Disclaimer: Huntik Secrets and Seekers belongs to Iginio Straffi. Real nice, guys, real nice. -_-
A feathery smoke lingered in the strands of her raven hair as the scent of metallic tang settled on her parched tongue. Her feeble lungs contracted under the sting of the onyx ash, spreading around the top of her head, clutching her struggling windpipe, and sinking deep into her weak bones. A deep, silky baritone danced ominously hand in hand with the smoke as his spidery hands caressed her small face, one sharp nail pointing jaggedly at her lifeless eyes.
She was drowning in wickedness.
The damned entity enveloped her small frame in a choking hold, seeming to take perverted pleasure in watching her tiny body give in to the traitorous peace of eternal sleep. Immoral lips gave way to a terrorizing grin as he finally spoke:
"You, who has been casted from the comfort of haven, exiled to the frigid depths of isolation and left to rot in the corpse of despair. I bestow upon your destitute soul the chance to walk among mortals once more and seize what fate has selfishly stripped away."
The eyes of the infant child abruptly opened like light through a tunnel's end, eyelashes rapidly fluttering as fast as a hummingbird's heartbeat as the warm liquid red traveled to every organ. Her tiny chest convulsed under the sudden pressure of air, gorgeous, pure air, while her mouth gaped in terrifying bewilderment. In one terrifying second, their gazes met; frantic pupils trembled under the intensity of his burning orbs. The look of greed on his ethereal face spoke of the heavy price to pay for her resurrection. Low and behold, destiny proved the kid right.
"In return for such a generous gift," he mildly laughed in cynical amusement. The child's insides rattled at the corrupt sound. "Your hands and eyes will be instruments of quietus, used to reclaim souls from the avarice and ignorance that plagues their mortal vassals." Heat rose from behind piercing, lethal fangs. "Death is the relief you will bestow on your prey." Those same fangs seemed to grow even sharper as he loomed over the infant girl. "Should you choose to refuse the terms of my bounteous offer, I guarantee to make your second death more agonizing than your first one."
Above her, the malevolent altruist looked at her with derision in the dark spheres of his eyes. Neither the smoke nor the smoldering heat surrounding her lithe form could give back the warmth his mere presence seemed to take away. "You poor, wretched thing," The slide of his tongue was frighteningly frigid, able to leave a proud man cold and numb. And as he placed his final curse, the contract seemed to have been sealed.
"Rise forth. The age of retribution is upon you."
. . .
The infant is four years old when the agreement is forcibly made.
The infant is four years old when she is named Zhalia Moon.
. . .
Quietus: release from life.
It was nothing more than a pretentious euphemism for killing.
In the turn of her ninth birthday (or what she assumed was her birthday), Zhalia was not greeted with balloons or a colorful cake. Instead, her sight developed.
Not normal sight, of course. But the sight of her oh-so generous gift. Not only could she see colors and shapes as anyone else; Zhalia saw the miserable souls of people who were unfortunately deemed unworthy to continue living. Seeing them was quite obvious, actually. She would spot a man heavily stomping the cobblestones beneath his feet as his shoulder sagged with the crushing weight of his misery. Protruding from the inside of his chest, translucent silver strings quivered upwards, seemingly reaching for the heavens above while a dreadful moan of pain screamed in agony. A sound for her hears and her ears only. On the other hand, the man whose very soul groaned in torment simply continued walking, unaware that his hours among the living ran faster than sand through an hourglass.
To reiterate, Zhalia could not see dead people. Rather, her sight gave her a cruel ability to distinguish those the master of her contract wished to see in his infinite abyss of hell. If that abysmal being wanted someone dead, Zhalia would see those sinister silver strings come out of their bodies. Like a ghostly arrow pointing to the top of someone's head saying, this one!
Frankly, the entire spectacle was traumatizing. Not that the child had much of choice. As per the contract, Zhalia was tasked to kill in order to keep her life. Refusal to uphold that contract ended in death. Her death.
At nine years old, Zhalia did not know why she was saddled with such a burden. She did not know how or why the people, or her for that matter, were chosen.
At nine years old, Zhalia only knew she wanted to live.
Thankfully, her newly found seeker powers made sure of that.
. . .
Klaus often liked to call himself an "adoptive father". Apparently, adoptive father was another term for "accountable boss", a characteristic Zhalia would rather do without.
It started harmless enough. Zhalia was found by Klaus on the streets of Amsterdam, begging for food and crying desolately besides pile of discarded trash. After being kicked out of the orphanage for "unnatural behaivour and severe psychosis", Zhalia wondered aimlessly through the cobbled streets, silver strings constantly clouding her vision. Alas, fate played its cruel hand once more.
As the disreputable man in front of her extended his arm in traitorous aid, he made her a deal. Much like her previous contract, Klaus provided protection with an ultimatum:
Work for the Organization.
Zhalia was young, painfully so. Her powers awakened but were weak due to inexperience and fear; she realized taking the offer from the twisted man was better than the alternative. And if her powers grew, killing targets would become easier. Zhalia hoped the more she killed, the faster her end of the bargain would be paid. A terrible and mostly incorrect assumption, of course. However, the girl will not come to learn that until later.
She looked at Klaus straight in the eye as she grasped his larger hand in hers.
Zhalia Moon had agreed to her second contract.
Years passed. The act of quietus did not seem as morbid or traumatizing as it did before. The actual killing was done in a significantly neater manner, Zhalia's movements much swifter and deadlier. It was safe to say she had undoubtedly perfectioned the art of assassination. To say the master of her contract was pleased was a gross understatement.
No longer a small child but a teen, Zhalia rose every morning in the silent city of Prague wearing the suit every other agent wore with pathetic pride. Her eyes were concealed behind dark shades as the earpiece on her left side beeped in signal of incoming communication. Straight hair obscured her beautiful face, just the way her role as a suit obscured her role as a murderer.
This did nothing but give her a false sense of control.
The more she worked as an Organization agent, the more the last remnants of her innocence fully eroded away. Zhalia completed mission after mission entrusted to her from her "adoptive father", a dangerous form of satisfaction gnawing under her skin at seeing her powers grow. The deal she made with Klaus seemed to work. For now.
A day before she left Prague, she saw them. Two sets of silver strings reaching high above the clouds, their owners oblivious as they invoked their titans in a fighting stance.
A day after she left Prague, the Huntik Foundation was made aware of the deaths of two of their operatives. Of course, the Organization was to blame. And why wouldn't it? It was, after all, one of their best suits who committed the murder, if Zhalia said so herself.
Upon hearing about the deaths, commotion ran amok throughout the Organization. They knew it was a suit, but which one? Suits simply did not kill, and if they did it was under the Professor's strict orders. That left one question: Who was psychotic enough to kill twice?
It went without saying that Zhalia told nobody about her encounter with the two seekers. No one in the entire world knew of Zhalia's contract and she'd be damned if she so much as thought about it around other people, especially Organization suits. Needless to say, the mystery of the murders was yet to be solved.
The day after the dead seekers announcement, Klaus met with Zhalia. Not a single word was uttered from his lips, not a single word was said from Zhalia's mouth. Klaus just looked at her, really looked at her. His gaze did not hold shock but rather pure distrust.
Zhalia returned the look tenfold.
After stealing countless amulets and sabotaging many Huntik Foundation missions, she quickly learned her salvation from the streets did not sprout from a benevolent change of heart.
What Klaus saved on that fateful day was not a starving nine-year-old girl. What Klaus saved, or rather gained, were seeker powers unlike anything the Organization had ever seen. That untapped source of magic within her was the only thing that made her worthier than the jars of dismembered body parts floating in Klaus' labs. Bitterness at that realization soon took root deep inside her darkened heart.
Zhalia was fifteen when the cynicism of reality fully dawned on her.
Zhalia was fifteen when she evoked her urge to willingly kill.
. . .
Naked skin rubbed sensuously in movement with the poll as large, white breasts bounced with the thrust of her hips towards a mass of degenerate clients. Her hair was extra curly, like tight, pretty ribbons upon a golden Christmas present underneath a tree. Beads of sweat trailed down her exposed chest only to settle on her tight abdomen, all of it glittering underneath the colorful rotating lights of the stage. After a seductively slow slide down the metal poll and a tantalizing view of her ass, the dancer made her grand exit.
"Tits like melons and voice like honey, give it up for Snowflake!" The announcer behind the bar boomed into the mic while the clients erupted in catcalls and obscene gestures.
Zhalia sat pleasantly towards the back of the room under a frame of a nude Nina Agdal. In her left hand she nursed a scotch-whiskey with the occasional salted peanut in between sips. It was at times like these that the term "blending in" actually meant to loosen up a bit. If she was honest with herself, it was one of the few things she found she enjoyed. She took another swig of her drink and undid the top button of her coat when she suddenly felt a warm heaviness settle on her lap.
The mess of curls she saw up on stage were now right in her line of vision. Blonde hairs tickled her nose as they blocked the view of the silver strings of the man three tables away, Zhalia's whole reason for being in this strip club, actually. The woman's nerve.
Zhalia pulled her face away from the unnerving closeness of the stranger, annoyance clearly showing in the burrow of her brows. "Can I help you?"
"Mitt namn är Snowflake," Although the woman spoke Swedish, it was by no means fluent. "And you, my sötis, are…?"
"Not interested. Now, move."
Zhalia might as well have said, stay and cling yourself even closer to me, please.
The stripper's breasts pushed against her own as she inched herself closer to Zhalia's torso. Her hips pushed against Zhalia's pelvis as her skinny arms wrapped around her neck, her lips traveling down Zhalia neck. "I know you've been looking at the man three tables that way." She kissed under her chin. "Did you know he's a drug lord for the Vert Precinct?"
Zhalia scoffed in disbelief. "You expect me to believe you know about the underground districts?"
Snowflake hands delved underneath the fabric of Zhalia's heavy coat. "Käraste," her fingers teased the slightly exposed skin under her blouse. "Who do you think are all of these men here?"
The raven hair seeker took one minimal look around the dark club to find that what the stripper, Snowflake, said was true. Weapons of all sorts were seen under their heavy clothing when they moved to place money on the dancers, and, speaking of money, not a single note was less than five hundred.
Zhalia turned towards Snowflake again, only this time she grabbed her hands and firmly removed them from herself. Snowflake's eyes widened in surprise as she delivered a deceitfully sweet smile. "What?"
"You're not from Sweden, are you?"
Snowflake let out a hearty giggle. "Nope! You got me. I'm from Finland," she gave a heavy sigh as a pout formed on her lips. "Guess I have to keep practicing my Swedish,"
"So, if you're from Finland, why not just speak Finnish?"
Snowflake leaned in as if sharing a secret. Her small hands cupped Zhalia's ear as if exposing a large conspiracy. "The biggest mafia boss is currently doing business trafficking in Swedish borders. Leaked information goes up to €500,000. Better to learn the native tongue, eh?"
As much as she hated her heavy petting, Zhalia had to give her credit for her lucrative ways. Maybe this Snowflake person could be of some use, eventually.
The silver strings and moans of torture were still very much present on the other end of the club, urging Zhalia to perform her duty. Her head turned in the man's direction as the silver strings passed the roof above their heads. Sensing an underlying sense of urgency, Snowflake removed herself from Zhalia's lap and tugged at her right hand. She nudged her shoulder in the man's direction. "Come, I'll introduce you."
At nineteen, Zhalia made acquaintance with a stripper named Snowflake.
At nineteen, Zhalia hired her first informant.
. . .
It came as no surprise to anyone when her integration into the Huntik team was met with an outright objection by the only other female seeker of the group. Miss Sophia Casterwill was her name, an aristocratic accent and a high profile speaking volumes about her nobility and wealth. Two dainty hands rested on her slim hips as doe green eyes narrowed in anger at the other female's nonchalant attitude. The other two seekers, a young boy named Lok Lambert and handsome man named Dante Vale, paid no heed to their small skirmish in exchange for the pathways of an ancient map of Constantinople held up by a talking gargoyle of some kind. To each their own, it seemed.
At the dark end of the corridor, Zhalia sneered at the girl's obvious jealousy for the older seeker's attention. She had enough experience with the dark side of people to know how to exploit their faults, and this little princess was no different. Zhalia loved to get a rise out of people, a sick notion developed under years of abuse as an orphan. And this girl was perfect. The more suspicious Zhalia appeared, the more Sophie's righteous anger showed. It was almost enough to make her stay. Almost.
"I don't care how much Dante may trust you, I'm not letting you out of my sight," she hissed under her breath. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground, shielding the front door as if daring her to run.
Zhalia finally turned to look at her then, delivering a crude smile. "Oh, don't worry about me leaving, love" she inched closer to the strawberry blonde, inwardly cackling at her flinching form. "I'm going to be here all night. Dante made sure of that."
The Casterwill heiress could do nothing but sputter in a mixture of shock and rage as the raven hair woman strutted to the opposite side of the room, the feeling of her empty victory momentarily satisfying. Unbeknownst to the other two men in the room, this banter would be the first of many to come. In Sophie's mind, the rivalry between the two women had begun.
On her part, Zhalia ignored the history discussion in Dante's living room. Instead, she turned her head and looked out the window as far away as her eyes could see, as far away as her soul yearned to take her. Outside, the sky turned a deep indigo as the sun set beneath the murky Venice waters while a group of American tourists stuck out like neon signs amidst the sea of natives. Their voices were soon unrecognizable from the howling of the warm southern wind.
Not long after, at least two blocks away, silver strings rose above the Italian buildings. The fragile strands were smooth in contrast to the high-pitch sound of pain from the owner's soul as their dancing figures twirled in the wind gracefully, anxiously waiting for slaughter at Zhalia's hand.
Eventually, Zhalia left Dante's house altogether in pursuit of the silver strings. She slit an elderly woman's throat. They found a secret passageway to a sunken city. And like that it went for the remainder of their peculiar allegiance.
Zhalia turned twenty-three when she infiltrated the Huntik Foundation.
Zhalia turned twenty-five when she joined the Huntik Foundation out of her own accord.
. . .
The first thing she noticed was the kindness in his eyes.
Years of being surrounded by weary strangers and their scornful gaze made Zhalia jaundiced at the cruelness of life. The older she grew, the more disillusioned she became at the injustice of her existence thinking her second chance at life held no actual purpose than to play a pawn of an evil being.
But Dante proved to be different. For the first time in her life, Zhalia was given something unconditionally. He placed his trust in her with no secret alternative, no ulterior motive. Dante's faith in her meant more to Zhalia than anything in the world. When the last sliver of hope seemed to have left, Dante was willing to reach out to her and share his kindness, regardless of her treacherous past.
And when Zhalia thought this was more than enough, he offered his unwavering friendship. Her heart soared when he sent a smile in her direction, the heavy knot inside her loosening little by little as her days seemed a little brighter with the passing of the time. Waking up was no longer a chore but a gift, something she would not have experienced otherwise.
Finally, Dante bestowed upon her the most precious thing to have grazed her short life: the ardent passion of his love. It was like nothing Zhalia had ever experienced before. Unknowingly, she began to feel the stirrings of happiness dwell within her, evident in the small but genuine smiles grazing her delicate lips every time he mischievously delved down to grant her a loving kiss. His arms were a shield of solace in times of anguish, his hands a source of comfort amidst the inner turmoil, and his voice a soothing stream of affection during sullen nights. This, this is what her second chance at life was destined for. In this perfect moment, Dante was Zhalia's most valuable gift.
At the age of twenty-six, Zhalia falls in love with Dante Vale.
At the age of twenty-six, Zhalia sees silver strings extend from Dante Vale's chest.
. . .
Around her, their voices sound distant, as if she were underwater sinking to the great depths of an unforgiving sea. Different faces blend into one distorted blur while the coldness in her ribs spreads to her legs and settles on the tips of her blue toes. Zhalia's head lolls to one side, her pupils rolling to the back of her head as more blood drips from her nose, staining the pretty lilac of her scarf.
Pity. Dante gave her that scarf on her birthday (or what they assumed was her birthday).
Dante clutches her body tightly towards him as tears freely slide down his handsome face. He releases a string of words, no doubt loving, beautiful words filled with all the tenderness he always showed her. Zhalia wishes she could understand him, she really does. But at this point, she can feel what little breath is left leaving her body; she can hear no sound, only the incessant ringing of an oncoming eternal silence. Instead, her eyes follow the movement of his lips, categorizing every curve and line of his features and the shining of his eyes only plagued by the grand sorrow of his impending loss. She yearns to raise her hands towards him in one last, heartfelt embrace. To her great torment, she finds herself unable to move neither her arms or legs. Shallow gasps for air are the only movement her dying body permits her as a sanguine trail pools beneath her shuddering form.
Finally, Zhalia's body stops moving and Dante stops sobbing. He raises his head only to break down once more at the sight before him. Her eyes once filled with adoration for the auburn hair seeker are now devoid of any life; he stares at two clouded orbs as empty as the darkest of voids.
As if weighed down by a million bricks, Dante rests his forehead on hers. Heavy sobs wreck his shaking frame as he leaves lingering kisses laced with prayers on her cold, cold skin.
. . .
On a Tuesday evening, in the grounds of the San Juan Basilica, Zhalia Moon chooses the life of Dante Vale over her own, marking the termination of the quietus contract.
On a Tuesday evening, in the grounds of the San Juan Basilica, Zhalia Moon has fulfilled her second chance at life.
A/N: Thank you to anyone who reads my stories and a million more thanks to those who review, I really do appreciate your words. I hope you enjoy this new story. It was actually supposed to be a multi-chapter fic, but I'm completely swamped with responsibilities right now I knew I wouldn't be able to update at all. Honestly, I'm surprised I actually published this. Maybe I'll develop this story later during the summer, complete with way more details and an alternate ending. I mean, there's no way I'm killing my favorite character twice, uh-uh not happening. But that's a huge maybe, I can't promise anything. Also, I took a liberty with her age range because as we all know, the series never specified an exact age. If I'm wrong, let a girl know (;
Anyways, thanks guys, really. I'm flattered at your words of encouragement and appreciate your dedication to this series. Can't wait to hear more from you! Take care until next time.
P.S. Snowflake is a character from a previous story of mine, Beyond the Seeker Realm. She seemed popular among those who reviewed so I brought her back in this story. I have to say, I really like her character too. By the way, I hope I answered that one question about why she spoke Swedish. Hope you like it (: