Cameo the Assassin

by Dawn McCullough-White

  © 2009, 2010, 2011

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Dawn McCullough-White.

  B o o k O n e

  Cameo the Assassin

  Dawn McCullough-White

  Other books by this author

  Cameo and the Highwayman

  Cameo and the Vampire

  Coming Soon

  The Emblazoned Red

  Thank you

  Sounding board: Phil White

  Editor: Sarah White

  Cover art: Kurt Hanss and Glendon Haddix

  Website Design: Kurt Hanss

  eBook Formatting: TERyvisions

  Table of Contents

  Cameo the Assassin - legal

  Cameo the Assassin - Acknowledgments

  Trilogy of Shadows: Cameo The Assassin

  1 - Cameo The Assassin, Title page

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 1

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 2

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 3

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 4

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 5

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 6

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 7

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 8

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 9

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 10

  Cameo The Assassin Chapter 11

  About the author

  Chapter One

  HER EYES WERE WIDE, nearly sightless orbs staring into the sky. She watched as the clouds drifted overhead, gasping. Her blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth as it slithered out and slipped in a gob onto her neck. For a moment she felt nothing, her eyes went dark, and she felt herself suck in the air once more. Never had simply breathing given her such happiness.

  At her throat was the dead head of Adrian, his blonde hair tousled gently about her. It was the first gentle thing he had done with her all day. His blood was mingled with hers now, predator and prey, dead and dying lying in the beauty of the summer meadow.

  Somewhere beside her lay sandwiches and hand painted plates. Ivy had wanted pretty plates and had made certain that the silver was polished very well. The last she had seen of her little sister had been her lifeless form, knocked hard into the Faettan soil. She was a few feet away now, a little body lost in the sea of tall grass...like her own...and like that of the young lord with his head still on her breast.

  The sun was warm on her face, illuminating exactly what had taken place only a little while ago, showing all of Faetta true darkness in the brilliant light of day. Somewhere, drifting in on the summer’s breeze, was the sound of people passing on the ridge, chatting about their lives as she was dying just down the hill, in the meadow.

  Her eyes were fixed; the transformation of the day into dusk was recorded behind those lenses. Her body rigidly awaited death. Her blood gummed up in the stab wounds in her chest, cold and nearly luminescent against her deathly pale skin, as the faintest of starlight lit her young woman’s form.

  The spider’s web danced in the cool breeze. It was assembled beautifully in the branches of the black trees whose backs arched, and arms stretched to the sky, silhouetted against the setting sun. The meadow was turning dark. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The sun was soon snuffed out, and he did not waste any time. He burst forth from the dark house at the clearing, his black boots beat down the tall grass and the wildflowers growing in the meadow. He was tall and thin, rigid in appearance, nothing more than wispy black gauze against the stark nightfall, running like a wild animal toward his prey. He quickly fell upon the picnic basket, half-eaten food, and silverware fallen askew under the waxing moon. The forks and knives glittered in the starlight.

  A fog rolled out from under the thick of the tree line; it ebbed along as if it were alive itself and fanned out with its smoky tendrils snaking around the bodies that lay there.

  Haffef’s black eyes found the form that he had longed for—the child in the distance. As he swept past the older sister, he saw the distinct rise and fall of her chest. This had been the scene of a horrible crime, and as he knelt to look into her eyes, he took in her ripped gown and saw the rape that she had endured at the hands of the others at this picnic, seeing vividly what she had seen.

  Her body was covered with stab wounds, and to one side of her bruised and bloodied body lay the dead body of a man. Clutched in her fingers was a paring knife slick with blood.

  The fog crept over her battered form, as if it would steal her life away and take her with it as it moved. Haffef glanced over his shoulder at the girl who was just a few feet away, then back at the teenager in front of him who had a cameo brooch embedded in her collarbone.

  Kneeling beside her, he tossed the dead body off of hers, moving it with such force that he nearly took off Adrian’s head. She felt the long, black hair against her face, caressing her body. It was light like the frail web of a spider. She felt his slender fingers against her back, the gentle feel of him raising her neck and the shocking pain it caused. After all she had endured earlier, she found herself unable to fathom what was happening to her now. It felt like ice ripping open her throat, its shards coursing from this icy bite to her heart. She took in a breath like one she’d never known; her lungs expanded, but it was almost as if they had hardened, and it nearly hurt to make them work again. It was renewing, but there was death in that breath of life. She blinked with eyes that were dry, and all she saw were black boots that were slick with dew and long, black hair that touched the ground.

  She pried her fingers from the paring knife, opening and closing her hand to see if it still worked. Her breath was visible in the cold night air....

  The stars moved across the sky as she regained strength. She watched the cool slivers of silver-tipped clouds as they slipped overhead. The moon and stars shifted position while she remained, her eyes capturing the moments that were lost to her. With a sudden surge of energy, she flipped her body onto her stomach and pulled herself away from Adrian’s corpse.

  Years Later

  She was gazing out the tower window when he walked in. Her eyes were on the black waters of the Avon, the canal that ran through Lockenwood, way down below her. It was like a twisted black ribbon from that height, and the moonlight was caught here and there on the water, causing it water to twinkle. She smiled thoughtfully and then turned to face the man whom Wick had sent up to see her.

  “Well?” she asked flatly.

  “What?” he startled as he met her eyes.

  “What does Wick want me to do now?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in annoyance. Her eyes were not actually a color anymore, they were more of a filmy gray. Something rather unappealing to look at, and this generally caused people to turn away, which is what this man was now trying to do.

  “Oh that, yes...yes,” he said, bringing forth paperwork he had under an arm and proffering it to her.

  She gave him an ominous look as she took it. She was older, although it was hard to tell how old. Her long, dark blonde hair hung down over her shoulders as she spread the paperwork on a table before her.

  Cameo sighed and folded up the documents. She glanced at Wick’s secretary as she packed up. He was staring at her, somewhat starry-eyed.

  She rolled her eyes. “So,” she began rather loudly, hoping to break him from the little dream he was in, “tell the Lady I’ll get right on this,” she paused, “assignment.”

  “Oh, certainly I will,” he beamed, waking from his trance.

  As the young man turned to leave, Cam
eo stopped him, “What was your name again? I don’t think we’ve met.”

  He spun around and met her eyes, then lowered his rather disgustedly to the cold, black floor. “Pindray.”

  She studied the young man—shorter than she with shaggy red hair—as he left the room, and she wondered when Wick would want her to kill him. There were no favorites in Wick’s employ; everyone was a target at some point. Her eyes dropped to the scrap of paper she had left behind.

  “Leon Belfour.”

  She picked up the paper and brushed it against her chin. Leon was the prince of Sieunes. He was fair haired and fair skinned and, according to his file was partial to wearing blue. He was athletic and enjoyed hunting and had an award-winning dog named Spangler. The only part Wick’s secretary left out of the biography was that Leon was the heir to the throne. She had no idea what Wick’s plans were with this hit, but if she were ever caught—well, they would kill her, and it probably would not be quick and painless. Drawn and quartered with her body displayed in a gibbet for all the world to see was the most likely scenario.

  Cameo was one of the longest-serving assassins in Wick’s employ, and she was known both in Lockenwood, the high seat of the Kingdom of Sieunes, and in some of the other local areas around there, which was probably not the healthiest situation for an assassin to be in, but it did keep her loyal to Wick. With the protection of the Association, the assassin’s guild in Lockenwood, she might be saved from an execution.

  Her room in the tower was small and dark. She had a few comforts when she was home in Wick’s castle. A roaring fire in the hearth and a bottle of wine was how she had come to pass her evenings alone, away from the other killers and couriers in the place. And that is exactly where she deposited herself now, into a familiar antique chair, in front of the cold fireplace. She ate sparsely, a little cheese and slender crackers while her colleagues had a fine dinner many floors beneath her.

  Wick, like Cameo, always dined in her personal rooms. She enjoyed her dinner with the youngest and most appealing secretaries. The assassin suspected Wick was manipulating their thoughts with the use of witchcraft, for the woman was at least eighty years old.

  Staring into the cold ashes in the hearth, Cameo toyed with the piece of parchment and wondered how she would do it, with pistol or blunt trauma to the head. The moon’s light fell over the floor before her in one long line.

  She lifted her gray eyes and saw the shadow beside the hearth, it seemed at first to be part of the darkened room, but as she lingered on it, she saw the outline of a person emerge. She looked at it dispassionately, unmoved by the ghostly creature standing before her. It was the size of a man, about six feet and of average build. It had shape but no features, and for this, she was thankful. The assassin glanced around the darkness knowingly as the other shades appeared, many shades; they filled her room.

  Cameo lifted a bottle of wine from its spot on the floor and took a liberal gulp. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. She rested her face in one hand. The shades stood in her room, unmoving, watching her alone in the darkness.

  As the morning rolled around, she packed lightly—her pistols and daggers—and threw on a cloak. She had to get moving in order to catch the coach out of town. Cameo had to leave Lockenwood in the light of day, witnessed by other passengers in order to make the assassination of the prince not quite so easily pinned on her. She had a large suitcase of nothing with her to keep up the ruse; it would not seem as believable otherwise. It wasn’t really packed with nothing; it had some blankets to give it a little weight, but she had plans to discard it once she actually got out of town. She had one such spot she had been using for a while for just this purpose.

  The city was still dark and misty as she neared the coach. People were already boarding. The coachmen were loading luggage onto the roof. Cameo handed her suitcase to one of the men; he went from mindlessly laboring to pretending he was mindlessly laboring. He studied her entirely black ensemble, and the cut of her clothes; from this he gathered that she must be a hired assassin from that society of operatives called the Association. It was unusual, although not unheard of to see one of the assassins. They had to travel, buy clothing, do all the typical things anyone did, but it did always put him in an anxious state of mind when he caught a glimpse of one in a crowd.

  Cameo smirked as this knowledge seemed to openly cross his mind while he took her suitcase. He must have been new, she assumed, for taking the coach was not unusual for her. Wick sent her out of town to run errands a lot.

  “Lovely morning,” she quipped.

  The horses spooked.

  “Oh yes, yes. Very nice.” He nearly dropped her baggage.

  Some of the other passengers turned around at the sound of her voice, as if they were going to express their personal feelings about the weather, but when they saw Cameo they decided that they had forgotten what weather was and stared dumbly ahead at the coach they would soon be boarding.

  She soon found herself riding along in uncomfortable silence with what appeared to be a rather wealthy older couple. They whispered to each other silently and attempted to bury their faces in novels in the hopes that Cameo would become disinterested in them and not want to actually communicate. It worked.

  There was also a young woman of perhaps seventeen. She was unfortunate enough to have a seat right beside this person in black. Her hair was piled high on her head, like that of the older woman across from her, and she wore a pale blue dress of shiny material. Could be satin, Cameo thought detachedly. The woman seemed so fragile and new. The assassin’s eyes wandered to the older couple, gray and delicate.

  She turned away from the others, slid back into the purple cushion of the bench seat, and folded herself up into the shadow against the window. They were passing through the forest of Yetta. The forest and subsequent graveyard went on for miles. This was not the safest place to travel through, and the people sitting across from her seemed a little unnerved by this leg of their journey. Cameo watched mile after mile of wet, black tree trunks, missing most of their leaves, while the girl beside her searched for little pieces of candy in her purse. It was nice to be free of Wick’s tower for a little while, even if it felt like she was watching the same scenery roll by her window, as if painted on a scroll by the coachman himself.

  Somewhere in the middle of Yetta forest, the coach stopped.

  The older couple looked across the coach, into her eyes, confused, then at each other. “Why are we stopping?”

  “Maybe the coach needs a repair?”

  Cameo sat up and leaned to look around the young woman and out the door of the coach. There was movement outside; the coach heaved from side to side as the two coachmen climbed down. A moment later there was a loud banging on the carriage door, and then a voice that belonged to neither coachman.

  “Knock, knock, my lords and ladies.” The door opened, and the step was lowered so the passengers could get out comfortably. “Please join us outside.”

  “I’d-I’d really rather not,” the older gentleman said as his wife met him with a hard look. “Well, I wouldn’t.”

  The old couple climbed out, followed by the young woman.

  Cameo rolled her eyes in annoyance. Perhaps if she sat really still no one would notice. Outside she heard the typical catcalls being made at the pretty young woman who had been stuck sitting next to her. She searched her boot for her flask.

  “Ah ha, I thought we’d forgot someone inside,” she heard as a dark haired man was beckoning her to join the party outside.

  Cameo climbed out into the drizzling rain, her grim visage in stark contrast to the others who had been on board. She stepped down onto the dead leaves in the forest that she felt she knew intimately from watching that scroll of trees roll by her window repeatedly. The coachmen were standing close to the horses. The group of three other passengers was just a little closer to the coach, and Cameo moved herself to the other side of the door. It was obvious just who was most comfortable to be robbed toge
ther.

  She was not keen on losing her weapons, or her flask of whiskey, but she highly doubted they were going to rob her anyway. They must be aware of the Association, she thought, hoping that they had no idea who she was. It was awful, she was getting too recognizable.

  From the edge of the forest, a second highwayman strode toward the older man, with a bag in one hand and a black-powder pistol in the other. “Your money or your life, my lord.”

  “We’re being robbed!” the girl shrieked. Apparently she had just figured it all out.

  The new highwayman grinned at her and tipped his hat, which was topped with feathers.

  “I never carry money when I travel,” said the man.

  Both the coachmen rolled their eyes. A very unlikely story.

  “Baubles, trinkets, any shiny items you might possess, put them in the bag if you don’t mind,” said the highwayman, giving the bag a little shake as if to emphasize his point.

  Cameo smirked at the sound of his sing-song voice, then she took a sip from her flask.

  “That silver?” The dark haired one tapped it as she drank. A trickle of whiskey ran out the corner of her mouth as she slowly lowered the flask and met him with her eyes, unappreciatively.

  Looking more closely, he saw the tattoo on the palm of her right hand: the three black tears—a symbol of the hired killers in Lockenwood.

  “I suppose so,” she said. Her voice sounding distinctly disinterested.

  He took a step back with his pistol nearly on her.

  A few steps away the triad of travelers was hastily removing earrings, necklaces, pocket-watches, and purses.

  “Bel, are you finished? Come over here and keep an eye on this mob,” the blonde, more garishly dressed highwayman called to the man with the pistol trained on her chest.

  “Opal, will you stop calling me that!” He swaggered over to the coachmen.

  The blonde highwayman took a step up on the stair and moved into the coach. “Bel, did you see this?” Opal jumped down and moved over to Cameo with the bag jingling. “Lovely purple cushions inside. I really should get one of those.