Cameo the Assassin

by Dawn McCullough-White

  “You’re next, my dear,” Opal said.

  “What?”

  Opal looked up at her with one green-hazel eye. He wore an eye patch over his left eye, and although he was probably once rather striking, his face was pox-marked, especially on the left side. “Time for your donation. You know, baubles, trinkets. Even cold, hard coin. It’s not beneath me.”

  Cameo dropped her purse into the basket. It was Wick’s down payment for her next kill, but she didn’t need it for anything. She supposed she could support the livelihood of a highwayman for one day.

  “The flask; that is not beneath me either.”

  She dropped it in.

  “The brooch, as well.”

  “Brooch?” She clasped the cameo brooch at her collar, the last remembrance she had of her mother, and slowly removed it, placing it in the bag.

  He took several steps back, then looked up at her, pawing through the baubles with the barrel of his pistol. “Not too bad, not too bad at all, ay Bel?”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “And now, gentlemen!” he yelled at the coachmen, “luggage, if you don’t mind.”

  Cameo was cursing them under her breath, her entire mission was being compromised. How unfortunate her pistols weren’t loaded.

  A moment later, Bel was going through everyone’s luggage. The old man’s allegedly missing travel money was recovered. Her own luggage yielded two blankets, black powder, and bullets.

  “A rather curious suitcase,” Opal mused. “I wonder who the owner is.”

  The two moved back toward the forest.

  “And now we must bid you all a fond farewell,” Bel winked at the young woman, and bowed with a flourish.

  “Yes, it has been a wonderful time,” Opal tipped his hat at the young woman, and then looked at Cameo as if he were sharing a little joke with her. Her expression was far from amused as the men retreated into the trees.

  Once the danger of the highwaymen was past, the group comforted each other as they picked up their muddy garments, which were strewn on the road, and began to repack them.

  “Lady, are you all right?” asked the coachman whom she recognized from routine cross-country travel. She only nodded and waved him away. He had to ask; even if he despised her; the woman she worked for was extremely powerful.

  Cameo moved into the shade of the trees, wishing she had a flask of whiskey. More than that, she wished that he hadn’t decided to take her brooch. Unfortunately for that highwayman, she had to get it back.

  After a moment of calm, she began to make out a shadow among the trees. A shadow man. It broke free from the trees and moved to her.

  Inclining her head towards the shade, she hissed, “Follow him,” and pointed to where Opal had been minutes before.

  Never hesitating, the shade moved forward with no staggering, stumbling footsteps, nor did it float the way one might believe a ghost might float, but rather with a gait exactly like that of a man—a silhouette of a man ambling into the wood. Cameo looked over at her group near the coach, but they did not see the shade at all.

  * * * * *

  “A round of drinks for everyone!” Opal’s booming voice positively rang with laughter as he burst into the Tavern Pipe Inn, the only tavern in Yetta. To this he received cheers from a devoted crowd.

  “Black Opal, you’re our savior!”

  Opal grinned at the old drunkard, “Your servant, sir.”

  “Good lad,” he murmured as he pushed past to get his free ale.

  “It’s a bad business, Opal. I’ve a bad feeling about this one,” Bellamy said as he followed the fop to an empty table.

  “Hello, Bellamy,” a tavern wench climbed into his lap. “Hello, Opal,” she smiled more platonically at him.

  “Charlotte,” he grinned.

  Bellamy pushed her off, “get us some of that swill you call ale.”

  “Well, well, well. I think that was rather top-notch,” said Opal. “How often do we end up with such a pleasing haul and get to make a fool out of one of the Association? Ha, ha!”

  “Yes, well about that. Walking all the way through the forest since we couldn’t steal the coach because of that assassin was one thing, but robbing her—” Bellamy broke off as Charlotte returned with the ale.

  “Cheers, Charlotte,” Opal smiled. “Why don’t you get a mug for yourself as well?”

  “What? Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “I am planning on getting everyone in this tavern drunk. We had a great haul this time.”

  “Opal,” Bel shushed him.

  “Oh, everyone knows who I am. Did you see all those lovely wanted posters?” He pulled one from a bag, “Fair likeness. I am, of course, far prettier than this. Apparently this artist didn’t finish school.”

  “Opal, you are going to be more than just a wanted man; at this rate you’re going to get us killed.”

  “And, I like this Black Opal moniker they’ve saddled me with. Sounds so much more nasty than plain old Opal,” he gushed, glancing at Bel as if he had a great lockbox of happy and could barely contain it. “Try not to be so gloomy, Bellamy my dear. So, we didn’t get the pretty coach this time, but as I remember, that coach passes daily.”

  “Perhaps we should consider moving on now,” Bel said.

  Opal rolled his eye, annoyed at the idea. “Perhaps I should have a bath, good wine, if any can be procured, and a bit of rouge for these lips.... Ah, then I’ll feel fit enough to have this conversation.”

  Bellamy watched Opal get up and walk toward the bar of the tavern, when another bar wench wrapped her arm around his pulling him away from the main room. Opal didn’t just get up and walk out, he did it all with a flourish, attracting too much attention.

  Bel sighed in annoyance, and suggested Charlotte get her own chair now that his legs had gone completely numb.

  The tavern landlord closed up the bar as soon as Opal was out of sight. Bel was not known to be as generous with his cut of the booty as was his partner in crime.

  * * * * *

  Opal slid into the hot, cloudy bathwater with a bottle of something—he tried to read the label—something red. He took a swig, which was terrible, but it did its job nonetheless, and he wondered what actually was going to happen to him now that he had robbed one of the assassins. As soon as Lorraine left the room, he pulled the cameo from his pack, which was lying at the foot of the large metal tub that he was in.

  He held the pink-backed trinket up to his eye for a better look; squinting even at that distance. The pin in the back looked newer than the face did; the gold foil around it seemed smashed in.

  He had heard of an assassin named Cameo and wondered if that was whom he had just obtained quite a large sum of money from—money he was throwing away on terrible alcohol and whores. Why would a killer have that kind of money on her person unless she was recently paid that money? She probably wouldn’t, which meant she was on her way to either kill someone or she had just killed someone. Either way, it could place her in Yetta at a specific time. This information wasn’t something he needed to know. He wasn’t a gentleman, nor was he even an innocent passerby. Oh no, Opal was expendable. He was a villain, so what Bellamy said about getting out of Yetta did make a lot of sense. He needed to get rid of all the items from that haul as quickly as possible, starting with that brooch, and sadly all the pretty sparkly items he had acquired from the gentlewomen in that hold-up too.

  “Such a pity, that,” he sighed.

  Lorraine returned to put more wood in the hearth. “Does seem very dark in here, doesn’t it now?” she asked.

  Opal looked up at her with his right eye. The room was gloomy, much darker than he remembered when he had first slipped into the bath.

  “Well then, we’ll just get a roaring fire going and chase away all these shadows.”

  * * * * *

  An early morning came fast; Opal scurried down the dirt road in his fine clothing, with a terrible headache. He moaned to himself as the sun’s light came out
of the heavens through two clouds and directly into his eye. He pulled his lapels up to ward off the cold morning air and the feeling of nausea that was threatening to overtake him.

  He stood on the step of the pawn shop for a moment, appraising himself. He wasn’t wearing makeup, he realized with a disgusted snort, and he had forgotten his eye patch. Opal put one hand to his face absently, and then saw he had at least taken the time to wear his beautiful blue velvet gloves and best lace shirt.

  “Black Opal,” the store owner beamed, as Opal finally walked in.

  “Morning, Paul.”

  “Have yourself a good time last night, huh? You look like shit.”

  Opal made a half-hearted attempt to get his hair pushed back into its tie. “Oh do I? Too much wine.”

  The pawn shop man laughed at this, “Well, if you can afford it, why not? Right?”

  “Yes,” the fop said. “About that....” he drifted off as he took a couple pieces of diamond jewelry out of his pocket and laid them on the counter in front of Paul.

  “Hmm, now where’d these little pretties come from?” the owner grinned.

  A wave of nausea came over the dandy for a moment as he stood leaning against the counter.

  “I don’t know if I would have a market for those all the way out here in this craphole,” Paul hedged.

  “What about this?” Opal asked, reaching into his coat to bring forth the cameo.

  “I’ll have that.”

  Opal’s hand fell open as a dagger pushed it to the countertop, and the brooch slid out.

  Paul took a step back. “I’m sorry, Opal. She was going to kill me if I didn’t go along with her.”

  “I’m sure Black Opal will find it in his heart to forgive you. Come back to the counter and stay put,” Cameo commanded.

  She inspected the highwayman in his blue velvet trousers and jacket. He looked as if he might be playing the piccolo in a symphony somewhere elegant, somewhere he had never been himself.

  Opal put a hand over his face instinctively, covering his left eye, which was a white, sightless orb. Some of his loose blonde hair fell over the left side of his face as he lowered his head. For a moment he considered going for his sword.

  “You really don’t look much like your wanted posters at all,” she smirked.

  He tilted his head to one side as he looked at her finally.

  Her eyes were gray, and cloudy. Her face, although well proportioned, seemed too gaunt, too white—quite eerie, actually. He wondered if there was more to tell than the stories of murders she had committed for the Association. There were tales of her residing in the graveyard of Yetta, tales that said she was not one of the living at all. He had lived in Lockenwood a long time, he had watched the Association grow over the years, and he knew Cameo was someone who had been part of that group for a long time, long enough that she must be someone to be reckoned with.

  She was smiling at him in a knowing and amused sort of way.

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid that artist had some difficulty representing an outlaw who possesses so much dash.”

  “Indeed.” She held out her hand, “The brooch.”

  Opal set it in her hand slowly.

  Her eyes went to the rapier hanging on his hip then back up to his face realizing he wasn’t going to fight.

  She put the cameo in a small pouch on her belt, and then backed out of the shop, dagger in hand. In one quick turn of black wool, she was out the door.

  “She didn’t even want the rest of your loot?!” Paul asked, incredulous.

  Opal rushed to the door, only to watch her heading north through the woods, presumably on her way back to Lockenwood, through the graveyard.

  “Was that really Cameo? I can’t believe we aren’t both dead. I’ve heard she’s a heartless killer.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard that too.” Opal said, watching the tangle of her long hair in the distance.

  “Why didn’t you draw your sword?”

  “She—she had a pistol.”

  “You could’ve beaten a pistol,” Paul said.

  Opal ran a blue velvet hand through his hair, “No, I couldn’t.”

  Chapter Two

  THE HUNTING PARTY FANNED out into the woods on Belfour’s estate. Cameo stood behind a blackened tree, bored and waiting. She had two shots—two loaded pistols—and if she missed, she was likely going to be stuck following Leon around for weeks. Wick wouldn’t be too terribly pleased either, but there wasn’t a time limit on the death of the prince, as far as she knew.

  She followed a lot of prettily dressed lords and servants roaming the grounds. There was one large gentleman in a spectacular ensemble of pale blue loading a blunderbuss while talking to another man in brown. For a moment she thought about that silly, deep blue frock that Opal had on days ago, when last she had seen him. She smiled to herself.

  Leon and his dog burst out of the wood suddenly and ran toward the man in the pale blue. Hidden in the trees, she lifted her pistol and waited for the group of hunters to take a shot at their prey, and then she took her shot as well, at the somewhat portly prince.

  The man fell to the ground instantly.

  Cameo dropped her used weapon and dashed toward the town. Moments later, a gang of lords and servants had been rounded up to find the thug who had just shot their prince. Heavy gray smoke hung in the air where she had just been standing.

  The assassin ran for a few minutes until she got close to the town of Lockenwood, then she fell into the pace of the people on the busy street. She slid on her gloves to cover the black powder, bought a new flask, and had it filled at the local tavern on the walk back to Wick’s tower. She took a swig of whiskey to calm her nerves. Reflecting on the shot, Cameo was somewhat impressed that she had actually hit the target through that wooded part of the estate.

  “Good day to you, Lady.” One of the coachmen recognized her and tipped his hat.

  She nodded at him; it was easier than trying to catch her breath.

  The sun was starting to go down; it was nearly time for dinner, and she was glad to know that she would actually be getting a bath, a change of clothes, and a decent meal for the first time all week.

  As she met the familiar guards at the front door, she knew she was going to be safe. Leon was going to have a beautiful funeral with lovely bouquets of flowers, and a large mausoleum in the graveyard of Yetta, and she was going back to her room at the top of the tower.

  Cameo was at the foot of the stairs when Pindray came around the corner.

  “The Lady wants to see you.”

  “This moment?”

  “Yes, I’m to take you to her.”

  She dusted off her clothes and followed the lad unhappily. He led her through the dining hall and back further until they came to the large, oak doors, polished beautifully, which slid open and inside revealed Wick’s living room.

  There was a very large fireplace, and the woodwork in the room was done on a large scale, with most of it painted white. Cameo’s eyes lingered on the gaudy turquoise and gold wallpaper and the animal heads mounted on the walls.

  Pindray pointed her toward Wick, who was seated on a sofa near the hearth, and the figure of another assassin standing nearby waiting for her to join them.

  As she grew closer she realized it was Clovis Gail DePell. He was a man of about fifty, with black, shoulder-length hair and leathery skin. He was the other long-time assassin with the Association. She would rather be sticking a pointy implement into Clovis than standing next to him.

  “Lady.” Cameo’s voice came deep and flat as she inclined her head in a bit of a bow to Wick.

  “Ah, Cameo, you’ve finally gotten back. That little trick took you long enough, didn’t it? A week. Isn’t that a bit long for a job that simple?” Wick chewed her pipe as she was searching the cushions of the sofa for something, perhaps the tobacco, perhaps a light?

  Clovis moved to light her pipe.

  “Ack, no. I don’t need that.” She turned to Cameo once more, “Have you
greeted your Associate?”

  “No.”

  Clovis pretended that he was taken aback by her response.

  Wick tossed a bag of coin at Cameo, “there, now you’re paid. The man died in case you hadn’t heard.”

  “Was that why you asked me—”

  “No.” She looked over at Pindray, “You can leave us now.”

  The lad left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Once he was out of sight, Wick sat back and lit her pipe. Smoke bloomed around her white hair; she sighed and rearranged her girth a bit. “All right, Cameo, I have to send you right back out the door. You’ll go tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “It seems you had a bit of trouble on the road?”

  For a minute she wasn’t certain what Wick was getting at, “We got stopped on the way to Terrence, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Exactly. Got held up by highwaymen is what the coachmen told me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you had your cameo taken.”

  Cameo touched the brooch at her collar to make certain it hadn’t fallen off. “Yes, but I got it back.”

  “Mmm hmm,” she pulled out two pieces of parchment and handed them to the assassins before her. Cameo’s eyes fell upon the sketch of Black Opal once more.

  “Avamore wants him taken out.”

  She met Wick’s eyes quizzically. Avamore was the duke who actually ruled over Shandow, an isle in the sea off the north coast of Lockenwood. But it was unpleasantly cold there, so he spent most of his time living near his brother, the king, Bainbridge Belfour in Lockenwood. Wick catered to Avamore’s requests more than any other noble that Cameo was aware of. He was a young, handsome man, and she assumed Wick was enamored with him. He probably hired the hit on Leon Belfour, his own nephew.

  Cameo took a swig from her flask in the middle of the meeting. “What did he do to Avamore?”

  “That’s not important. The important thing is that he needs to be deceased, and soon.”

  She looked over at Gail in disgust. “Why is he at this meeting?”