by Ian Hiatt
I pad over to her, slipping a little on the ice, to fetch the camera. I bring it to my eye and tap a few buttons to try to zoom in. After taking a picture of the mailbox down on the street with my thumb, I find the knob and look at the hotel. From the single lit room, I zoom in as far as I can until I spot it.
A telescope.
I look back to Cassie and she shrugs callously.
“Guy was probably doing some star gazing and got distracted by a pair of headlights.” She nods toward my chest, and I hand the camera back to her.
If it’s true, it’s not the first time I’ve accidentally killed someone. It likely won’t be the last.
I drape my arms around myself, not cold or embarrassed. Just hopeful to keep the body count at a minimum for the rest of the night.
“I think I’m going to head in,” I mumble. “Good night, Cass.”
“Sweet dreams,” she says, stretching her legs out and exhaling a shrill breath, her thrill at being out in the frigid weather not yet satisfied. I step back into my apartment, feeling the plush floor on my feet, grip the slider, and then close it, hearing the reassuring clink that I’m in my own little world. A snow globe where there’s no one to kill and none that will die.
I wait for a moment, wondering if the warmth of the room will let me feel grateful.
Dear, Layla. You are now in a room of approximately sixty-five degrees. Your ass, which would likely be in the later stages of hypothermia right now were you human, is thawing nicely. Also, could you close the drapes so none of your neighbors swan dive out their windows to try to grab your rack from afar? Thanks.
I do as my sociopathic thoughts suggest, realizing that apart from Cassie, they might really be my only friend. Even if they are me.
Once my eyes readjust to the dark room, I think about switching on my bedside lamp when I see my cellular phone blinking. It’s a relic that I refuse to replace, but I barely use it. It’s for contacting my broker, Malcolm, and nothing else. So I know who it is that’s left me a text before I even pick it up.
Tomorrow. Cargill’s Bagels. 8 a.m.
Beside my lamp that remains dark, my analog clock ticks to a little past four. Looks like not much sleep tonight.
Fuck.
alcolm never meets me. I haven’t met him in person for about three years now, and I can’t lie: I’m a little spooked. He slipped my payment under the door last night, though, so I’m not worried that it has to do with a past kill.
I pull my hood up higher and press my sunglasses tighter to my face. My hair is a particular shade of color I like to think of as baby-poo brown, and I made sure to grab the dirtiest pair of sweatpants I could from the sack of clothes I keep in my bathroom closet.
It’s one of the downsides of being a siren. You have to actively make yourself ugly to keep people from killing themselves to get to you. Not exactly what most nineteen-year-olds have to tolerate. I almost vomit as the smell of the fox urine I purchased at a hunting store on the North Side of the city wafts up to meet my nose, despite having sprayed it on my ankles. Sometimes I overdo it, but I need to make sure no one gets the urge to jump me. Passing a news kiosk on the street of the bagel store, I spot a copy of The Spire, the local newspaper detailing the result of my feminine wiles.
Max Spencer. Forty-two. Traveling salesman divorcee with two kids plummets to his death. Cops assume suicide.
I know I should feel guilty. Normal girls wouldn’t be standing on their balcony in the middle of the frosty winter night. Nearly nude. And leaning over a railing.
At least my hair wasn’t red by then. Maybe he would’ve made a running leap and landed in the street instead of the curb. Could’ve hit a car or something.
But there are still two little kids that will never see their father again, and I’m fairly certain I’m to blame. I can’t say that I actually feel the guilt. I know that, in a normal person, it would be right there, gnawing just beneath the surface. A normal person might confess. Or try to make amends. Maybe go out and save a life, or even end her own. It might save a few more innocent souls if I ran a few miles east and pitched myself into the Swift to be torn apart by the things living beneath its waves.
But I’m not normal. And, as I open up the door of the bagel shop and the hipster sitting nearest the door at a raised counter turns his nose up at me, I’m reminded that I don’t care. No matter how hard I try to feel, I can’t.
I sidle into the booth across from my broker and notice that he’s shaved his goatee off since I saw him last. He’s wearing a rather nice sweater vest over a button-down shirt, giving him the appearance of the most disturbing children’s television show host ever. He sips his coffee as he looks up at me.
“Layla, darling, you don’t need to get yourself all dolled up for me.” He rolls his eyes and slides a thick manila envelope across the table. Thicker than I’ve ever received.
I take off my glasses and glare at his sarcasm, and he glares right back. At the moment, I’m agitated that Malcolm is so flamboyantly gay. It was a requirement when I found my broker, actually. The first one to attempt it was an ex-mafia boss who went into business for himself. He landed on his own letter opener as he threw himself over his desk at me. After that, I tried a woman, who assured me over the phone that it wouldn’t be a problem. She leapt in front of the subway train at our first meet. She must’ve been bicurious at minimum.
Malcolm and I met up at the Fireman’s Hose. It was a club two blocks away from the Crux and had nothing to do with firemen, nor the tools of their trade.
I put my glasses back on, sure that the sickly yellow shade I’ve given my eyes will not be enough to ward off a passerby college student home on winter break. Gripping the envelope, I mutter to Malcolm as gruffly as I can.
“Why the personal treatment?”
He smirks at my guttural attempt and says, “Well, this is a special one and needs to be handled very carefully. It’s a two-for-one deal and―”
“I don’t do two-for-ones. I can only focus on one person at a time.”
Malcolm waves his hands at me. Pishposh. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You handled that tall, muscular fellow last night, didn’t you? I saw the after pictures; I hope you enjoyed the before.” He winks. When Malcolm’s not riding my ass for hits, someone is riding his. Sex, sex, sex.
“That’s still just one guy. I can’t do two at once. That’s the whole point. Every…” I struggle to find the word and instead just wave at my body like it’s a workshop tool I use. “Every …thing, gets focused on one person. Lures them in. Everyone else doesn’t even notice me.”
“Come now, can’t you just jack it up a little? Share the wealth with the rest of the room?”
I nod as if I’m agreeing. “Yeah, good idea! I mean, if I want to have the entire room rush me or start killing each other to stake their claim.”
“Plant their flag? Drill their well? Plug your dike?” Malcolm keeps going as the waitress comes by and sets a coffee mug in front of me. She starts to pour me some while asking what I’d like when she catches scent of me and gags a little. She stops just short of running away from the table as Malcolm finishes with, “Drop their deposit in your bank?” and snickers.
“I don’t do two at a time. Can’t be done. They’ll have to find another hitter. Are they Inhumans? See if Tim wants it. I hear he’s willing to make a few bucks while working his night gig.”
One of the few humans I would not want to cross paths with, Tim is a vigilante with a strong dislike for Inhumans. Inhumans like me. I’ve managed to run across a few of his “after” pictures. There are some things you can’t unsee.
Malcolm shakes his head. “No. I will not talk to Tim until he apologizes for decapitating that new swimsuit model who moved into town.”
I scoff as I drink my coffee, aware that it’s hot enough to scald, but not caring. “The guy was dealing coke to middle-schoolers on the side. Tim had every right.”
“Well, whatever. They want you on it. It needs to loo
k like an accident, and that’s pretty much what you’re best at, right? They’ve never cried murder at any of your hits or even your mother’s―”
He stops himself and looks away as though someone else brought up my mom. He spies around the restaurant for the perpetrator until he decides to turn back and meet my eye. I’m wearing glasses, though. He can’t see the blood-red color my irises take on.
“You should try the pancakes here,” he says sunnily. “Out of this world. I swear, they’ll change your life. Here, I’ll order you some.” He waves to the waitress, who, glancing at me, pretends not to see him.
I shove the envelope back over to him. “Find. Another. Hitter.”
I slide out of the booth and head for the door when Malcolm says sharply, with just a hint of anger at me, “They’re offering eight hundred!”
I’m a pace away from the door. I’m not a tactician. I have one target, I go with the flow, and just let the person die. It’s not that hard. Like nudging a domino to set off the rest. I desperately want to reach out and grab the door handle and give the whole damn thing not a single extra moment of thought.
But I don’t. I turn back to Malcolm.
“Eight?”
“Well… a mil. But I have to take my twenty percent.”
I walk back to the table and lean over, glowering. “And when this goes sideways, are you going to take twenty percent of the bullet they try to put in my head?”
“It won’t go sideways. It’s easy. They’ve even picked out a time and place for it, this weekend. Just… do one at a time or something?” Malcolm suggests, weakly. Like I’m playing a game of checkers, not arranging accidental deaths.
Yeah, it’s easy as pie. Jump, jump, jump. King me, bitch.
He slides the envelope toward me and talks slow. He’s my handler; I’m the tiger. Tigers have been known to disembowel their handlers, and I can see the appeal.
“It’s a pair of brothers. Humans. About your age. It really couldn’t be easier.”
I snatch the envelope from him, never breaking eye contact. I pull off my glasses so he can see. To his credit, his recoil is only just noticeable. I can control my appearance in ways that every teenage girl would kill their best friend for. Sometimes, the changes don’t really fall under my control, though. A reflex.
My eyes are boiling red now.
“I want four hundred under my door by Friday.”
“Ah, that’s the other problem. It’s all or nothing. They refuse to pay until the brothers are both dead.” Malcolm speaks quickly like I’ll be less angry if he gets the words out there fast.
“Well, then you better come up with four hundred thousand dollars by Friday for me, Malcolm. Otherwise, you can find someone else to be your whore.” Gripping the envelope hard enough to puncture it with my nails, I stalk toward the door.
The hipster at the counter mutters, “Jeez, bathe much?”
I stop and consider grabbing him by his douche beanie and snapping his neck, but resolve to just kick the stool out from under him. His chin slams into the counter, and blood sprays across the granite surface as his glasses shatter into his forehead. He probably doesn’t even need them.
I leave the bagel store before they can call the police. I won’t be trying their pancakes today.
he champagne served at the Donahue’s engagement party reminds me of the eternal smell of cat urine in the apartment I grew up in. One of those awful smells so strong you can taste it. We didn’t even own a cat, and the landlord couldn’t remember any of the tenants ever having one.
The week had gone by silently, which disappointed me. Every day I had hoped to get a text from Malcolm that the hit was off. Or that I wouldn’t get the money on Friday. But Friday night showed up as it was scheduled to, and after another late-night balcony session―with no civilian accidents―I came back in for a glass of Jack and tripped over a trio of envelopes. He couldn’t fit all of the bills in one.
Four hundred thousand dollars. I could fill my bathtub with Benjamins if I wanted.
The string quartet begins to play something elegant and just a bit flighty. Not really my taste, but it did beat the club tunes likely playing tonight several miles away in the center of Saint Roch. The Manchester Country Club, situated on the only cove of the Swift River, was a favorite of the Donahue family. The Donahues being one of the Seven.
Saint Roch has a menagerie of creatures like me. I couldn’t begin to tell you why so many of us have flocked to the same place, but we have. And anyone who believes we don’t own the city now is simply kidding themselves.
But the Seven have managed to hang on. Seven human families still holding on to what little power they can. It’s funny, really. They could be wiped out by us in a night, but they still retain so much control over Saint Roch that the city would collapse without them.
Take Richard Donahue, for example. The Old Man. Malcolm’s briefing didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. His family owned Saint Roch long before our numbers ever showed up. Rumor has it he still holds the deeds to over half of the buildings in the city.
I sip my champagne, the bubbly having its intended effect on the rest of the party. A man with too bushy of a mustache has already removed his tie and begun playfully snapping the women who pass by. They squeal in delight at the attention, but more likely the flowing liquor of the party is the reason for their elation.
At the head table, just over the line of sobriety, sits my prey.
My ears jingle just so as I set my glass down on the bar, the diamond earrings I’ve selected for the evening far gaudier than I have the taste for. But the job calls for such things on occasion. I carefully sweep back a bundle of my curled locks of platinum blond hair, letting it drape over a bare shoulder to only just tease the plunging neckline of my black dress. Using the dimly lit mirror positioned behind the bartender, I adjust my eye color. Blue. Blue. Blue. Now just a hint of green. A little more. There.
The bartender stares at me for a moment, but everything about me is pointed now. Aimed. Mom said we give off pheromones. And that we could cater to the tastes of our… customers. The bartender stares, but he doesn’t leap across the counter. He traces from my face, down my neck to my chest, and back. With nothing but his eyes and palpable desire. No. He admires the view, he longs for the full experience, but he can contain himself.
I pucker my lips at him and blow him an intoxicating kiss across the bar. It’ll be the best tip he gets tonight. I turn from the bar to walk away, my gown trailing behind me and clinging so that it’s nothing more than my melted shadow.
By now, the quartet has grown tired of being ignored by the rowdy audience. Prerecorded music filters in through speakers built into the ballroom, the bass turned up so loud my heart begins to do battle with the beats.
My eyes, as piercing as I ensured they would look, drill to the front of the room. Beside his beautiful fiancée sits Andrew Donahue. If my dossier from Malcolm is to be believed, he’s twenty-six years young and has already written himself a novel. Four DUIs, two assaults, and one rape case thrown out when the girl recanted and promptly disappeared a week later.
Sometimes my job is a real pleasure.
And, yes, his fiancée is beautiful. Or could be. Full lips. Miraculously real curves. Irises that could melt the burliest of men. She’s tanned, but it’s probably due to the amount of time she keeps very still under UV lamps. She hopes to grow into a flower, but instead is more of a weed.
It’s not love. My dossier hints that she’s knocked up, hence the reason Andy’s got to get hitched. She’ll be on the Donahue payroll. The marriage license will be a contract with the baby to be the signing stroke. The poor bastard child will only exist to keep the money flowing.
It will remain an unsigned contract because, even as I slink through the crowd, the provocative dances of couples and even triples parting before me as the Red Sea would, little Andy’s seen me. I pause and look back with a smile. From so far away, I can see him flinch and his knee hits th
e bottom of the table, rattling it and his bride-to-be. A glass tips and spills all over the poor woman’s dress.
“Jeez, Andy! Why don’t ya watchit?” She scowls and slaps the boy’s shoulder. I find myself enjoying the mark just a little bit more. People who can’t enunciate deserve every ounce of pain the world is willing to dole out. “Ya know this is a new dress an’ everythin’, right? Ya bettah believe ya dad’s payin’ fah this.” She stomps away to clean her dress. All the while, Andy hasn’t noticed a thing she’s whined about. In fact, since I stepped across the dance floor toward his table, I don’t believe he’s even taken a breath. Convenient, as that’s just the way I want him.
Before he can blink, I glide across the floor to his table and stand before him. I offer him my hand and lean over, threatening to spill out of my dress onto his table. His eyes, drinking in every bare inch of me, are more than hopeful for that very thing.
“I wanted to congratulate you, Mr. Donahue, on your pending marriage.”
He looks up at me, and I let him think I’m looking him up and down with at least a fraction of the desire he has for me. More intelligent men, ironically, would already be trying to mount me. But I’ve used words he probably doesn’t understand. He takes my hand, and he’s mine. He inhales deeply and tightens his grip as though I’ve shocked him.
Oh, his never-to-be widow. She’s about to be unemployed. Without Andrew, she’ll never be able to prove the baby in her was his. Not for sure.
Because I have plans for Andrew. And there won’t be anything left to test DNA against.
“I was going to step outside for a cigarette, Mr. Donahue. Would you care to join me?”
He shivers as he follows my stroll down the stone walkway that’s only faintly dusted with snow that comes down indecisively. A flake lands on my bare shoulder and melts there, signaling its friends to give it up for a short while.
He never thinks to question why I don’t have any cigarettes for our excursion onto the grounds of the golf course. Instead he just smiles at his company.
