The Family Cross

by Gabrielle Ash

  “Come here.” He beckoned me toward him with a hand, breaking me from my cycle of worry. “I have one more thing I want to show you.”

  My stomach turned. This didn’t sound good. “I’m not sure I want to know what that means.”

  “It’s useful for ladies to know, I promise.” After taking only one hesitant step, Samson closed the distance between us, positioning himself behind me.

  “If someone comes up behind you, like this”—he slowly extended his arm past my face and bent his elbow, ramming his slick forearm right under my chin and pushing me to his chest—“your first instinct is going to be to claw at his arm.”

  The front of my throat was damp. “Ugh, you’re sweaty.”

  “So are you,” he said and wiped a sweaty hand down my face for good measure. Why was he like this? “Don’t try to pull off his arm. Elbows are hard. Throw one of those back instead.”

  I bent my elbow, and he gripped it with his callused fingers.

  “Throw it back here. Hit ’em right in the breadbasket.” He pulled my arm back until it hit him somewhere in his abdomen.

  “You think I’m strong enough for it to work?” I hadn’t exactly been lifting weights or drinking protein shakes. Samson let me go, and I turned around, arms crossed. Sweat pooled under my shirt and bra strap. Gross.

  “If you have your feet on the ground, you can jump up instead.” He tapped his chin as I stumbled toward the couch. It was past my bedtime, and I was drenched in sweat. “Knock ’em back with your head. It won’t feel great, but it’ll work in a pinch.”

  I collapsed on the couch in a heap. While I wouldn’t call myself an athlete, I’d made sure to keep up with a routine exercise regimen. Our training session, if I could call it that, proved to be vastly superior to morning yoga and treadmills.

  “How”—deep breath—“long have you been doing this? All this fighting?” I asked, still heaving breaths. My forearms glistened.

  “Uh.” Samson rubbed his neck, hardly winded. “Seven.”

  “Seven years?”

  “No. Since I was seven.”

  “Excuse me?” I heaved myself up to sitting, resting my elbows on my knees. “Let me get this straight: your foster family forced you into working for Frank when you were seven?”

  Samson stared at me. “Something like that.”

  Something like that. Still hiding from me.

  “I don’t understand your life.” I fell back against the couch cushions and wiped the sweat from my eyes with the hem of my shirt. “I don’t understand how anyone could force a child into living like you do.”

  Samson shrugged. “He saw something he could exploit. I wasn’t the first, and I won’t be the last.”

  He… His foster father, biological father, or Frank?

  “Didn’t you get a choice?” I asked, my breaths leveling.

  “Sure,” he said and walked off toward the kitchen. “But when someone acknowledges you might serve a purpose and be something…it’s hard for a kid who has nothing to turn down.”

  Something I could relate to—finally. The need for validation. Purpose. Wanting to prove you were more that the world saw. The refrigerator opened. Hopefully, he’d gone to get me something to drink.

  “The regret came later. After I was so far in it and I couldn’t see a way out,” he said when he returned to the living area, a pair of water bottles in hand. Samson broke the seal on a bottle and handed it to me, the plastic cold along my palms. “That’s how it goes though. By the time you understand what you did to yourself, you’re in too deep, and you can’t see a life outside of it.”

  Something about what he said made my heart drop.

  “So do you regret it? Your job?” I took a drink of water, hoping the cold would suck out the uncomfortable itch tingling beneath my skin.

  “I regret putting myself in a position to suffer for the rest of my life.” Samson dropped on the other end of the couch. “The night we struck our deal, when I told you I could always find a reason to complete a contract…that was true. I could. If you could see the brains of the people and creatures I’ve killed, you might understand.”

  Given the few people I’d interacted with from his life, the depravity he must’ve seen had to be horrific.

  “If I said I regretted killing them, it would be a lie because I don’t.” Samson propped his elbows on his knees and rolled his water bottle between his palms. “But I do regret agreeing to work for Frank. I regret that decision every moment of the day.”

  “Because he won’t let you leave?”

  Samson gave a slow nod. “He led seven-year-old me to believe there was nothing worth having for someone like me. That I was a piece of shit, and I’d always be a piece of shit. I believed him. Now that I know better, it’s too late because I really am a piece of shit now.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “It’s never too late to change your life.”

  “It is when you’ve done the things I have and heard the things I’ve heard.” Samson shook his head and continued to roll his water bottle around in his hands. “You don’t come back from that. Your soul, or whatever the fuck it is, doesn’t come back after you’ve had to leave so many pieces of it behind along the way. With every person you drop, you leave a part of your humanity behind with them too.”

  The mention of souls took me back to the dank kitchen, Samson’s mind control, and the fae puddle we left behind. Cliff’s words echoed in my subconscious. Human body, he’d said.

  Frank was a demon that made deals, Cliff had said, deals you can’t break. Samson had been a kid when he started working for him. Did Frank convince seven-year-old Samson to agree to something he could never get out of?

  “I don’t know if I agree.” I squeezed the sides of my water bottle to busy my hands. “Once you deal with Frank, you could do anything, right?”

  “I could, I guess. Don’t know what I could do after all this though.”

  Going from being a hit man to a normal nine-to-five probably came with a steep learning curve.

  “Maybe you could be an instructor?” I suggested with a smile. He didn’t see the amusement. “You ran me ragged for hours.”

  “An instructor like your yoga lady? No thanks.”

  “You might like it,” I sang and stood. Time for a shower.

  I expected a quip. A jab. An insult. Something. When nothing came and I’d made it to my bedroom door, the need to look at him won out over an immediate exit to take a shower. Yet as I took Samson in, sitting on the couch with eyes tacked to the wooden floor and mouth twisted into a frown, I almost regretted it.

  Thirty-Two

  It wasn’t every day one woke up with the thought they might not live to crawl back into their bed again. It was Friday—the day of my father’s public announcement at the Horseshoe Club. The day Rolf would likely make a move.

  Since I hadn’t ever taken off work before, at least for multiple days in a row, I’d expected the time to drag. Not having anything to do was boring. Sitting and plotting to destroy those who wronged you would pass terribly slowly, right?

  Wrong. Very wrong.

  After our late night of self-defense training, Samson upped the ante and pressed harder. Between throwing elbows, taking care of Cat, sporadically driving to Blair’s apartment to see if she reappeared, and getting Samson prepared to blend with some of the richest people in the world, time flew by quickly.

  Almost too quickly. If everything went according to plan, we’d get ahold of Rolf tonight. Getting Rolf would, at the very least, solicit information about Blair. From there, hopefully we could get close to figuring out who bought my contract. End it for all.

  End my run from death.

  End my time with Samson.

  Samson’s words from Wednesday clung to me like a sheet of plastic wrap. He’d always said he would do the job and go afterward, but for some reason, it never sank in. It never occurred to me that I might feel a certain way about him leaving me forever. I remembered sitting in the car beside Sams
on on our way to the creepy safe house, thinking I’d never feel comfortable in his presence. That I’d never know relief with the knowledge of what he did for a living. His life was diametrically opposed to mine in almost every way. He was a hit man trained to murder people and monsters for the highest bidder. I was a Manhattan heiress wearing heels that cost an excess of a thousand dollars in a high-rise. Under normal circumstances, we never would’ve met. Yet it caused me a great deal of grief that he would leave. Enough to keep me awake at night. Enough to have me smile at his back when he left the room.

  I wasn’t sure when it happened, but Samson had somehow gotten his dirty fingernails into my heart, and I wasn’t ready for him to leave yet.

  “Fancy Pants.” Samson emerged from the bathroom wearing his charcoal suit pants and white shirt, buttoned and tucked like he’d worn them all this life. The tie, however, draped over his shoulders like a necklace. He fumbled with the ends. “Can you tie this?”

  The words I needed to say wouldn’t come out. Samson looked…handsome.

  His confession from the night before haunted me well after we turned in, and looking at him now, it returned. What kind of man would Samson have been if given the chance to be normal? He’d been forced into supernatural mercenary service at seven years old. What would he have done with his life if he’d been given a shot?

  “Um.” I fastened a diamond to my earlobe to hopefully disguise my pause. “Sure. Sit on the bed.”

  Samson, unaware of my internal conflict with his leaving and his suit, walked over to the edge of my bed and plopped down on the side. I strolled over, the sharp clack of stilettos against wood echoing up to the ceiling, and grabbed his tie. My dress, a black sheath with a Sabrina neckline covered in a thick lace, matched him as I’d intended. If Samson noticed what I’d done, he kept it to himself.

  “You ready for this?” he asked, watching me even though my attention was on his tie.

  Not really. “I’m ready to feel safe again.”

  “Rolf will have to know something. He got into your dad’s meeting, and unless he stumbled upon some dumb luck, he’d have to know a little more dirt to get there.”

  With the tie now lying evenly along his neck, I dropped it and moved to turn up his collar. I slid my fingers along the soft fabric, lightly grazing his skin. With every touch, there was an opportunity for him to leap into my head. Learn my thoughts. See my secrets. But as much as the idea put me off when we first met, I kind of wanted him to see. To see the years I’d spent alone and how much his company had meant to me.

  There was comfort in having someone I could be honest with. A comfort I would soon lose.

  “Samson.” I cleared my throat and turned my attention back to the tie. “I just want to say—”

  “Sam,” he interrupted, looking up at me from beneath his lashes. The longest lashes I’d ever seen. If I weren’t smothered with other emotions, I would’ve been more upset about how unfair it was.

  “All right then. Sam.” The corners of my mouth wouldn’t stop twisting! It had been days since I accidentally called him that. I assumed he’d forgotten or hadn’t noticed. “I just wanted to say thank you. I know helping me isn’t ideal when you’re really wanting to remove a man’s head from his shoulders, but I appreciate it nevertheless.”

  I began the first loop of his tie, shaking fingers making it more difficult than it ought to have been.

  “Nah. It’s been…” He looked down at his hands propped on his knees. “Not so bad.”

  “Not so bad? That’s definitely the worst compliment I’ve ever received.” The tie felt heavy between my fingers as I pulled it into a knot. Not so bad. Really? A trip to the dentist could be described as not so bad. “You told Vee that you needed money to kill Frank. I’ve been wondering—how can money help you kill a demon?”

  “It won’t. But money can help me find something that can.” Samson smiled at the end. Mischievous.

  I paused, fingers on his tie. “So? I’m curious. What can kill a demon?”

  “The problem with demons is that they can always leave their host body and possess someone else. So you have to find a way to keep the demon in their body. Then you can kill the body with the demon inside.” He paused and pursed his lips. “There is allegedly a fae spell that can keep a demon in its host. I have some fae contacts I can question. Money will help me convince some of them to talk. Pay for food and motels. Guns. That sorta stuff.”

  No matter what happened after we sorted out my contract, there was no way my life would ever be normal again. Every second spent in Samson’s presence made sure of that.

  “So what am I tonight? Friend from Columbia?” Samson asked, changing the subject.

  “Well, you told my father we’re dating, so no.” I smiled. “Although after that terrible compliment, I think I’m going to break up with you.”

  “Please don’t.” I couldn’t make myself look at him. He was probably making fun of me. The heat on my face could be seen from the Statue of Liberty. “My fragile ego couldn’t handle it.”

  Laughter left my mouth in a loud bark. I smoothed out the knot, still refusing to look at him. My hand stilled as his words from a few nights ago came back. I won’t always be here.

  I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else, so I settled with centering the knot at his throat and straightening his collar. He’d be my date for the evening, and then we would, God willing, figure out who wanted me dead.

  “Would that Blair chick be allowed in the party since she got canned?”

  I shook my head and gave the tie one last glance. Perfect. Samson stood from the bed and walked over to his shoulder holsters lying on the other side, right beside all his guns and knives. Of all the things I’d ever thought my bed would hold, it had never extended to a hit man’s traveling armory.

  “No.” The thought actually hadn’t crossed my mind. Stupid. Rolf couldn’t use Blair to get around anymore. “Which means we’re back to square one. Again.”

  “Not really. Rolf will still smell like Unseelie fae, and we know not to separate.” Samson slung his holster on. “When that fucker shows his face, I’ll be ready to send a knife right through it.”

  My stomach flipped. “Don’t you have to stab a fae in the heart to kill it?”

  “An iron knife to the heart will kill fae. But fae aren’t built like humans, and all fae are different. Their organs aren’t in the same place, so not only do you have to get close enough to stab the heart, but you also have to figure out where the damn thing is to begin with.” Samson shrugged. “Bullets won’t kill fae on their own, but they’ll hurt ’em. Slow them down.”

  Exhausting. Dealing with him and his weapons—exhausting. I turned around to go into the bathroom. Samson’s hair still needed to be combed, and his pomade sat in my drawer.

  “Come here,” I called from the bathroom. His little glass jar of expensive pomade sat beside my hairspray. “You need to fix your hair.”

  A slew of unrecognizable grumbling accompanied slow footsteps.

  I’d pulled my hair into a high, sleek ponytail and donned a set of diamond studs. Simple. Classic. Perfect for evading murder. Samson slogged inside, mouth twisted into a grimace. His haircut had turned out much better than either of us thought it would, but it still needed to be styled.

  “Here.” I handed him the jar of pomade and grabbed a comb out of my top drawer. Samson’s frown deepened. “Fix your hair. You can play with your guns afterward.”

  He turned the pomade around. “Not sure I’ve ever used this shit before.”

  Of course he hadn’t. “All right. Go sit on the bed again.”

  A few expletives fell out of his mouth this time.

  “Did you not have covert missions where you needed to dress up?” I asked, and he dropped back onto the bed.

  “Who do you think I am? James Bond?” He narrowed his eyes at the pomade as I swiped some out of the jar with my fingers.

  I ran my fingers over his scalp, smoothing the pomade throu
gh his hair. “Effortlessly smooth, you are not.”

  “Adam did that sort of thing with Vee.” Samson smiled. I could hear it. “I waited somewhere in the wings until the target was sequestered. Or in the distance with a rifle.”

  I leaned back and gave him a look. “All right. I have to know.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “What?”

  “Do not laugh.” I straightened up and started messing with his hair to keep from looking at him. If he laughed at me for this, I might die. “Are…vampires real?”

  “Yes.” A pause. “I’m not sure why you thought I’d laugh. Those assholes are mean.”

  Thank goodness. “I checked your teeth at the motel.”

  He chuckled, shoulders shaking enough to keep me from doing his hair correctly. I picked up the comb instead. “Now that’s something worth laughing at. I can walk around in the sun, and there was a metric fuckton of garlic in that takeout I ordered the other day.”

  “How was I supposed to know those things were true?” I parted his hair on the side and brushed it over. Perfect.

  “You couldn’t have known. But stories come from somewhere, and in that case, they’re correct.” Samson stood up and made immediately for the bathroom. His voice echoed along the floor seconds after he made it inside. “You made me look all uppity.”

  “I fixed your hair,” I hollered back. He didn’t say anything, but when he emerged, he’d clearly mussed it up a bit. It was definitely much more him though. Samson stared at me, waiting for a comment. “It’s fine. I think my way was better, but I’m not the one that will be strutting around Manhattan with your hair.”

  “Exactly. I’m not uppity.” Samson grabbed his suit jacket off the bed and slung it on, hiding his weapons perfectly. He straightened his jacket and looked at me.

  Then kept looking.

  I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting Rolf to be there and ready to pounce. When I was greeted with the view of my empty bed instead, warmth spread from my head to my toes, and I reluctantly met his gaze again. “What’s wrong?”