by Rina Kent
I might have lost many things since Maman’s death, but at least, I had numbness to protect me. A castle. A fortress.
Only those walls seem null and void around Crow.
It frightens and fascinates the hell out of me.
7
Crow
Pets are needy and annoying as fuck.
Except for cats.
So when I open the door of my room and I’m faced by the growling of Eloise’s fat dog, I confirm that I don’t like dogs. Not one bit.
The little thing doesn’t even reach my shin, but she’s barking and snarling like she can rip my bones and chew them.
“Charlotte, right?” What type of pussy name is that, anyway? I shake my head. The French.
“I’ll call you Cheerio. Don’t be a bitch and go away.” I can’t believe I’m talking to a dog in a gothic house in the middle of nowhere without any kill scheduled.
The decimation of Crow’s assassin life.
Cheerio continues growling, her paws digging into the wood with a screech. She has smudges of dirt on her silver fur. Someone needs a bath.
“All right. I won’t hurt Nurse Betty.” At least not yet. “Killer’s promise.”
The dog doesn’t seem to believe me either since she launches at my ankle. I hold her by the collar at arm’s length. She does that squeaky sound dogs make when they’re hurt. I release her and point a finger. “Stop attacking me or I’ll lock you up under the stairs.”
As if understanding what I said, she whines and hides her head under her paws.
Brilliant.
I’m actually having a conversation with a dog.
After adjusting my leather jacket, I go outside and into the night’s summer breeze. The cool smell of the ocean fills my lungs, and dampness forms a sheen on my skin. I stand in front of the house and inhale deeply.
When I was on Omega, I never noticed any of this. The smells. The mere feel of the air on my hair and skin. All those basic human sensations were swallowed by the drug. Even pain. It varies amongst Team Zero, but we barely felt anything worth remembering. The only consuming emotion was determination about the need to spill blood.
Not anymore.
I strap on my helmet and straddle my bike. My shoulder aches in protest. It’s still sore, but tolerable.
Cheerio watches from the window with sad puppy eyes. The dog is as lonely as her owner. It almost makes me feel bad.
Almost.
But I don’t have time for that.
I need to go to town for the third night in a row to search for the traitor. Or Paul. Whom I’m starting to think is the traitor.
I weave my bike through the twisted dirt roads that lead to the village. Instead of thoughts about ending Paul as painfully as possible, only Eloise’s image occupies my head.
That petite face and those doe green eyes keep barging into my thoughts uninvited.
Three days ago, when I found out Doctor fucking Johnson was her father, my first thought was to kill her. Rip her head off those pretty shoulders for all the suffering her father made me endure. For turning me into a nobody who couldn’t even remember his own name.
For the hell Team Zero lived and continues to live through since we were teens.
But those were mostly the withdrawal symptoms speaking and Omega trying to kick in. Once the effects subsided, everything cooled down. What’s the point in killing her? Just because she’s Doctor fucking Johnson’s daughter? It’s not like revenge would bring back Team Zero’s dead members.
Revenge is something that relies too much on emotions, and therefore, it’s pointless. I refuse to stoop that low.
Team Zero doesn’t share my philosophy about revenge, though. If they find out that Doctor fucking Johnson’s offspring exists, they’d torture her for months, maybe years, before granting her the courtesy of death.
My chest twists at the image.
The thought of that beautiful skin marred doesn’t sit well with me.
Someone like her isn’t made to be tortured.
I’m fucking hard just recalling her soft curves trapped in my arms and under my mercy. So delicate, but also a bloody fireball. There was a foreign look in those bright green eyes. Not numbness or indifference. No. It was anything but that. It was a burning mixture of want and confusion and... excitement.
At that moment, every inch of her came alive. And fuck me if that didn’t turn me on.
It took everything in me not to rip that nightgown and take her right there and then. Deepen that look. Fuck the numbness out of her until she screamed my name.
As much as the temptation to reincarnate that look plagued me, I miraculously managed to stay away.
Eloise is a distraction and distractions aren’t good for completing missions.
Besides, I don’t do attachments. I might belong to the pack of Team Zero, but I’m a lone wolf. I always work alone. Survive alone. Live alone. Meaning: no fucking attachment whatsoever.
I have a feeling that’s exactly what will happen if I take things any further with Eloise.
She’s not the type of woman I’ll be able to fuck out of my system and then bid her goodbye.
My instinct says that Eloise would be my damnation. And my instinct is always fucking right.
I need to keep my distance until I’m out of here. It’s as simple as that.
The engine revs further as I approach the town. My phone vibrates. A text from Storm. “Dosage in 30.” There’s an address attached. The town’s bookstore.
I check my watch. Almost closing time for bookstores. Good thing I came down or I would’ve been late. Hades doesn’t like anyone being late for their Omega dosage.
Instead of heading to the slums, I change direction to the heart of the town. Meeting in crowded places is usually the safest. Nothing better than hiding in plain sight. As long as I don’t draw attention, I’ll be out of the police’s reach.
I arrive early and go to the bathroom to check my eyes. I’ve been using drops, but there’s still some puffiness after yesterday’s withdrawal seizures, not to mention the dark circles beneath my lids. No idea who Hades is sending to give me the dosage, but hopefully, it’s someone who’d think I look awful because of being shot, not due to withdrawal.
I can’t even wear sunglasses because it’s night. After freshening up, I use more drops and settle in the ‘Crime Fiction’ wing at the back of the library. I browse through a dull collection of translated books.
The French.
Not long after I internally mock some titles, a breeze skips past me with that signature strong pine scent that he only wears when he wants to draw attention.
Which isn’t most of the time.
Ghost.
He saunters down the aisle with a cool, nonchalant expression, carrying a leather bag. Strands of his dark hair are slicked back. His black suit is pressed to perfection. Even his brown, leather shoes are shining under the lights.
For a ghost, he’s certainly doing his best to be noticeable. The last time we met, some mates in Team Zero mentioned he’s trying to shed the Ghost image and appear normal. No idea why. And I’m not curious enough to ask.
Besides, I have no chance to ask him when he’s high. While on Omega, Ghost literally blacks out. Unlike me and several others, he has no recollection whatsoever on what he did after the drug kicks in. That’s why he has a few disciples from the second generation who tell him the facts later.
Ghost and I stand with our backs to each other, browsing the books and pretending not to know one another.
“Heard you weren’t dead yet.” He places a leather bag on the floor. Omega.
“Yet.” I pick up the bag and aim for an exit before he notices my eyes.
“Try Paracetamol,” he says, still checking the books. “It helps with the symptoms.”
I screech to a halt, fist clenching around the handle of the bag.
He knows.
Ghost knows.
Which means Hades will also know, and I’ll be hunted down
like the Rhodes then killed and thrown in a similar dumpster where Diablo is.
A hand lands on my shoulder. I jerk back and reach for my gun under the leather jacket. Fuck public and its risks. I won’t die without a fight.
While I think of the possible ways Ghost can kill me, Eloise’s face barges into my mind. Keeping my distance from her was fucking useless. If I knew it’d come to this, I might as well have indulged in my desire.
“Chill, mate.” Ghost chuckles, putting his hands up. “Do you really think you can take me while you’re injured? The symptoms and the seizures hurt like hell even without the gunshot.”
I relax my hold around the gun and leave it hidden under my jacket. “You’re also...?”
“Started way before your lazy arse got to the action.”
Bloody hell. Is that the reason he’s decided to shed his Ghost image?
He comes closer to murmur, “If your reason is something similar to ‘I don’t want to drop dead like Diablo’ then give me a call. We’re not the only two who think that.”
Oh. Fuck me. Team Zero? How many of them have been on withdrawal? Since Ghost is on board, then his closest mates Shadow and Mist must be in, too. And here I thought I would start the campaign to detox them. I wonder how many others are on board. Is Storm perhaps...
“Not Storm.” Ghost shakes his head. Sometimes, I wonder if he can read minds. He excels at figuring out patterns. “He’s still a dog protecting Hades’ gates.”
“What will you do about Hades?”
“Fuck Hades.” A burning fire ignites in Ghost’s dark eyes. He rarely shows anger, but when he does, it’s for a damn good reason. “He’ll go down by the Rhodes’ hands sooner or later. You’re smart, Crow. You won’t go down with a sinking ship, will you?”
“Since when is loyalty considered a sinking ship?”
“Loyalty?” He laughs, long and mocking. “To whom? To the man who made us druggies and killers?”
“Loyalty to what we are.” I stand toe to toe with him, uncaring if anyone notices two foreigners arguing in English. “You and I and the whole Team Zero have been killers our entire lives. What will we become if we’re not doing what we’re designed to do?”
“We will become something we have a say in. Something that neither the drugs nor Hades order us to do.” He points a finger at my shoulder. “Think about it. I’ll stick around for a while.”
I stare as he leaves the bookstore.
For the first time since I was brought to The Pit, I question what the hell am I doing. Beyond killing and Omega, is there something else for me?
I step out of the store, trying to make sense of the chaos. The confusion is a lot worse than Omega’s withdrawal.
Just like some answer descending from heaven and peeking into my hell, I catch sight of Eloise in a coffee shop across the street, in her nursing uniform.
She’s sitting at a table facing the glass – such a bad security choice – and tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear.
I check my watch. Nine pm. She only started her shift a few hours ago.
Unable to stop watching her, I stand rooted in place. Part of me hopes she’ll notice me. The other part wishes she never does so I can continue watching her to my heart’s content.
The downside of avoiding her is that I only see her going to her shift in the afternoon, and that’s not nearly enough to get my fill of her.
Fucking hell.
Why do I even have to get my fill of her? No attachment, remember?
After my conversation with Ghost, that excuse is losing ground.
My gaze looms over the contour of her face and that effortless elegance she manages by just sitting there.
Screw it.
I’m about to cross the street towards her when a curly-haired man comes to her table, turning his back. Judging from his coat, a doctor. The first thought when I see him is to shave all that hair and punch him in the face.
For a hairy animal, Cheerio looks a lot better than him, and I don’t even like that dog.
I’m still contemplating which way to punch him and if I should break some of his bones when Eloise smiles at him. Her nose twitches and all her features brighten. She looks anything but indifferent.
As if someone pulled the switch on, my mood goes from annoyed to murderous. All I see is blood and a need to kill. It’s like I’ve just taken my Omega fix.
Why the fuck is she smiling at Doctor Curly when she’s always grim and standoffish? Is he perhaps her lover or some shit?
The thought shoots burning rage through my veins.
I turn in the opposite direction before I act on my murderous intents.
What the fuck do I care who she smiles at? Whether it’s Doctor Curly or the fucking janitor, it’s none of my damn business.
Not one bit.
I spend the rest of the night roaming the slums, asking around for Paul. One thing these slum folks are good at: protecting each other. Especially from the police or foreigners like me.
The dawn is nearing and I still come out with nix. My blood pressure rises, and that burning need to vent at something or someone overwhelms me.
Add that to images of Eloise smiling up at Doctor fucking Curly and my patience is running at its lowest.
Fuck this shit.
I’m about to start threatening people with a gun – and fuck if they call the police – when a hand nudges at my trousers.
A homeless middle-aged woman, lying on the filthy ground, is staring up at me. She’s covered in a patched blanket. Wrinkles surround washed-out dark eyes and an overly dirty face.
“Bout du pain?” She drawls through cracked lips.
“I don’t have any bread, lady,” I reply in French and crouch in front of her. When I’m sure I have her attention, I reach into my jacket and retrieve some euros. “But I have these if you tell me where Paul Renard is.”
She tries to snatch the money, but I keep it out of reach. Her over-the-top long nails, like some witch in cartoons, scrape against my skin.
“Nah, uh. Information first.”
“I don’t know Paul,” she says in French, avoiding eye contact. She’s lying just like the rest of them. But she’s hesitant. Better explore that.
I add a few more euros and tilt my head. “Do you know Renard, then?” Fox. That’s Paul’s last name and nickname in the slums.
Her eyes light up while staring at the money as if it’s her salvation. It probably is.
“He’s dead,” she blurts.
“What?”
“A few days ago. The storage house blew up because of gas malfunction. An accident. At least that’s what the other homeless folk say.” She doesn’t revert her gaze from the money the entire time. “Check police reports if you don’t believe me.”
My muscles tense.
If Paul is dead then someone is covering their tracks. That means... the traitor is still out there, waiting to attack me.
I’m sure as fuck that Paul’s death wasn’t an accident.
I give the woman the money and stand. Then, I reach out to a spare knife strapped to my calf and toss it to her. Homeless women have it the worst.
She stares between the knife and the money, incredulous.
“If someone hurts you,” I nod to the knife, “don’t think. Hurt them back.”
Rules I lived, live, and will always live by.
I weave through the smell of waste and vomit until I get back to my bike. I dial a number for a favour long due. If Ghost is here, then she must’ve tagged along.
“You’ve reached the one and only Celeste,” she says in perfect French like a receptionist or some shit. “I can do anything for the right price.”
I ascend my bike. “I’m calling in a favour.”
There’s a long pause. She’s probably weighing in the pros and cons. Ghost’s influence. Celeste is from the second generation and came to The Pit the same day as the Rhodes. Only now they’re back to their snobbish aristocratic lives while she continues being a d
emon in Hades’ hell. Ghost favoured her out of all our trainees and became her mentor of sorts.
“If it means I won’t get paid, then, no. Sorry. I have lots of contracts. Oh, bugger. The reception is so horrible here, Crow. I’ll –”
“I said I’m calling in a favour, Celeste.” I cut her off. “Remember when I saved your arse that day in freezing fucking Siberia? You would’ve died if I didn’t come along.”
She clicks her tongue. “Saving is an overstatement, don’t you think? You just happened to be there.”
“Still counts.” I put on my helmet.
“Fiiiine.” She groans. “What do you want? Just so you know, I hate doing things that I don’t get paid for.”
“Fuck if I care,” I say. “Name is Paul Renard. His storage was blown up not so long ago. I need police reports. Morgue reports. Any evidence that could lead me to whoever he was associated with.”
“Might take a few days.” She sounds distracted. “But I’ll get it for you Crow-Crow. I’ll even try to quicken the process if you promise a tiny little favour in return.”
My eyes narrow. Celeste never asks for tiny favours. They’re usually huge trouble. “What is it?”
“Don’t take a contract on the Rhodes.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re mine!” She laughs. “I can convince Aaron to come back. If he refuses… I’ll accept Hades’ contract and finish him.”
“You can’t finish Aaron, Celeste.”
“Why the hell not?” She snaps as if she thought about the option.
“Because I trained you both and I know how fucking crazy you two can get. But Aaron’s level of crazy is different from yours. If you provoke him, you’ll get yourself killed.”
“We will see about that.” She hangs up.
I shake my head and start the engine. No idea why I feel like a fucking father, not wanting his children to kill each other. I taught those fuckers how to hold a gun and shoot. I used to tell them that either they killed or died. I taught them everything I know, not because I was ordered to, but because I wanted them to survive.
And for what? To become killers and even turn against each other.
