INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS Page 4
“Thank God,” she said.
6:43.
Now to deal with Bill.
How could she get him out of that crowded ballroom in time to finish the job?
A knock at the door.
Shit.
She checked to see if Roger’s body was visible from the entrance. It wasn’t, so she opened the door.
Bill Williamson.
What luck.
“I had a change of heart about trying to convince you. There were some points I should have made down at the bar. I was hoping you’d give me another chance.”
Liv gave him the warmest smile she could muster. “Can you wait right here one second, please?”
“Sure.”
She closed the door and hustled to Roger’s body. She threw out his water bottle, dragged his body across the room, and stuffed it in the closet. Not dignified, but time was not on her side.
“Sorry about that,” she said, letting Bill in the room.
“No problem.”
He sat on the desk chair, turning it to face her.
She could relax now. He was here, with her. And his window had just opened. She had the entire half hour to finish the job.
“You have five minutes to make your case,” she said, sitting on the bed.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then it’s back to your room. Alone.”
You’ll be dead, too, but that’s a whole other issue.
“Then let me get right to it.”
He offered data. She listened, asking pointed questions. He was engaging. Charming. He even made her laugh.
But she still had a job to do.
When he finished, she said nothing for a minute, pretending to process his information. Then she stood and walked to the mini-fridge.
“You should have a drink before you go.”
“Before I go? I didn’t convince you?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’ve got water and Coke. Which will it be?”
“I didn’t convince you.”
“You made some good points, and I can see where you’re coming from, but mostly I think it’s a load of bull.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, standing.
“It’s true.”
He hadn’t convinced her of the benefits of self-help. Maybe another time he would have. But not now. She’d had a long day, and she wanted to go home.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Water or Coke?”
“Coke. Please.”
She poured the drink and handed him the glass.
He set it aside and stepped toward her.
“I just need to ...”
His hand slipped to the back of her neck. He pulled her into a kiss.
She let him.
Then she pulled back and said, “Listen, I—”
But he didn’t let her finish, finding her mouth again with his. Using his tongue. Playing with hers.
His hands moved down the sides of her body, before resting on her hips.
She hadn’t done this in a while. And it felt good. To hell with that, it felt amazing.
She opened her eyes to peek at the clock: 6:52.
More than enough time. Might as well enjoy myself a little.
Through the kiss he said, “Is this okay?”
She put her arms around his neck and jumped onto him, her legs wrapping around his waist.
He laid her on the bed.
Rubbing a finger over her lips, he said, “You are a beautiful woman, Liv. Irreverent and funny. I noticed you the moment I walked out on that stage and haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”
“You can turn off the charm now. This is a done deal.”
“I’m serious.”
She put her lips on his.
He slid his fingers under her shirt. She loved the feel of his warm hands on her bare skin. He pulled off her pants and smiled, seeming to appreciate her decision to forego underwear.
His hands wandered over her naked body. Followed by his mouth.
He took his time. She closed her eyes. Within minutes, her body tensed, her back arched, and she let out a small gasp of air.
That felt way better than I remembered.
She took a second to recover, then sat up and helped him remove his clothes. She pushed him onto his back and straddled him.
Time to return the favor.
They lay in silence.
Then she heard a creak, followed by thumping.
“What the hell?” said Bill, sitting up, looking in the direction of the closet.
Shit!
Roger’s dead body lay over the threshold.
Should have checked the latch.
“Who the hell is that? Is he ...” Bill ran over to the body. “He’s dead. He’s freakin’ dead!”
“Ummm ...”
“You’ve got a dead guy in your closet and all you can say is ‘umm’?”
“That’s Roger.”
His name? Really, Liv? That’s the best you can do?
“Did you do this?”
“Well ...”
“Holy shit!” He grabbed his pants and fell over trying to pull them on. He righted himself, secured his pants, and backed toward the door. “What are you, some sort of assassin?”
Sort of.
7:04.
He seemed so full of fear, panic. Her heart sank. She liked this guy. Maybe she should tell him the truth. His time was almost up, anyway.
“You’re not going to believe what I have to say.”
“Tell me what the hell is going on.”
He did say he liked my honesty.
“Fine. I’m a Taker,” she said, getting off of the bed and walking toward him.
“Excuse me?”
“A Taker.”
“What exactly are you taking?”
“You’d probably call it a soul.”
“Okay,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “I’m usually a pretty good read of people. But I was way off with you. You’re fucking crazy.”
He can’t leave. Not now.
“Bill, please. Don’t go.” She grabbed his arm. Her hand glowed. She felt his heartbeat slow, his tense body relax.
He returned to the bed and sat. “What did you just do to me?”
“Part of my job is to calm the body and mind.”
“So that you can more easily kill me?”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“But you said you’re taking my soul.”
“It’s really more of an essence. And I deal with it after your body starts to die.”
“So, what, is the Angel of Death going to join us to do the actual deed?”
“Angel?” She sighed. “I forgot how humans like to oversimplify everything.”
She sat next to him.
“I don’t have time to explain it all to you. Bottom line? Your body’s gonna die. Your essence is inside, and I need to take it.”
“Because you’re a Taker?”
“You got it.”
“I can’t believe I’m still listening to this.”
“The sex probably helped.”
“Probably. And you have quite an imagination.”
“I do. But I’m not making this up.”
She held up her hand and let it glow again.
“Okay. I’ll play. Why are you taking my soul—I mean, essence?”
“Nice,” she said. “I got a text from the boss and he said your time’s up.”
“The boss?”
“Yup.”
“Would that be God?”
“Again with the oversimplifying. I thought we were making some headway.”
“So he’s not God?”
“Sometimes he acts like he is.”
Her phone vibrated.
She smiled. “That’s probably him right now.”
“He sends texts?”
“Gotta keep up with the times.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
&n
bsp; “Well, you’re scheduled to die right about now.”
“Oh really. How?”
“I don’t know for sure. Something natural—a heart attack, brain aneurysm, something like that. Basically, your body’s going to fail.”
“Then what?”
“Then I take your essence.”
“Where? To Heaven?”
She laughed. “So it can go play in the puffy white clouds with the angels and their halos? I suppose you think there’s fire and brimstone, too. Guy with a goatee. Pitchfork. Little red horns?”
“We’re talking about my death and you’re mocking me?”
“I see your point. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “So what exactly happens to my essence?”
“It has to go to Containment to get cleansed and nourished. Honestly, though, it’s a good thing you showed up when you did.”
“Why?”
“There’s a half-hour window when a person starts to die. As a Taker, I need to be near you during that half hour, preferably alone. If you’d died somewhere away from me, your essence would have been trapped in your body. Would have become corrupted. Damaged. And if I don’t get it out within that half hour, the damage is irreversible.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Tons of people die every day. Car accidents, plane crashes, drive-by shootings. Those people aren’t alone.”
“That stuff’s for Level Two and Level Three Takers. I’m only a Level One. I just deal with solitary deaths.”
“Solitary deaths? Level Two? What are you even talking about?”
“I haven’t studied for those qualifying exams yet, so I can’t tell you much more than that.”
He ran a hand through his thick hair. “This is unbelievable.”
7:07.
“Look, any minute now, you’ll start to feel off. And I’ll change into my regular form.”
“This isn’t your regular form?”
“No. This is what I looked like before I died.”
“You were so young.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been a Taker for a while now.”
“Can I see it?”
“My other form?”
“Yes.”
“Would it help to convince you?”
“It might.”
She shouldn’t show him. The boss would not approve. But he kind of put her in this crappy situation. And, at the end of the day, she’d be going home with two successful jobs.
Why the hell not?
She stood. Putting her arms over her head, she transformed into a white, wispy apparition. Both humanoid and ghostlike, it sort of reminded her of dry ice. Her head took the shape of the one in Munch’s painting, The Scream, but without the horrified expression. Amorphous, wing-like appendages rose from her back, but they weren’t functional. She loved this form. She’d always found it beautiful. Haunting, but beautiful.
Amid the ethereal beauty, one part of her attracted more attention than the others: her left hand. Silver, razor-like claws protruded from the tips of her thumb and forefinger. Solid in form, they stood in stark contrast to the rest of her diaphanous figure.
She returned to her human form.
“Are you convinced?”
“I’ll say.”
“What’d you think?”
“Stunning. But ...”
“The claws?”
“Yes.”
“If I were human, I’d call them my STDs.”
“Excuse me?”
“STDs. You know, Soul Trimming Doo-dads. They help me sever your essence from your body.”
He said nothing.
“You went frigid for a sec, didn’t you? Right when you saw them?”
“Yes.”
“That was your essence. Totally recognized those bad boys for what they are.”
“How does it work?”
“Right after your body begins to fail, I change forms, enter your body and cut out your essence.”
“Sounds painful.”
“You’re pretty much dead anyway, remember?”
“You’re very cavalier about all of this.”
“I guess. Kind of like anyone who does something often enough. Fisherman doesn’t think twice about gutting a fish. Gynecologist doesn’t get all crazy about seeing a va-jay-jay.”
He laughed, then stopped. “Am I really going to be the cliché?”
“Which one?”
“The old guy who dies having sex in a hotel room?”
“I guess so. But it’s better than the one where you wake up next to some dead prostitute. Like The Godfather. Or was it The Godfather 2?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Which was it?”
“You’re going to kill me and we’re debating Godfather vs. Godfather 2.”
“I told you. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to take your essence.”
“Splitting hairs, aren’t you?”
“Not really. Killing you would be a grisly, ugly affair. I don’t do blood. Your time’s up. Your essence has to be returned. And I’m taking it from this world to the next. Consider me your inter-world guide.”
“It was The Godfather 2,” he said.
“You sure?”
“Prostitute? Politician? That’s Vegas. Much of The Godfather 2 took place in Vegas.”
“And what happens in—”
“Please. Don’t.”
“Sorry.”
“So what now?”
7:10.
She put her hand on his chest. An irregular heartbeat. The process had begun.
“I think we have a few more minutes.”
He sat forward, fear on his face. “Can you do that glowy thing again, please?”
She let her hand glow over his heart.
He lay back on the bed. “That’s much better.”
“Good. Now that you’re more relaxed, I can help out with any last minute requests.” She slid her other hand up his leg toward his zipper.
“Well, if you’re offering.”
He cupped her face in his hands and gave her a kiss.
She pulled away. “After that, well ...”
“I’m dead.”
“Pretty much.”
“Definitely going to die?”
“Yes.”
“But before that, I get to make love again to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Thanks. But that about sums it up.”
“Well, I can certainly think of worse ways to go.”
“Oh, believe me,” she said. “I can, too.” And she covered his mouth with hers.
She closed the door to Bill’s room. Getting him back there was kind of a bitch. Same with Roger. But she couldn’t leave two dead bodies in her room. As she walked down the hallway, her phone vibrated. Another text.
From the boss.
You had sex with the guy?
NO ONE OF CONSEQUENCE
BY CHRISTINE MORGAN
It was during a natural lull in the after-dinner conversation that the drawing room door opened to admit, in a rustle of brocade and scented powder, Great-Aunt Gertrude with her immense silver-point Persian cradled in her arms.
“I don’t mean to be a bother,” she said, “but there appears to be a dead man floating in the swan-pond.”
This pronouncement produced, as might be expected, a considerable disruption. Miss Caroline Eldridge struck a discordant jangle of notes on the pianoforte. Lord Fitz-Hughes choked and coughed out a sputter of brandy. Cards fluttered across the table as the players sprang up from their after-dinner bridge game.
“You know,” the elderly dame said, stroking the cat between his pewter-colored ears, “I did think it was odd, seeing somebody like that. I was on my way downstairs and happened to glance out, and—well, I did think it was odd.”
They paid her no mind in the general rush for the windows that followed. Ladies in satin and men in smart black jackets crowded together, jostling indecorousl
y for position. Their voices formed a hectic babble, within which cries of ‘who is it?’ and ‘oh my God!’ predominated.
“My first impression was, of course, that he might be swimming for some reason,” she went on. “Though goodness knows I’ve never seen anyone swimming in the swan-pond before, by day let alone moonlight. Then I noticed the rather peculiar face-down way of his floating, and the fact he didn’t move at all, or lift his head to breathe, and—”
Lady Fitz-Hughes staggered back with a hand pressed to her brow. She fell half-swooning onto a sofa, surrounded by a bevy of solicitous daughters-in-law. Salts and air were called for, and a glass of cold water.
The men, meanwhile, reversed their course from the window. They streamed into the hall, debating in excited tones their plan of action, whether someone should go fetch the doctor from the village, call the police, and so forth. The disruption had become a full-blown uproar.
“Such a fuss,” Great-Aunt Gertrude said to Leopold, whose magnificent silver-banded plume of a tail flicked at the noise and activity. “I’m sure it’s nothing, no one of consequence.” Yet she, along with those ladies not occupied tending their hostess, moved in the wake of the throng.
Within moments, the great front doors flung open, spilling light down the broad stone steps. Lanterns were brought. Servants flooded from every corner—maids and footmen who’d been clearing the dining room, the butler, valets, the housekeeper and cook, even the kitchen-drudge popping her head out of the scullery.
Between the upper gallery railings peeped a host of little faces, the various children of the family and guests, like inmates of some mahogany prison. Sir Geoffrey barked orders to the nannies to keep them in the nursery until further notice. This was done, albeit over bleats and wails of protest.
Soon, most of the household stood outside, the ladies and female servants gathered on the eastern slope of lawn overlooking the pond. They murmured and whispered their anxiety to one another, fanned themselves, and held delicate handkerchiefs at the ready.
Lady Fitz-Hughes, recovered enough to join them, bemoaned this rude ruination of their hitherto quite agreeable evening. She despaired whatever in the world their esteemed guests must think, to which she was offered much polite assurance that the incident could hardly be held against her as any sort of blight upon Woadcastle’s hospitality.