touch and I run my hand across the goose bumps that arise.

  Then I slide my hand around his bare back, feeling every muscle as I go.

  “You’re…” I start, but he presses a finger to my lips.

  “No talking,” he mumbles.

  I close my eyes as he kisses me again, faster, stronger...

  I forget what life was like before this, before him, before a love so amazing I don't know what to do with it. I just know I need more.

  Then his fingers brush my stomach as he reaches for my shirt and starts to lift it up.

  Only then do I snap to my senses.

  I try to grab his arms, but it's too late; he's already seen a hint of black.

  Before I can protest, he pulls my shirt off the rest of the way.

  He doesn't look at my body—I mean, he does, but not the way a guy usually would—he just stares at the countless names inking my chest, back, and arms.

  "What the hell, Silent?" He reads a couple of them, tracing his finger along the letters and I shiver.

  I want to curl up in a little ball and die of shame.

  "Are these..." he says. "Oh God, are these the names of the people you've killed?"

  I hang my head down as I reply, "Every last one."

  "God, Silent, there are so many."

  I nod, tears running down my cheeks. "I ran out of room. The latest one had to go on my leg." I pull up my pant leg to reveal the name “Lincoln McColl” scrawled in black just above my ankle bone.

  He’s quiet a minute before he says, "Why?"

  "Why?" I repeat. "Because I didn't want to kill any of them. I didn't want to be a killer, I hated it. I regretted everything I did, but I knew I could never take it back."

  "If you hated it so much, why didn't you leave?"

  I laugh sadly. "You don't just leave the Assassin's Guild, not unless you have a death wish. I couldn't refuse to kill, but I could remember the people whose lives I'd ended. I could remember the horrible deeds I'd done. I could become the bearer of all that pain."

  "I'm sorry," he whispers.

  "For what? It's not your fault."

  "I'm sorry you had to become a killer to survive, I'm sorry your life sucked."

  I laugh again. "Thanks, I guess."

  He wipes a tear off of my cheek. "You don't have to be ashamed. We all do what we must to survive."

  I give him a small smile he returns.

  "So this is why you always wear a long sleeve shirt," he says.

  I nod. "I couldn't show any of the other assassins my true nature, and when I came here... Well, I didn't think you people would appreciate me walking around tattooed with some of your members’ names."

  I look at him, but he is still, his finger frozen on my shoulder.

  "What is it?"

  "This Molly," he says, his voice wavering. "What... What was her last name? The lettering is smudged."

  I don't wonder at his voice or ask myself why he wants to know, I just answer immediately with, "Forrester. Her name was Molly Forrester."

  His hand falls down into his lap and he closes his eyes in apparent pain.

  "What's wrong?" I ask, alarmed. It doesn't occur to me that I will not want to know the answer.

  He takes a deep breath and says, "She was my mother."

  My heart shatters into a million pieces.

  Forrester. Molly Forrester...

  "Oh God," I whisper.

  My thoughts race as I comb back through my memories to see how she died. Had it been quick and painless, or had I been ordered to make her suffer? I hope it is the former. I hope to give Jax some peace of mind, but what can I say to fix this?

  I killed his mother.

  Then the memories of that night come back to me. I had climbed through her bedroom window around three in the morning and slit her throat while she slept. Quick and nearly painless then.

  I start to tell Jax that, but then I remember something else: the squeak of a floorboard behind me as I tried to escape back through the window. I turned, and there in the doorway stood a boy about my age.

  "It was you," I breathe. "You saw me that night. Why didn't you say anything?"

  He looks up at me. "I didn't report you because you looked so scared when you saw me. I told the Resistance agents the next day that I hadn't heard a thing."

  It’s the same reason I didn't tell the Charger about being seen. The boy, Jax, had looked terrified.

  "The agents said it was Silent Night, but I didn't believe them. Silent Night would never get caught."

  That was the first time I did. Lincoln McColl was the second.

  “So...so you knew,” I say.

  “Knew what?”

  “You knew it was me that killed your mother. They told you it was me. Why didn’t you say anything when I first came here? Why…” I’m blinking back tears.

  “Even the Resistance makes mistakes,” he replies. “There was a chance they were wrong, so I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, tried to be a good person.”

  “But you saw me that night.”

  “That was a long time ago, Silent. It was dark and your hair was longer back then. How was I supposed to match the face of a child to the woman I met last month? You think I wanted to believe it was you?” He pauses. “Maybe at first I did. That was why I was so cold, but then I got to know you, started falling for those blue eyes and that fiery personality and I… I kept praying it wasn’t you, that you hadn’t done it, but now..." He's crying and a single tear falls down my face.

  "I'm so sorry," I whisper, though I know it is inadequate.

  "Sorry doesn't cut it, Silent,” he snaps. “You killed my mother!"

  His tone stabs me. "Well, what else do you want me to say? I killed a lot of mothers, fathers too. What do you want me to do? I can't bring them back."

  He doesn't say anything to that and we sit in silence.

  Then he says, "I think you should go."

  "With pleasure," I reply, standing up and stalking to the door.

  "Take your shirt." He throws it at me.

  I catch it and say, "Whatever."

  I leave the room and storm down the halls, not bothering to put my shirt back on. What do I care if someone sees me now? They judge me for a second and I'll slit their throats.

  When I finally get to my room, I slam the door behind me so hard, the walls shake. I grab a blanket off o
f my bed, crumple it into a ball, and scream into it. I was so stupid, so stupid to think our relationship was a good idea.

  I throw the blanket at the wall, but it doesn’t satisfy, so I throw a pair of boots instead. They leave gouges in their wake. Then I pick up the blanket and rip it in half; fabric flies everywhere, but it isn’t enough, isn’t nearly enough to numb the pain.

  I go to the closet and grab one of the bottles of alcohol Bast asked me to hide for him a week ago. I pop the cork with a knife and take a long drink.

  Not enough. Not enough.

  I take another sip and then throw more things at the walls, counting the fresh dents as I go.

  Three. Four... Seven. Eight. Nine...

  I keep drinking as I tear through my room like a hurricane. When I finish the first bottle, I chuck it at the wall as well and reach for another. I wait for it to take me away from the pain.

  Finally, the room starts to get hazy and I stumble as I walk.

  A few more swigs and then the current bottle slips from my hand. It smashes on the floor, glass flying in all directions.

  I make it a few more steps before I collapse.

  What are you trying to forget? I ask myself before the darkness takes over.

  I don’t know, I reply.

  Then I think I smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “Well, I have to say, Night; this is low, even for you.”

  I groan, but don’t look up. “What time is it?”

  She answers with another question. “What did you do to your room, or more importantly, why?”

  I shrug and grab for the shirt beside my hand. I hadn’t managed to put it on last night after what happened. “I was angry,” I reply, “and slightly drunk.”

  Blake raises an eyebrow. “You don’t say?”

  I pull on my shirt and stand up. The room sways a little, but I can take it.

  “What happened, Night?” She sounds genuinely worried.

  I sigh. “It’s over between Jax and I. The Assassin’s Guild always ruins everything.” There is an edge to my voice and I want to throw something again.

  Her eyes are wide. “What? Why?”

  “We found out that I killed his mother.”

  Blake’s expression goes from shock to sorrow.

  I put my face in my hands. “God, I killed his mother. Why did it have to be his mother? Why did I think for a second that I could have a normal relationship with normal people without the Guild getting in my way?”

  I kick the bed frame in my fury with my good leg and pain shoots through my foot, but I don’t care. The one person I care enough about to want a future doesn’t want me anymore.

  I want to cry again, but I am done being weak.

  I walk toward the door. “Let’s go do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Anything to help forget the pain.”

  “How about breakfast to start,” she suggests, “because I’m sure that hangover is going to hit you any minute now. How much did you drink?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  She shakes her head and says, “You’re worse than Bast. Come on, let’s get you fed.” She grabs me by the elbow. I don’t protest as she drags me out of the door and down the hall towards the cafeteria. I don’t look back.

  Sure enough, Blake is right. I've only just sat down when a wave of nausea crashes through me. I put a hand to my mouth and lean forward in my seat, my other hand clutching my stomach.

  I will not puke in front of all of these people. I will not.

  My head starts to pound and I groan, despite myself. Drinking had been a terrible idea and I know I won't do it again for a long time, if ever.

  I take a few sips of water from the glass in front of me and grimace.

  From his spot across the table, Bast says, "A little hung-over, are we?"

  How does he notice these things?

  I shoot him a glare. "Wipe that smirk off your face, Bast, or I'll do it for you, with a switchblade."

  He laughs. "Oooooo feisty!"

  I don't reply. The nausea has pulled me under again. I start rocking slowly back and forth in my seat. My head feels like someone is beating it with a cinder block. I can still feel Bast watching me, Blake too.

  "Man, you look awful, Night," he says, his voice concerned this time. He eyes my dishevelled hair and swollen, red eyes. "What happened?"

  "None of your business," I snap.

  He looks at Blake.

  She holds up her hands. "Don't look at me. It's not my story to tell." She turns to me. "You should eat something."

  I don't look up as I say, "I'm not hungry."

  "It'll help."

  "I don't want to eat!" I snap.

  She flinches at my tone, but says nothing, striking up a conversation with Bast instead. I don't listen.

  She is right. I should eat. It will get rid of the headache, but it isn't that pain I am worried about, it’s everything else.

  I am awakened from my brooding a few minutes later when Bast exclaims, "There he is, the man, the legend himself!"

  I look up and follow his gaze, though I know who he is talking about. Ajax has entered the room. Fresh pain pierces my heart at the sight of him. He looks the same as he always does, so either he feels nothing at all after what happened or he is great at masking the pain. I don't want to know the answer.

  "Jax!" Bast calls out to him.

  I shift in my seat.

  Blake shoots Bast a warning look he doesn't catch.

  "Jax, over here!"

  I have to leave before Jax hears, before he comes over to the table. I can't face him right now, not like this. Maybe not ever again.

  I stand abruptly and sway a little on my feet as the blood rushes to my head. I almost vomit, but hold it back as I say, "I'll see you guys later." I turn my back on the table and begin stalking away.

  "Night! Wait!" Bast calls after me. "Where are you going?"

  I ignore him and walk faster. When I am safely outside the cafeteria walls, I begin to run. Fast as possible, I put as much distance between myself and Jax as I can. My headache and injured leg protest wildly.

  I vomit in the garbage can as soon as I reach my room and then I finally allow myself to cry again.

  I’m still lying on my bed forty minutes later, bemoaning my Guild-forsaken life. I need to do something to get my mind off of him. He who shall not be named. I need...

  Guild, I need a good fight. I need to feel the blood and adrenaline rushing through my veins. I need the thrill of the hunt to take my mind far away, but I can’t kill anybody in this moral-friendly place. I’ll have to settle for a plain old sword drill or knife throwing.

  Not entirely sure what I’m doing, I peel myself off of my bed and march out of the door, ignoring the nausea that’s still trying to pull me under its sickening waves.

  I go to a training room I’ve never been to before, not wanting to run the risk of him being there or anybody looking there for me. I stalk over to the weapons rack and grab a sword fit for a king. I give it a few experimental flourishes and grin wickedly. It should do nicely.

  I dance through my usual sword drills, getting faster and more aggressive as I go. My feet pound against the floor, arm and sword flying everywhere at once.

  It doesn’t take long for my shin to start protesting. It throbs like a beating heart, but I ignore it.

  Let the pain come. I am numb. I am ice. I couldn’t care less.

  But the sword isn’t enough. It doesn’t give me the rush I need. My thoughts are still circling around me, watching and waiting like vultures. I need to get rid of them before they swoop in for the kill.

  I go back to the weapons rack and pick out a mean looking crossbow and its matching bolts. It takes me a few minutes to load the bow with my stupid leg brace and my anger is a living thing by the time I raise the weapon, facing the target on the far wall.

  I fill the target with the image of Jax’s face and fire.

  Slam!


  Direct hit.

  Again.

  Thump!

  Again...

  I pull the trigger in a steady rhythm until all the bolts are quivering in the target, Jax’s ‘face’ riddled with holes.

  His beautiful face...

  Assassins below. It isn’t enough, isn’t nearly enough...

  I throw the crossbow down in my rage and march to the rack for a belt of throwing knives. If they won’t do it, nothing will, short of going on a killing spree, which I might have to resort to. Screw the Resistance and their peace. I need blood.

  I grab a knife and fling it at the far wall. It thuds, point first, into the centre of the target beside the one full of crossbow bolts.

  The other nine follow it in quick succession.

  As I feared, there is no rush, no wave of adrenaline to drown out my emotions. I sink to the floor, burrowing my face against my knees. My breathing is ragged and my heart is shuddering, but my thoughts are still beating against my skull.

  The pain is too much, the memories are too much. I have to get rid of them both before they destroy me, before all that is left is a lifeless husk.

  A tear runs down my cheek and something inside me breaks, splintering in half like a tree struck by lightning.

  I will not be weak again, I will not. I am done crying and I will not allow my emotions to turn me into a wreck.

  I stand up and march out of the door, down the hall toward the Resistance’s exit. I’m going out there into the city and I’m going to hunt and I don’t care if I come back. One way or another, the pain will stop.

  I speed up as I go, until I’m sprinting through the halls, skidding around corners. My leg pleads with me to stop, but I ignore it. Soon, all the pain will be gone.

  I don’t bother returning to my room to get more weapons. I enjoy a good challenge.

  I’m almost to the exit, almost to freedom and fresh air and the glorious hunt when I round a corner and smash into someone. We both go sprawling and my head bangs against the floor. I don’t pass out, but for a moment, I see stars.