by Kiki Howell
Ivana, hearing the beating as the assassins began busting their fists through the wooden doors, looked to the back of the church. If she could get to a back exit, she could have a fighting chance to get away.
Running towards the back, past the altar, she gasped as a lone figure stepped out of the shadows. The mysterious person's face was covered with a ski mask, and he slowly walked towards Ivana. Her face wet with tears, she held up her hand with the wooden stick like a shield and backed away.
"You don't have to do this," Ivana pleaded. "There can be peace between all of us. Let me fight to make that happen. Please, I don't want to kill anyone."
The shadowed assassin stopped and slowly pulled off his mask, revealing a familiar face to her.
Ivana's lips trembled holding back tears, completely shocked at who stood before her. She dropped the stick, all will leaving her body. She stood still, but almost defiant, ready to accept her fate. Ivana shook her head, defeated at the revelation of her killer.
"Why? This won't stop or change anything. We were making progress." Tears ran down her face. "There can still be peace."
The shadowed assassin pulled out a long, silver stiletto blade, watching it reflect against the church light, then advanced towards Ivana with a deep voice.
"No peace."
"WHERE'S FUCKING FRIENDS when you need 'em?" Tristan spat aloud to himself, still backed against the Hummer. He shook off the wound in his shoulder, hit the slide release lever on both weapons, and racked the the slide forward, ready to rock.
He had to make a run for it quickly and get to Ivana in the church. They were sitting ducks out there and needed better cover. As two more assassins came out of the frantic, running crowd, he quickly fired at them both, watching one drop, and he made a break for it. He began running toward the church, continuing to lay down fire, clipping assailants whenever he could.
As he reached the steps, he felt the force of a bullet strike the flesh of his left leg, forcing it from under him. Struggling to get up, he fired at one assassin breaking down the church door when another bullet struck Tristan's arm.
That is when the other assassin at the door threw a familiar, silver ball in his direction.
As it began to charge up, Tristan's eyes widened and with a curse, tried to shield himself with his thick, black coat. The white light flashed and Tristan growled as his exposed hands and side of his face were burned. He squeezed his eyes shut a little too late, and the light singed his pupils. His body throbbing, he struggled to get up when the assassin at the door went up to him and put a foot on his throat.
Tristan raised his gun and pulled the trigger, but there was nothing but the click of an empty chamber.
"Oops," the assassin spoke through his mask with a muffled, but masculine voice. "Looks like someone's out of rounds. That sucks."
Tristan choked out a laugh. "Yep, it does. Guess I'll have to kill you the old fashioned way."
With blinding speed, he grabbed the assailant's foot and turned it so he flipped and plummeted to the concrete next to Tristan. Yelling a gut-wrenching wail, Tristan brought his left arm down with his blade. Simultaneously, he broke the assailant's neck and stabbed him in the chest, ensuring the assassin's death.
He heard the sound of motorcycles speeding off, as assassins fled among the chaos they caused in the Quarter.
Pulling himself up, he looked at the deceased assassin, still masked and mysterious.
Leaning down, he pulled the mask off of the assassin's face and fell back onto the steps. He stared down at the black-clad corpse and realized he had seen that face before. A long time ago, perhaps training.
Claude was his name. An old Parisian executioner from the French Revolution, but it couldn't be.
Claude was a vampire. Why would vampires try to kill Ivana?
Panting, he got up and looked at the church door. It was beaten and punctured, but still holding. She had to still be safely inside. Tristan used all his strength to move as the silver slugs still in his body began to burn intensely and slowly drain him. He scrambled to the door, beating against it.
"Ivana!"
No answer.
He backed up, and with all his might, heaved at the weakest area of the door to finally break through. His haphazard momentum threw him down onto the cold marble of the old church.
"Ivana!" he called out.
A pang in his gut formed at the returned silence as he called out to her. The moonlight from the blood moon cast Tristan's shadow ominously against the floor and church wall, which were dimly lit with gaslights.
Bracing himself on the stone font of holy water, he finally got fully to his feet again and peered ahead down the rows of pews to the altar.
He froze as he saw a familiar figure in a black gown laid on the altar table.
His breath caught in his throat and he quickly started a combination of running and walking to get to the altar, which now felt a million miles away from him and only got longer.
"Ivana!"
When he finally reached the carpeted steps stained in blood, he slowed and turned his head at the sight, realizing he was too late.
He stood over the altar and lifted up Ivana's vacant and ashen face. A pentagram was drawn in blood on her forehead, and her once beautiful black dress was soaked with blood, still dripping from the train of her gown.
He gritted his fangs as he witnessed her laid out like a sacrifice with several wounds in her chest. The execution was brutal and unforgiving. He sighed in remorse as her once lively features now looked more like gray stone. Her body was limp, all life removed, this time, forever.
"No!" Rage building within him, he slammed his hand down on the altar, the marble cracking at the force. He had failed. He’d failed miserably at his mission, and now Ivana was dead.
It all fell apart on him, and he had no idea why or how. Something wasn't right. This wasn't right. She didn't do anything to deserve this. It was all he could think of as his strength diminished and he collapsed onto to the floor.
I'm not going to die, he commanded of himself. I'm going to live just so I can find out who's behind this and make them fucking pay.
I'm not done yet, Mr. Darkness. Still more hell raising to do.
Tristan passed out as he saw feet run towards him.
.
Chapter Four: Fallout
TRISTAN’S EYES SHOT open, and he gasped for a breath as he sat up. He felt the chill of air on him and the biting smell of bleach as he tried to focus on his surroundings.
Bright hospital lamps blazed on his pale skin, forced him to hold his arm up to shield his eyes. He could only see, but didn't feel the needle and line in his arm that was most likely used to flush the silver remnants out of his body.
His torso was bare with a sheet covering the nude lower half of him. He leaned forward, trying to get himself moving again.
"Take it easy, Tristan!" A familiar voice broke the silence. Tristan felt a hand on his shoulder trying to push him back down, and he quickly shoved it off with a deep frown.
"You fucking take it easy!" he yelled at Dashiell. He put the heels of his palms in his eyes and groaned.
Everything came rushing back to him. The ambush. Ivana. He turned to his right to see Dashiell standing next to him, whose face was solemn, dismal.
Good. Just as it should be.
Tristan, with bared fangs, grabbed Dashiell's shirt and pulled him close, anger erupting from every pore.
"Where the fuck were you? Huh? What the hell happened to you and Christophe! You were supposed to be watching our back. Her back!" He violently shook him and Dashiell pushed him away, releasing himself from the struggle.
"Now she's dead!" Tristan finished.
Dashiell ran a hand through his thick, brown hair, keeping his distance from the angry Commander. The failure was indeed his to share, and Tristan had every right to be pissed, but it was beyond his control.
"We were tailing you until we got cut off suddenly. You changed routes, everyone we
saw started to look suspicious, and I couldn't communicate with you or Christophe. We all fell apart, and about time I caught up to you, it was too late. Christophe is MIA."
Tristan slammed his fists against the cold, steel table. He had thought of everything for this plan, working hard to properly take steps to deliver Ivana to her destination safely, but it was all for nothing. Nothing he did seemed to matter. She was dead, and he had to answer to his failure.
"Assassins were waiting for us. They knew we would be there. We were set up, Tristan."
But it was more than that. Someone wasn't telling the whole story. He knew what he saw, that vampires were part of that attack. It didn't make sense, but he saw it with his own eyes. They were trying to kill Ivana. Why? He wanted to tell Dashiell, but considering he no longer had any idea who was friend or foe, he just nodded in agreement.
"Has anyone picked up the scene yet?" Tristan's eyes trained on Dashiell as he stood at the foot of the steel table.
"Cleaners have come and gone. There were a lot of witnesses given Halloween, so they had to pose as local law enforcement, then tag and bag as many Supe bodies as possible and clear the hell outta there. That's how they found you."
"Did they find anything strange or peculiar about the hit? Nothing that could help identify who the hell pulled it off?"
Clearly, if bodies were being picked up, the cleaners would have discovered the dead vampires among the collection and start asking questions.
Dashiell shook his head. "If they did, they haven't said anything to me. The cleaners are still sorting through the bodies and said they would give The Three a report as soon as they were done. But no word yet. What did you mean by 'strange or peculiar'?"
Tristan stretched his torso as he sat up, feeling the crack of his bones as they continued to heal. He imagined a mob of angry vampires, led by The Three, waiting for him when he opened his eyes. Nothing was more certain than the fierce retribution Javen would demand due to the loss of his one and only companion. The companion that Tristan was charged to protect, even if that was at the risk of his own life.
"I don't know what I mean. Everything's fucked. Where are The Three?" Tristan rubbed his temples, already knowing the answer.
Dashiell sighed. "They are waiting in the throne room for you. No one is allowed in there until they talk to you. Livid would be an understatement at this point, and Javen is beside himself with anger. He knows the whole thing went fubar, and he wants answers."
Yep, he figured as much. So do I.
Tristan failed to protect the life of his companion. He didn't expect Javen to ever forgive him, and to be honest, Javen had vampires killed for a lot less.
Rest assured, The Three probably had a torture chamber waiting for him, regardless of his explanation. Crazy enough, that didn't frighten him. Hell, he's been tortured before.
No, his fear seeded from the unnerving ache in his brain that vampires had something to do with Ivana's death. He didn't yet know what level in the event they played, but the fact that they played in it at all was enough for the grotesque snake of suspicion to slither within the loyalty he had for those around him.
Tristan ripped out the IV line and slid off the steel table, situating his bare feet onto the cold marble of the floor.
"Where are my clothes?" Tristan asked quietly.
Dashiell grabbed the bag sitting on the stool next to him and tossed it to Tristan.
"Thanks. Go tell The Three that I'm awake and ready to seek an audience with them alone." His eyes cut up to Dashiell as he stepped into his pants and pulled him up the length of him. "Considering the circumstances, I'm sure that wouldn't be a problem. Sure they are just dying to see me."
Dashiell scratched his head. "Sure, but if you're trying to spare me from their wrath, I wouldn't bother." He was just as accountable for the failure, but The Three already had plans for Dashiell.
"No. I need to face them alone. There's places we need to go in this discussion that should only affect me and The Three. So, yes. I guess I am sparing you a bit."
Tristan buttoned up his black shirt, still slightly wet from blood. Some of it his, some the blood of the assassins, and some, the blood of Ivana.
The dark memory of her ashen, bloodied face invaded his thoughts, and his heart sank. She didn't deserve to die like that. Tristan knew she was no angel, because none of them were, but if there was ever such a thing as a "good" vampire, Ivana would've been it. She wasn't bloodthirsty or conniving. She hadn’t torture humans for fun and hadn’t sought political domination. As far as Tristan was concerned, Ivana was fucking Glinda, the Good Witch among the vampire race. She believed in harmony and followed her passion.
And look where that got her, he thought to himself. Slaughtered by those who felt her passion to unify as a threat. And who found it a threat? Unfortunately, nearly everyone. Supernatural beings weren't really big on societal changes.
The confused crinkle in Dashiell’s forehead suggested he wasn't totally okay with Tristan's rationale, but in either case, he’d rather not spend more time in front of The Three for them to tear him down at his part in the disaster. "Fair enough. Sync up with me once you get out. I wanna help get the bastards that did this. Ivana didn't deserve this, no matter what kinda asshole Javen can be."
"Will do." Tristan grabbed his coat off the back of the chair by the door and flung it behind him so he could slip his arms in. His long-lined, black, wool coat flapped like a dark cape as he walked out of the doors.
The long corridor was a bridge between the covert operations facility and The Three's mansion. Eager to talk to Takeshi, the head of the of cleaners, Tristan headed deeper into the facility, looking for him. His need to see if the theories running around in his head had any validity fueled each step he took. The clomping of his boots echoed through the hall as he headed to the last room from the furnace.
Entering the room, Tristan paused at the row of black body bags each laid out on their own steel table. The overhead florescent lights hummed over the tranquility of the dead laying in Takeshi's care.
Tristan stepped in and looked around. He and death never seemed to be far from each other, and today was no different.
"Takeshi!" he called out into the room of the dead. Continuing to walk further in, Tristan stopped at one of the body bags and slowly unzipped it. He watched the zipper trail down until a face was visible. Pulling back the thick plastic, Tristan frowned as he recognized the face staring empty back at him.
"What are you doing down here, Commander?" Takeshi asked as he walked up to Tristan.
He was dressed in an all-black, tactical jumpsuit, which covered most of his pale body with the exception of his arms. The vivid tattoos that adorned his arms were exposed from his pushed-up sleeves and seemed to raise off of his alabaster skin.
A former member of the Yakuza, Takeshi was quiet and didn't speak much of his past life or much in general. He was fiercely loyal to The Three and worked for Constance exclusively before she became part of them. Because of his reputation of silence, many saw him as a keeper of secrets as all he ever really spoke to was the dead. He knew how to "clean" up messes and bodies a fallout like tonight left behind, until no one was sure anything really happened at all.
Tristan snapped his eyes at Takeshi and back to the familiar corpse staring up at him. "I wanted to ask about the bodies cleaned up from Ivana's assassination. I killed some assassins during that scrap but didn't identify them." He shook his head as he recognized her as the witch that killed Greg. The one he had spared. "Was this Green Girl at the attack?"
Takeshi walked up to the body and nodded. "Yes, she was. Her body was taken in as well as a couple of other Green Girls found." He cast his reflective eyes to the row of bodies in the black bags. "It's been quite a busy night."
Tristan eyed Takeshi. "So the hit was all witches? That doesn't make any sense. They don't have the muscle to pull something like this off."
Takeshi moved to the other body next to the deceased witch and
unzipped the bag. "I didn't say that. We found some Were-shifters too."
He looked down at the male Were-shifter, whose face was semi-morphed between human and beast. It was normal for a shifter to die in "limbo"—a combination of their beast heart and human one. It made it easy to identify their bodies, but very painful to hide from the human world. One of the many reasons why no one were big fans of the Were-shifters. They were the most monstrous and impulsive of the Supes, all with the thinnest veil of secrecy. No wonder the cleaners had to work fast. Luckily, the assassins were masked to reduce the risk of prying eyes.
"What the hell were Green Girls and Were-shifters doing pairing up to kill Ivana? "
Takeshi shrugged. "Very good question. It's confusing, really. She was in talks with their people."
Tristan sighed. This was even more perplexing than he thought. So, there were vampires, witches and Were-shifters at the attack. That's impossible, he thought to himself.
Tristan feared to share what he saw with anyone until he met with The Three, but he had to confirm something. He had to, because the way things were shaping up, Tristan was beginning to feel a bit like a lunatic.
"What other Supes were involved?"
Takeshi shook his head. "That's all my cleaners found. A few human bodies got jumbled in the mix since there were so many bystanders and the guys were in a rush, but that's it. No other creepies or crawlers of the night were found."
"No vampire bodies?" Tristan finally asked. "Except for Ivana's, that is?"
Takeshi looked at him confused, but rather curious of his question. "No, Commander. Are you talking about vampires as part of the attack? As in vampire assassins?"
"Yes."
Takeshi stepped back as if Tristan had blasphemed. "No. There were no vampire bodies. And I would have anticipated as much, wouldn’t you?"
Tristan frowned. "I would not have asked if I felt that way, Takeshi. So, you're saying no other vampire's bodies were found among the assassins? Not even ash, where it was suspected a vampire was present?"
