by Kiki Howell
In more ways than one, they had killed her too, leaving a shell of the person she had once been, and dimming the hopes of the person she dreamt of becoming. This shell had no place for emotions other than fury gone hard and cold. She had to admit though, that the physical exertion required to dispense of number four had at least offered a modicum of relief. At least, this was the best word she could come up with to describe the fleeting feeling. God, if only lots of wine and a good man could offer me an escape right now. She had to laugh at the idea. The thought of her trusting a man enough to relax and let go was ludicrous. Like everything else in her life, she’d lost interest in intimacy some time ago. She’d been unable to find release in emotionless sex, and no amount of wine or strong liquor seemed to keep her inebriated long enough.
White light reflected off the rain-slick street while the moon dozed, allowing the tall, man-made streetlamps to outshine her. Fog separated on contact with the lights, forming unique clouds and eerie figures. A few pedestrians scampered along, attempting to get off the streets before the mass exodus of vehicles overtook them. The downtown area wasn’t known for being the most family-friendly once the party ended. Treva made her way to the tiny apartment she’d called home for the past three weeks. She dropped the remnant of electrical tape on the sidewalk, lit a match, and watched the tape burn to ashes. The gloves had been tossed in a large city receptacle behind a shopping strip.
Warm, humid air shoved at her, belying the fact that it was mid-February, just as her notorious, come-hither strut, despite the high-heeled pumps, belied her current state of mind. She fingered the elaborate, gold mask purchased from a street vendor, making sure it still covered her face. She refused to reveal her overactive, omnipresent agitation by glancing from side to side, but she couldn’t do anything to decrease her accelerating heart rate. Someone was following her, and the menacing presence had been on her tail, just out of sight, for several blocks. “Bring it,” she whispered, craving more. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what she yearned for most, but the incessant restlessness of incompletion gnawed at her.
She palmed her Glock 43 underneath her navy windbreaker, ready to draw at the first sign of attack. She hadn’t originally expected to need it tonight, but the realization of being followed prompted her to pull it from the bag of tools she always kept within reach. Parade goers continued to celebrate the Mardi Gras season just one street over, some planning to remain on the street until after Midnight, others dressed to attend after-parties and balls. Now, she silently chastised herself for giving in to her need to blend into the crowd and feel normal for a few days. Loud drums, brass and woodwinds, and a conglomeration of voices, young and old rose and fell as the crowd called to colorful, decorated floats, each telling a story in 3-D. Ornate masks seemed to free the mob as they danced along with high school and college marching bands, swaying to the rhythm of jazz and liquor.
Their desperate inhibition easily spilled over to offer a surreal backdrop to the constant vigilance she kept just to survive. The mission of avenging her family’s murder was thrust upon her and ingrained before she could imagine an alternative, a systemic impulse that mutated into basic instinct. In spite of her need to hunt down and destroy her family’s killers, she had so wanted to believe she could get lost in the masks, parties, laughter and drunken noise of the celebration. Then like always, the moment she let her guard down, Hell took full advantage, its gigantic, iron wings forcing holes in whatever dreams her future might hold.
The pistol was a recent purchase, as she’d never cared for guns, nor had she ever needed one before, but her anonymous benefactor had insisted. Much like a child longing to know who her parents were, Treva often found herself daydreaming about who her mysterious helper might be, but she had no more information now than she’d managed to obtain thirteen years ago. He or she had delivered a message to her at her parents’ memorial service via courier. The message contained information about procedures, approved drop points, and financial account numbers, including pin numbers.
Keeping her hand in position on the pistol, Treva remained vigilant. Despite earning a fifth-degree black belt in Jiu-Jitsu, time had taught her two things: for every would-be assailant she sensed, there were at least two more, and a gun was very likely faster than giving her enemies a good beat-down. The jury was still out on this last lesson, but having personally administered two much-deserved deaths tonight, she did not have the luxury of time. Despite his costume, she had spotted a huge cloaked man watching her from the crowd. His face was covered with a mask, but he moved like a predator, slow and determined. They had found her again, she assumed, even faster this time, and she much preferred being on the offensive, showing up to exact justice when the bastards least expected her. She could not afford to have anyone watching her every move.
She sprinted up the red-brick steps, took the stairs to her fourth-floor apartment, the top floor of the large, historical complex, and quickly entered her seven-digit code, grateful to the eccentric owners for adding 21st Century security to the historical complex. She considered the rickety elevator, but decided she could run the distance faster. All she needed was a few minutes to grab her things, and the entire neighborhood would be history. Closing the door behind her, she slid the extra deadbolt in place, then leaned against the door to catch a much-needed breath, but even that was short-lived. Treva’s usual welcome committee of electronic tones and beeps from her alarm was conspicuously missing.
Dropping the windbreaker in her chair beside the door with one hand, she slipped the mask over her head with the other, allowing the lightweight but useful disguise to fall on the floor. A faint metal-on-metal sound emanated from the kitchen, and Treva’s internal alarm went off, pumping adrenaline into her throat with the realization that someone was already inside her apartment. Stark white walls and minimal furniture allowed every creak and bump to echo loudly, leaving no room for doubt. The sound stopped, and her unasked question was met with silence and stillness as she moved stealthily toward the kitchen. Just as she stepped onto the linoleum floor and flipped on the light switch, she heard a swishing sound but couldn’t quite identify its origin.
She stood in the doorway and surveyed the room, then stepped inside, ready for anything. A rustling sound from her balcony drew her attention. She turned, pressed her back against the wall, and drew her pistol. The next few minutes seemed to take place in a time warp, like watching a movie in slow motion. She had no idea why she noticed them in that moment, but her twin Swiss Army knives hanging from the ceiling tinkled and appeared to be moving of their own volition. She automatically followed the most obvious line of contact to her sliding glass doors.
Suddenly, the doors exploded, sending large shards of glass flying into the room, and three men sprang at her as if catapulted inside. Dropping into a crouching position, she fired twice in rapid succession, and two men fell. The one on her left jerked from the impact. The sight of his body hitting the floor seemed unnatural, silent. She watched the bright red stain spread from the center of his chest, creating an animated puzzle piece on the intruder’s black turtleneck. The other man didn’t move, but she couldn’t see any blood. She’d nearly forgotten about their accomplice until the third man lunged forward, grabbed a handful of her thick hair, and yanked her forward, knocking the gun from her hand in the process.
The sound of her weapon clattering to the floor and sliding across the linoleum acted as a door closing the muted, slow-motion time warp. Focusing on the gun’s landing spot broke her temporary trance and fast-forwarded her to real time. Her body seemed to act on its own as her training kicked in. Lifting both arms between her head and the attacker’s, she leveraged his force, allowed him to pull her up and forward, jabbed the insides of his arms with her elbows, and broke his hold on her. She then bent towards the floor, wrapped her arms around his right leg and pulled, twisting his knee and knocking him off balance in one fluid motion. The second the man hit the floor, Treva slid under the table and dived for her Glo
ck, but a gunshot peeled across the room before she could aim.
“Drop it, you little bitch!” The big man limped toward her, pointing his gun.
His red, blotchy face and the grimace he wore as he snarled told her to remain absolutely still until an opportunity for escape presented itself. With the level of anger he exhibited, she was certain he would screw up eventually. It would be his last mistake. Treva dropped the weapon, wondering briefly why he didn’t just shoot her and get it over with, but instead, his lips quivered as he continued yelling insults and something about his friend bleeding out, but she barely heard him, numbing herself to the verbal distraction. His words did not matter. She slowed her heartbeat and closed her eyes, willing him to come closer, just close enough for her to reach him.
A sigh nearly escaped her when she heard one of the other intruders scuffling to get up. She opened her eyes and watched him pull up, slapping his meaty hands on the kitchen table for assistance. As he stood, she felt pleased to know that she had hit her target after all. Blood ran down his hand and splashed onto the floor, but the wound she’d inflicted did not keep him from glaring at her as he walked over and joined his friend.
Seconds ticked by as the two men slowly approached, each moment stealing more than its share of time and patience. Then, they stopped, close enough to shoot without error, but too far away for her to use either one’s body weight against him.
The man with the limp pointed the gun at her head, then turned, handing it to the wounded one. “Here, you hold this and I’ll take care of her. Shoot her if she even twitches her little finger.” He motioned for her to stand, then nodded his head toward the sliding doors. “Get up! Keep your hands in front of you where I can see ‘em.”
The man with the gun waved it in the same direction.
Treva moved as slowly as she could, until she stood in the doorway leading to the small balcony. The man with the bleeding arm grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off the balcony floor, and she heard the other one hiss, “It’s gotta look like an accident.”
Why, she thought, almost saying it out loud. Why does my death have to look like an accident? There was no time to hear a reply before she was hoisted toward the railing. She grabbed the iron bar with both hands just before they tried to throw her off the balcony, then wrapped her legs around one of the men’s calves, locking her ankles behind him.
A loud roar broke through the scuffle, and she thought she saw a whirling circle of blue light just before a dark figure stepped into her apartment behind her attackers. All movement ceased except the newcomer, who moved swiftly and purposefully toward them until she felt both men being yanked back. She lost her balance as the loss of the large man’s body weight caused her to flip to the outside of the balcony. Hanging onto the rail with every ounce of strength she could muster, four-stories high, her pulse raced, a quick, shallow thing in her throat like a wounded bird gasping for life.
Her shadow of a life flashed before her, and she could barely remember what she would miss. All she could think about was how devastating it would be to leave two of her family’s killers alive. She hung on, squinting her eyes to see everything unfolding before her as the cloaked figure lifted the two assailants from the balcony by their necks, one with each hand. Before either of them could struggle or gasp, their mouths open in shock, he flicked his wrists, breaking their necks with a sickening crack! Treva jumped, nearly losing her grip on the balcony’s ironwork.
The foreboding figure held the men in the air a few moments longer, watching their feet dangle as if they were puppets on unmanned strings, then dropped them like trash. Their bodies hit the concrete like large pieces of hail, then, silence.
Treva stared into eyes so dark she felt as if she was falling despite her grip on the iron railing. She recognized the huge, cloaked figure she’d seen shadowing her at the parade earlier, realizing that he was much more than just a stalker, then started in surprise when he reached down and grasped her arm.
“Give me your other hand,” he said. His voice sounded smooth and mellow, and his unrecognizable accent added to the air of aristocracy he exuded, give or take what she’d witnessed.
Treva immediately did as he asked, and simultaneously wondered how he could be connected to the animalistic sound she had heard heralding his arrival. He lifted her over the rail as if she weighed no more than a sheet hung out to dry, and that was exactly how she felt. Unnatural exhaustion washed over and through her when he set her feet on the balcony again, and she turned to look at him, absently wondering about the origin of his sexy accent.
His face was covered with a gold mask, and his eyes were so deep they were almost black, depthless, dark waters, the shiny pearls the only windows into a face she could not see. Something about the mask he wore made her want to see him even more, but the one thing she knew for sure; this was no ordinary man.
Chapter Three
TREVA REACHED OUT to shake the masked stranger’s hand. “Treva Evers.”
“I know.” Instead of shaking her hand, he bent from the waist with one hand behind his back, placed his free hand beneath hers, and graced the tops of her fingers with a kiss. As if that chivalrous move wasn’t enough, he removed his mask before rising to face her again.
Treva’s breath caught somewhere in her throat, making speech impossible. The harsh lines of his face were etched in perfection. Striking, dark eyes were accompanied by curly black hair, olive skin, thick, straight eyebrows and stern, full lips. For no apparent reason, other than the fact that it had been a while since she’d been with a man, her mouth watered to taste those lips.
“I am Drayden Sorcher.”
His smooth, mellow voice shook her from her erotic thoughts, allowing her mouth to take over again. “Who are you, Drayden Sorcher, and how did you know to show up when you did?”
He smiled, revealing straight, white teeth with slightly elongated incisors “Right now, I am simply the man who just saved your life.”
Treva’s heart made an escape attempt from her chest, leaping towards him, and she crossed her arms underneath her breasts to regain composure. “Yeah, that. Well, I had it under control.”
Drayden tilted his head to the side as if to say, “Really?”
She gave in with a hesitant smile, instantly deciding that she liked his style. Due to her lifestyle, there wasn’t much room in her life for close relationships, but she sensed a kindred spirit in Drayden. Due to the fact she’d spent more time than most committing violent acts, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of the unusual warmth she felt for him. She absently wondered if his perceived likeness was due to the ease with which he had gotten rid of her attackers, choosing instead to equate her instant trust with the lessons and knowledge her parents had instilled in her. As a child of two nerds who were scholars of all things magical, mystical, and paranormal, there was no way she could have escaped an unusual level of acceptance for and knowledge of happenings that were beyond normal. She was fairly sure this qualified. “Okay, thank you. I was about to get my ass handed to me if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”
He reached over and gently removed a stray hair from her forehead. “You’re welcome, Lady Treva. We can’t stay here though, so pack whatever you want to keep, and give me a minute or two to clean up here. Do not return to the kitchen or balcony no matter what you hear. I’ll meet you at the front door.”
She wondered briefly why he’d added the part about not returning to the area no matter what she heard, but there was no time to waste. She stopped in the kitchen and grabbed the knives her father had given her, then headed down the hall to her bedroom. Once there, she grabbed her getaway bag, which she always kept packed, and took it into the bathroom to add her toothbrush and other last minute personal care items.
Glancing at her small bathroom clock just before adding it to her bag, she noticed that less than three minutes had passed. She threw the bag over her shoulder and headed back down the hall with every intention of returning to the balcony. Jus
t as she turned into the kitchen doorway, she heard Drayden.
“Lady Treva.” Standing at the front door looking like everything her body hungered for, Drayden stopped her in her tracks. He shook his head from side to side, modeling the nonverbal cue of a wise parent forbidding a disobedient child from breaking an established rule. “I’ve already taken care of the bodies. We should go now.”
He spoke of taking care of the bodies in the same way normal people mentioned taking out the trash, and she had no idea how he could have accomplished the feat in less than three minutes, but again, he had broken the neck of each of the men simultaneously with one hand. “How did you get rid of them so fast?” She stepped out of the front door as Drayden held it for her.
“Years of experience, Lady Treva. There’s another parade starting. Would you like to watch?”
His quick subject change did not go unnoticed, but Treva felt so intrigued by Drayden that she didn’t want the night to end. For the first time in years, she felt something – not fear or unease, but the desperately sought after spark missing from her life for far too long. As long as he was close, her stomach clenched and rolled at will, flooding her body with the most delicious need. “No, I think I’ve had enough parades for tonight, but the fair is in town too if you like that sort of thing. I take it you’ll be accompanying me.”
“I’m yours for the night, so whatever you want to do is fine.”
“So, what are you now, my bodyguard?”
“Yes.”
“Really? I was only kidding. Who hired you?”
“You have friends in very high places, Lady Treva.”
