Requiem for Immortals

by Lee Winter

  She entered her with two fingers and no preamble, and Sonja issued a low moan, followed by a string of Korean too fast for Requiem to decipher. It didn’t need much translation. Sonja’s heat warmed her sleek black gloves, and the sticky, obscene sounds of their meeting filled the night air.

  Sonja’s gasps were choked but loud enough to draw attention. Requiem slammed her hand over her mouth. “Shut up,” she demanded.

  Sonja viciously bit her glove, and Requiem snarled, jerking her hand away. She grabbed a handful of hair, tugging her head back roughly. That exposed Sonja’s neck, and she couldn’t resist. Requiem made short work of claiming it with her teeth, scraping, then licking to ease the pain, and then nipping and biting once more. Sonja cried out as she undulated against her.

  Requiem pulled her hand out of the pants, rolled back onto her haunches, and in one powerful move, yanked down Sonja’s jeans and underwear until they were at her knees.

  This was exactly where she wanted her. Unable to move, unable to attack, bare and exposed to Requiem’s gaze.

  Requiem studied her as one might consider a specimen under glass. Sonja’s hairless lower lips, delicate, pink, and swollen, were wet with arousal. Sonja shivered before her. In anticipation or cold, Requiem couldn’t say.

  “Such a lovely body, little Nabi,” she purred. She traced several scrapes and nicks on her torso and thighs with her fingers. “Love bites from our colleagues, I see,” she said. “How thoughtful of them to leave souvenirs.”

  Sonja smirked. “I left worse on them. Those still walking, anyway.”

  “I have no doubt,” Requiem agreed with an amused smile and continued her slow journey south, her finger slipping lower until it found her slit once more. She dipped into the wetness, running up and down, then lifted her slippery leather-clad finger higher. She rolled the protruding clit in a circle. Sonja made an excited gasp, so Requiem focused on the exposed little protrusion, teasing, twirling, rolling.

  “You want this, don’t you,” Requiem said with a purr. “Me, fucking you? How long have you thought about it? How long have you wanted me? Tell me.”

  Sonja moaned. Requiem flicked her clit hard. Sonja gave a small, startled grunt of pain, so Requiem did it again and was satisfied to achieve the same result.

  “You get off on this,” Requiem said in a low voice. “The danger. The killing’s just incidental for you, isn’t it? The excitement comes from everything else. The build-up…” She pulled her fingers away from her clit, slid them down her swollen lips, pleased at Sonja’s soft whimper of regret at the loss of sensation. She rammed her fingers deep inside her, three this time.

  “The build-up beforehand and the high after the pay-off,” Requiem pumped again, “that’s what turns you on. Danger and thrills. Not the kills.”

  She listened to the noise, the slippery, sucking noise of leather pushing in and out of soaked flesh. “But what you love is this, with me,” she continued, slamming her fingers in harder, “most of all.”

  A whimper was her answer.

  “No comment?” Requiem lifted her eyebrow and looked up to study Sonja’s upturned face, flushed red, eyes blinking into the night. “If I sat on your face, if I made you lick me, would you like that? Little Nabi finally gets her tongue on the great Requiem’s cunt.”

  Sonja whimpered at the deliberately provocative word, and her head rolled listlessly to one side, her breath coming in pants. Requiem withdrew her sopping fingers and gave her clit another powerful flick. “Well?”

  “Screw you.” Sonja gasped. The words seemed wrenched from her.

  “Not unless I allow it.” Requiem sneered. A siren wailed in the distance. “Not long now.”

  She thumbed Sonja’s clit in circles, smirking as it twitched, begging for more. Sonja made a low keening noise.

  “Say it,” Requiem ordered. “You’ve wanted me since?”

  “Fuck off.” Then came another stream of Korean. This time, she recognised more than a few words, each worse than the last.

  “No need to be crass. I might just leave you like this if you don’t choose your words better.”

  She pulled her hand away, wiping her essence down Sonja’s bare thighs. Then she leaned forward, mouth just over her prey’s. “You want me,” she told Sonja cockily, looking her in the eye. “Desperately. You always have. And that is not a lie.”

  Sonja reared up until her lips brushed against Requiem’s mouth. Requiem snapped her head away in distaste. “No kissing,” she snapped. “I’m not your fucking girlfriend.”

  “Requiem,” Sonja moaned. “I…please.”

  “Better.” Requiem rewarded her by moving back to hip level and watching her closely. She bent just above Sonja’s clit. “How long have you wanted me? Mmm?” she murmured over the heated skin.

  Sonja hesitated. Requiem tapped her clit with her tongue. “Since before Dimitri left Lee’s crew?”

  Sonja nodded, and Requiem rewarded her with another quick flick of her tongue over her clit. Sonja’s thighs trembled, and she reached for Requiem’s hair.

  Requiem slapped her hands away. “No.”

  The ambulance’s wail grew louder.

  “Answer me! Since when?”

  “The day you started training at Mr Lee’s.”

  Requiem looked at her triumphantly. “So—it turns out I didn’t lie, then.”

  “No,” Sonja said, her voice defeated. Ragged. She didn’t even bother to curse her existence this time.

  “No,” Requiem agreed and covered her cunt with the flat of her tongue, luxuriating in the creamy, piquant taste, lavishing the skin with her warmth and leaving shining wet trails. Her tongue’s rough flesh slipped over the clit, swirling and jabbing.

  Sonja squeezed her eyes shut, started to speak, then gasped, shrieked and came. Hard. Requiem lapped up her essence, then pulsed her tongue inside her. Sonja’s thighs trembled anew.

  Requiem rose up on her haunches.

  Sonja looked at her. “My turn,” she said quickly, almost fearfully. And there was so much desire in those eyes that Requiem had to glance away. First loves were a powerful thing. Hell, she knew all about that.

  “You promised,” Sonja added. She seemed ashamed of her neediness and bit her lip. Requiem experienced the same surge of power she’d felt the moment she realised she could teach this one a lesson about the game.

  Requiem stood fluidly, walked over Sonja to plant a boot on either side of her ribs, and stared down at her. “Eager, are we?” she said. “Well, it’s true; I did promise.”

  She paused there for a moment, cocking her head as she listened to the wail of the ambulance growing incrementally louder. Then she glanced back down again, to take in the eagerness in Sonja’s glazed eyes as she watched her.

  She unbuckled the belt on her leather pants and, achingly slowly, slid them down her muscled legs. Sonja stared, unblinking, as though memorising every detail.

  When Requiem reached just above her ankles, she ran her hands back up her legs. They were mainly smooth with only two scars—one from a stray bullet; the other a knife that missed its mark. Her thighs were powerful, and she was aware enough to know she was a remarkable specimen of her gender. It wasn’t vanity. Simply a fact to be exploited when necessary.

  Sonja’s irises grew wide with desire, and pride welled within Natalya.

  “Impatient?” she teased her as she trailed a finger over her own mound, over her underwear. She smiled at the frustrated growl.

  Requiem hooked her thumbs in black cotton—tight, practical, boy-cut panties—and slid them down her legs. And then she stood, hands on hips, like a goddess. Sonja absorbed her so intently that she seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

  Sonja’s nipples had grown erect again, and her breathing had begun to deepen.

  “Oh god,” Sonja whispered so softly that Requiem almost missed it. “Neh…”

  Slowly, Requiem knelt, one knee to either side of Sonja’s head, one ankle over each shoulder, and the straining stretch of her
leather pants now pressed into Sonja’s chest. Requiem bent forward, scooped the back of Sonja’s head in one hand, and without a word, pushed her mouth into her folds.

  “As promised,” she said. “You have five minutes. I need to be gone before that ambulance arrives. Impress me.”

  She leaned back slightly and watched as Sonja eagerly went to work, sliding her tongue over her slit, slipping in and out, scraping the clit. She had some talent; Requiem had to give her that. Her muscles turned to liquid, and then came the tell-tale twitch in her cunt that said someone was doing something very right to it.

  Requiem held her firmly against her neatly trimmed mound, not giving an inch. She knew her face would appear the picture of control. She reminded herself who she was. Who was receiving the lessons. Whose game this was. Who always won.

  Her nostrils twitched, though, when that tongue tapped her in exactly the right place. Her thighs quivered with the effort of holding her position, and her bare knees drilled painfully into the dirt.

  Sonja found her wellspring. Requiem was completely soaked from this display of submission from the second-best assassin she’d ever known.

  “Clean it up,” she ordered, her voice strained as the tongue stroked and plundered her. “That’s it.” She tugged Sonja’s head tighter to her and, much to her chagrin, groaned when Sonja’s tongue performed a sublime little pirouette that made her want to fuck her properly. In a bed. For a week.

  But that wasn’t who Requiem was. Or Natalya, for that matter.

  The siren’s wail was much closer now. It had to be only a couple of blocks away.

  “Time’s up,” she ground out. The frenzied lashing increased, and her clit ached to come. So close. The power and adrenalin surged through her. Sonja was trembling, too. Requiem realised the other woman was close to coming again.

  Well, Requiem smirked, Sonja was tasting an immortal. Who could blame her?

  Sonja’s tongue froze mid-stroke, her body shaking, and she made a strangled noise at the back of her throat. Requiem exhaled, lowered Sonja’s head to the ground, and rose, unsated physically, but emotionally feeling like a god.

  She looked down at herself. Her sex dripped in the faint light, moisture from her arousal clinging to the tiny hairs. She stood stock still for a second, allowing the night air to hit her. The coolness washing over her furnace was heady. She gave herself a brief rub over her clit, enjoying the sensation as it sat up in delight, purring. Had she been alone, she might have allowed herself to come right then.

  Instead she cleared her throat. “Close but no cigar,” she told Sonja. She pulled her underwear and leathers back up her thighs quickly, watching the disappointment on Sonja’s face.

  “Was it everything you dreamed of?” Requiem taunted as she rebelted her pants. She walked languidly over to her Ninja, found her discarded MP3 player and helmet, then slid onto its seat, unable to resist rubbing herself against the smooth, hard surface. An electric frisson shot straight to her centre.

  Christ, she was close.

  “Did I live up to your teenage fantasies? Was it the same as when you fucked yourself under the sheets every school night?”

  Sonja’s chest rose and fell swiftly. Even from this distance, her embarrassed flush was visible in the low light.

  “I’ll take your two orgasms as a yes. I, however, remain less impressed.” She slid her helmet on, flicked up the visor, and studied her. “Oh, but you can tell your boss that he’s right. Ken Lee is on my dance card in the near future. I have a very special exit planned for the man who sells the bodies of innocent young girls.”

  She gave her a cool, twisted smile. “It’s quite shocking really.”

  Sonja scowled, sitting up. She couldn’t go anywhere with her pants in a twisted mess and she’d apparently just remembered her main mission.

  “Fuck!” she said, scrabbling at her jeans.

  Requiem watched, revving her bike as a pointed reminder that she was now too far away for Sonja to stop her.

  “I believe I already did.” Requiem let her gaze linger over the half-naked form. “You’re welcome,” she said with a cruel smile. “Oh, my little Nabi, look what you let me do to you when you should have been killing me. You’re a terrible assassin.”

  Requiem gave her bike another rev and pulled away with a roar of the engine. She didn’t look back.

  She passed an ambulance screeching to a stop outside the nightclub. A crowd of onlookers stood on the footpath, including many of her colleagues and several agitated bodyguards who were gesturing frantically to the emergency vehicle.

  She focused on the cleansing sounds of Arvo Pärt as it filtered into her brain, drowning out the chaos. The thrum of her black beast vibrated between her legs.

  Well, she’d had worse nights. A lot worse.

  Requiem smiled.

  Chapter 2

  Three months later

  Natalya woke precisely at 5:15am. She carried out her morning routine efficiently, made her bed with military corners and then dressed in black leggings and a form-fitting sports T-shirt.

  She made a quick tour of her home, checking positions of locks as she went. Then she turned on her computer’s security bot program and set it to run through overnight camera footage and look for anomalies. It would beep if anything was amiss.

  From the street, her residence might be dismissed as an old warehouse, hidden behind twelve-foot high brick walls. Only the roofline was visible to passersby.

  Natalya padded down to her indoor gym and stepped onto the treadmill. For a moment she stopped and stared out of the floor-to-ceiling window at the strip of dismal grey sky above the riot of vines scribbling across the wall that encircled her property. She gave her head a shake and began her usual seven kilometre run.

  She increased her pace quickly and began her mental exercise of tuning out distractions. She was a rock. Powerful. Solid. She controlled her world. The world didn’t control her. Her feet pounded like a metronome, ticking away in her brain: One-four, two-four, three-four, four-four, inhale, exhale. Repeat.

  Precisely thirty minutes later, she stepped off the machine, breathing more heavily but not hard. She shook out a neatly folded towel from the stack next to her equipment and mopped up her perspiration. She began to stretch her arms and shoulders in preparation for her weight-training session, which would be followed by an hour of yoga. A faint beep sounded in the distance. She paused to listen. A rapid series of beeps followed.

  Her alarm. Her home’s security system included cameras and movement sensors to go with the coiled barbed-wire and the poisonous, prickly climbers running along the top of her walls. No intruder could get far without detection—or pain. Because, if they made it over the wall, an array of thorned plants and a tight row of Hippomane mancinella trees would cause a most painful reaction.

  She jogged to the lounge, opened the sliding glass door, and stared out over her property. Sergei Duggan was attempting to cross her lawn. Attempting being the operative word. She lowered herself onto her travertine bench, crossed her legs at the ankle, and watched as the renowned killer’s skin reacted violently to her aptly named “little apple of death” trees.

  It was pathetic, really, a big strong man like this reduced to his knees by flora. It was almost educational. She flicked invisible lint off her leggings as he floundered before her, a fleshy sack of human failings.

  He grimaced in pain, rubbed anxiously at his blistering skin, and cursed furiously. He looked at her, his dark eyes filled with an anguished plea he was too proud to utter.

  It would be pointless anyway. What did he expect her to do? Save his slimy neck?

  As he convulsed, his hidden garrotte slithered from his sleeve. Natalya watched impassively as the life faded from his eyes.

  This had been one of the world’s top assassins? Natalya sniffed. Please. He hadn’t even gotten as far as her water feature.

  This so-called professional hadn’t done his homework and had met a predictable end. Research was everythin
g.

  She sighed in irritation. Now she’d have to organise a clean-up. She could do it herself, of course, but the benefits of being the best in her field meant she could delegate any wet work—and the risks of being caught during body disposal—to one of her associate’s underlings.

  Flicking the towel over her shoulder, Natalya gave Duggan a parting look, aggrieved that he’d thrown her off her routine and ruined her workout. She headed for the shower.

  Natalya turned the music player on just outside the bathroom and flicked through the selections until she came to Lacrimosa from Mozart’s Requiem. She shifted the volume precisely four turns, waiting for the strains to begin. Then she entered the polished granite bathroom.

  Natalya shed her workout clothes, filed them neatly in her laundry hamper, and turned the cold tap on full. She stepped into the biting spray and counted to thirty. The mark of discipline was to withstand that which the body said it could not. Like making a cello weep, it was necessary to hold the trembling notes a little past what made the listener comfortable. But if one held it, quivering until the limits were reached, then exceeded…the payoff was always worth it.

  At thirty seconds, she flicked the water to hot and reached for her liquid soap. She took careful stock of her pale body where wounds were apt to stand out. It wasn’t vanity. Too often, injuries were overlooked in the rush of adrenalin.

  With her fingers lathered with suds, she started at her collarbone, skidded past a bruise, and then sank lower, to her breasts. A faint white line ran perpendicular down the left breast—courtesy of a close call with a Serbian who had Mafia ties. He was as mad as a heat-stroked poodle, but by god, the man was skilled with his knives. He should be—he was a Michelin star restaurant chef.

  She dropped her fingers to her ribs and methodically counted nine imperfections with her fingers. She sought out every pockmarked scar and automatically catalogued the details of each—days, places, faces. Cool men. Insane men. Cunning men. Angry men.

  And one woman.

  The large purple bruise on her hip was still healing from that vicious encounter. She pushed her fingers into it and hissed at the resulting jolt of pain.