by JA Huss
“I know,” he says back in that deep rumbling voice. His body relaxes. “I’m Six today too.”
I tilt my head and stare at his green eyes as I continue to pile sand on his feet. Most grownups don’t want to play with me, and I’ve never had a hunter even look at me before. But he’s not a hunter yet. Today is a special day for him too.
I stand up and run over to grab a stick near my towel and then dart down to the wet sand. The tide is going down and this is the best time to draw. When the tide is coming in, it erases your pictures. But when it’s going out, they stay until the sun bakes them and the wind makes the picture shift back into nothing but ripples.
I fall to my knees as I get to the water’s edge and then look over my shoulder. He’s watching me carefully. “I’m going to draw you a picture!” I yell back at him.
He nods and smiles as my father walks up and sits down next to him. I know they are talking about me, but I don’t care. I’m drawing a picture. I draw notes first. I read piano so I can make all kinds of notes. I copy the song I was writing last week. It’s a simple one, but it’s a sweet melody that I’ve been humming for weeks before I decided to write it down in notes.
I draw the piano next. And me, playing it. I draw a guitar and a violin. And my dad comes over to see what I’m doing and not breaking any rules before he leaves.
I look over my shoulder as my dad walks away with the green-eyed hunter. My dad puts a hand on his shoulder and they talk about serious things. I can tell by the look on their faces.
And then they both look at me and the hunter shakes his head.
My father puts up a hand and smiles, pointing over at me, then he claps him on the back and turns away.
For a minute I think that the hunter will leave with him, but he turns towards me and starts walking.
My stick begins drawing out the final instrument as he stands over me. “That’s a nice picture.”
I look up and he’s shielding his eyes from the sun as he studies me. “It’s for you. A present.”
“What’s your name?” he asks me again.
“Lionfish,” I answer back, giggling. “That’s my hunter name, what’s yours?”
He laughs with me now and tsks his tongue. I’m not allowed to ask these things, but he’s not either. And he did anyway. “You made that up.”
“So make one up,” I challenge him back. “You remind me of sea grass so I will call you sea grass.”
“Sea grass! How boring.”
“But…” I can’t stop my smile. My cheeks get all hot. He squats down next to me now and his gaze falls over my drawing. My heart beats a little faster. I wonder if he can see my secret? I want him to see it. I want him to guess. But I don’t want to be caught giving out such important information. So I keep talking. “But your eyes are green like the sea grass. And I saw a manatee yesterday eating sea grass. You remind me of that.”
He lowers the hand he’s been using as a sun shield and I can’t stop looking at him. “And your eyes are amber, like the lionfish.”
Amber… I’ve never heard of that color before. I will have to look it up.
“Sister!” Nick calls from down the beach. I lean to the side so I can see around the hunter and spy my brother. He’s not happy.
“What?” I call back. Why is he mad?
“It’s time for cake,” Nick says as he runs up and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet. He glares at my new friend as I’m tugged away. But a few feet up the beach I turn back and catch the hunter standing up to follow us. “Don’t forget your present!” I yell at him. He has a puzzled expression and then glances down at the sand drawing and smiles.
I hope he never forgets that present.
Because I want him to remember me.
Chapter Eighteen - Harper
I drew him a harp. Right in the middle of all the other instruments.
This makes me smile even though so much shit’s going wrong in my life right now. Finding out that James is the man from the beach all those years ago is gonna require a lot of thinking on my part. How do I feel about that? What are his intentions? I have a lot of questions but right now I allow myself to smile.
When I finally told him my name out there under the pier, it was a very special moment for him. A moment he’d waited almost thirteen years for. And it felt special to me too.
He’d smiled. I like it, he’d said.
And back when we turned Six, James stayed that whole day for my party. He sat across from me at the table. He clapped when Nick and I blew out our candles. He handed me another present when we were alone later. A set of colored pencils to draw in my new notebook.
That night I drew a picture and I wished the green-eyed man Happy Six Day. I hope you’ll be my friend, I wrote at the end in my childish handwriting.
The next morning he was gone. And so was my notebook.
I cried for days over that loss. Even though my six-year-old self could not understand why, my eighteen-year-old-self can.
I fell in love with him that day on the beach. Maybe it was only a childhood crush, but it felt real.
My mind wanders back to my father during this period. He left James with Nick and me all day. We didn’t even have a nanny, just James. And later, after we were back on the ship and the celebrations were coming to a close, Nick was carried off to our room after falling asleep on the observation deck. But James stayed behind with me. Just a few more minutes. That’s all we had. James spent the entire day with me. We turned Six together.
I hold the notebook, praying to whomever is in charge of wish-granting that there is something inside this notebook. Something more than this little drawing by me. And for once, as I turn the page, my wish is granted.
I almost have a moment of regret. Like I used up something special asking for the handwriting inside this book.
But then I read the first page and I know, if I’m never granted another wish in my life, it was worth it.
Because it says…
Dear Lionfish,
I hope you had a happy Six Day. I stole your gift. You’ll probably cry when you find it missing tomorrow, so I’m sorry about that. But I need your innocent words to remind me why I do what I do. Why I will become what I will become. And why I had to tell your father no. I hope one day you’ll understand.
There is no name, but at the bottom of the page he says:
P.S. I’ve been thinking about it and sea grass is still pretty boring. But I might like to give boring a try.
James. How could I have forgotten him? I knew he felt familiar, and one day twelve years ago is not grounds for remembering. But all the things that made him special to me that day made him special to me under the pier too. There’s so many things to process with this one short note, but then I flip the page and find more.
And more, and more, and more. Every page of this notebook is filled with his block-style handwriting. The entire book is nothing but uncensored James.
I flip back to the second entry and read the date. My birthday. One year later. There’s a picture of me stuck between the pages, taken from a distance from the blurriness, but it’s clear enough to make me smile. I had on a floppy orange hat. I remember it so well. It was made out of denim and I thought was the coolest thing. Add in my white sunglasses and my green bathing suit and I was a statement in second-grade fashion.
Dear Lionfish,
I guess I have to watch you from a distance since I turned down the Admiral last year. But that’s OK. I’m used to it. Everything I do in life is from a distance. And since I’m only seventeen, I’ve got a lot of long-distance living ahead of me. I hope your year has gone better than mine. I’m glad you have no idea what really happens in this world, because I’d die a little inside if you knew. My little sister is gone. My mother had a breakdown, and my father ignores us. My first eight assassinations are history. I was shot twice, tortured once, left for dead, and rescued.
I guess the only thing that matters this year was the rescue.
I
appreciate the rescue. They tell us not to get attached to each other. The other hunters are not supposed to be our friends. Never, ever has a face looked so friendly as One’s when he came to get me. And now I have a debt I might not be able to pay.
Your friend,
Six
There is another date and another entry the next year.
Dear Lionfish,
I need to get this out in case you ever read this. I didn’t come here to spy on you from afar. I was ordered by your father. It seems he has a hard time accepting no for an answer. So my assignment is to sit in this restaurant and watch you play on the beach. I’m good and drunk right now, so I apologize for my sloppy writing. But accepting someone’s daughter as payment is more than even my assassin’s soul can handle.
I do not want you.
I will never want you.
Six
Good God, I didn’t expect resentment. I close the book and all those happy thoughts I had a minute ago are gone. He doesn’t want me. My heart beats fast again and I take a few deep breaths to calm it. Harper, be reasonable, that inner voice says. That was a long time ago. He was very young.
Eighteen.
He was eighteen that year. Not a kid anymore. And not a novice assassin either.
I take the book over to the couch and settle back against the plush light green cushions. He has a thing for green. The house is the same color outside. I open the book to the fourth entry. My birthday three years later.
Dear Lionfish,
Once again, your asshole father sentences me to baby-watching. Once again you play on the beach. And once again I sit here and think about how many people are dead this year because of me. Ten. Ten more people added to my tally. You’re still a cute little blonde girl. How old now, nine? I’m nineteen. A fucking man. You know what I was doing for my last birthday? Take one guess.
This year I was invited to a private island. Right across from the one you’re on. Your father left me binoculars and I resisted watching you for almost the entire day. But the islands are not that far apart and I heard your squealing laughter when they brought out the cake.
And now I can’t take my eyes off you.
I don’t want you.
No amount of innocent smiles will make me love you. Because you are everything wrong with this dirty, dark fucked-up life I live.
Six
I have to swallow down the bile rising up from my stomach as I finish.
Surely he didn’t feel this way every year. Did he?
Dear Lionfish
Dear Lionfish
Dear Lionfish
Dear Lionfish
Dear Lionfish
Dear Lionfish
Dear Lionfish
Seven years pass and with each letter, the words are more venomous and hateful. But the last entry is not addressed to me and it was not on my birthday. It’s dated a few months ago.
Dear Amber,
Let every life I take in your name be the proof of my love.
James
I don’t know why, but the fact that he signed his name James instead of Six hurts more than the love part. Because this Amber person meant something to him. More than me, that’s for sure.
I disgust him. My age especially—he made that clear in letter after letter. When he told me back in Huntington that he was not bothered by my age, I knew he was lying. But this? This is much more than being bothered.
It’s almost… repulsion.
I’m just a lionfish.
What did he say to me back in Huntington? The pretty girl with the poison daggers poking through her skin.
That’s how he sees me. For real. He’s here for one of two reasons. To take me back to my father or to take me for himself. And I’m not sure I like either option. Because from the way it’s looking, he’s got no real feelings for me beyond what I can do for him.
I’m just a way forward into revenge.
I think back to the message from Nick. We’ll talk soon, he’d said. Nick is the one I trust. Not James. And if Nick knows where I am, then I’m not in any danger from James. Nick would not leave me some place to get hurt. He’d give me instructions to follow and get me to safety. So, if he didn’t give me bug-out instructions, I need to stay put.
I stick the little notebook in my pocket. I really do not want to have that conversation with James. At all. I don’t want to hear the excuses. I don’t want to hear the fake promises he has ready for me, should I stop being compliant. I don’t want to watch his face when he lies.
He will lie. I’ve always known he was lying, didn’t I? I’ve always felt it.
And when he does lie…
I reach into my pants and pull out the gun.
I’ll be ready.
Chapter Nineteen - James
I hate this kid.
Most of the time I’m OK with kids. I sorta like them. If I wasn’t a killer, and my children wouldn’t become property like I did, then yeah, I might have a kid.
But this Sasha girl. I have nothing. No feelings whatsoever. And that’s weird, because a few hours ago I felt sorry for her. I bought her some clothes. I picked some leaves out of her hair. Like I was on my way to caring. Or at the very least, giving more than zero fucks about her. But not anymore.
Because she’s lying.
She’s lying and even though I can guess what she’s hiding, I don’t like having to guess. I like being in on the plan. So I’m pissed about the lying—and she shot an arrow at me. I’m still sorta pissed about that too.
“Fucking kid.”
“Fucking hunter,” she snaps back.
“You’re like ten years old. No swearing.”
“Fourteen.”
“Twelve.”
“Thirteen.”
She’s pushing my buttons on purpose now, sitting on the other side of the aisle. It’s only a five-passenger plane, so she’s not that far away. A few feet. But the gulf of hostility between us seems insurmountable. Her eyes are wide and alert, her body posture tense and ready for an attack. And I don’t blame her for that because if we weren’t up in a plane, I’d be choking the life out of her until she gave up her secret. But I need Harrison. I do not have time to find and vet another pilot. Especially since Merc is busy. He’s my go-to for off-the-books shit like that.
“Almost there, folks,” Harrison calls from the front.
Just keep cool, Tet. Just keep cool until you get her alone. Then all bets are off. I might not have ever killed a little girl before, but there’s a first time for everything. I crack my knuckles.
“I’ll fight back,” she says, just loud enough so I can hear but Harrison cannot. “I won’t let you get me.”
I nod but stare out the window closest to me, not meeting her gaze. “I’m shaking, kid. Quaking in my fucking boots.”
“You should be.”
I laugh a little at her arrogance.
“They always laugh at first.”
I look over for that little crack and she smiles like she’s won. “You think you’re me? You think that half-assed training your father provided is equal to me?” Her face scrunches up when I mention her father. “You’re nothing, Sasha. Nothing but another girl to be sold. A piece of property. Your father killed himself out there that day. He was caught doing all sorts of—”
She hurls herself across the aisle at me, her hands reaching for my throat. “Shut up!” she screams. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
I’m trying to untangle her when she’s thrown across the aisle and back into her seat by Harrison. “You,” he says, pointing a gun at her. “Sit your fucking ass down on my plane or I’ll tie you up.”
“Fucking kid,” I mumble.
“And you.” Harrison points the gun at me now and I lift an eyebrow. He does not flinch. “I know what you are. But you’re dead without me to land this thing. So keep your hate to yourself until you get off my fucking plane.”
He’s right. If Sasha and I want to kill each other, then we need him to put us back on the ground
first.
I look over at her and she’s looking out her window, crying silently. I can only tell by the erratic in-and-out pattern of her breathing and the abrupt rise and fall of her chest.
I look out my window as well, happy to see the familiar desert below. This is where we go. The North American hunters. When we need time, or space, or help… we seek out the desert. I know Merc has a few places in the desert. It’s the heat, I think. People hate it—hell, I hate it. But it’s refreshing. I like the burn. The dryness too. It envelops me. It dehydrates me.
We’re landing in Jean, not Las Vegas. It’s about thirty miles south. We stop here all the time. It’s cheaper to fuel up here, fly to LA or San Diego, then stop again on the way back to Colorado. I wish I could say that I didn’t travel this route all that often, but over the past year, this flight plan is as familiar as the desert below.
I don’t like to think about this year. Nothing good happened this year. It’s been an endless stream of killing. One after the other after the other.
And all of them were people I knew.
“Seatbelts,” Harrison barks from the front. “We’ll be on the ground in three minutes.”
I fasten my belt and the familiar click across the aisle tells me that Sasha does the same. She’s more in control. Her sadness, or anger, or frustration—whatever the fuck’s driving her right now—is tucked away for another time.
And I’m with her.
My anger is gone too. In its place is just the guilt. And hate. Not for her, or any of the other people on this earth who deserve my hate.
But for myself. How many dead bodies does it take for an assassin to grow a conscience?
The landing is smooth and the deceleration quick enough to make me struggle to keep my body pressed against the seat. But all of this—the flight, the pilot, the landing, the destination—it’s familiar and I like it.
