Chapter Ten
She didn't remember the excuse she'd given Lucia and Elincia. Her mind was a fog, her legs on autopilot. Her switchblade was in her hand. Flicking it out, then in. Out and in.
People had given her a wide berth. She'd been lucky no one in the richer areas had called the cops. Or maybe they had and she'd avoided them.
Heather didn't remember the walk to Sothe's door. It was when her hand fell on the unlocked handle that she snapped back. Her switchblade flicked out and stayed out.
She pushed the door open, it emitting that audible creak that she'd always hated. Heather crept forward, her boots padding her foot falls.
Heather glanced in the kitchen. The place was a mess. A struggle had taken place, no doubt. Sothe wasn't that messy.
She continued towards the living room where Sothe always lingered. A hooded figure sat in Sothe's armchair.
The Fireman threw the hood back, devilish features complimented by the low lighting of the streetlights through the window. Though part of his face was shrouded by the night, his glaring smirk shone bright.
"You're done, yeah?" he said. His tone was a serving of light with an undercurrent that reverberated like a tremor. There was fury in his voice. Constrained, tied back and manacled with care, but it was an anger.
Heather said nothing.
"Because, and I'm sure I don't have to say this to you," the Fireman continued. "If you care at all about little Sothe, then you're not done. We had an agreement."
"You didn't tell me what I was doing," Heather protested. Her voice felt dwarfed by his.
The Fireman leaned forward. "No, I didn't. Because I took you for a woman of intellect that knew what she was getting into. It's too late to back out now, Heather. You're a part of this."
Her fist clenched around the switchblade. "And if I don't care what happens to Sothe?"
The Fireman's smirk grew. "Then I get to have some fun with him. But don't be naïve. I know about your relationship with Lucia Delbray. I've been watching you two." His lips curled. "Don't feed me your bullshit about not caring about her."
A tremor ran through her arm, shaking and barely constrained. The switchblade glinted, moving in and out of the light. She grit her teeth. "What do you want."
He laughed. "Finish the job, Heather. Only two more pieces left. Then the game really begins."
"What game?" Heather asked, her voice a quaver.
"Why, Heather, you haven't figured it out?" The Fireman leapt up from the chair with agility. Heather stepped back, holding the knife in front of her. He grinned, leering down at her. "The revolution, of course. The whole thing this has been building to. Have you really not been paying attention?"
"I'll have no part in that," Heather said. The knife still pointed at him.
He chuckled and took a step back, moving towards the window. Passing headlights from the street illuminated his shark-like appearance. "You already have," he said. "None of this would be possible without you, Heather." The way he said her name, almost akin to a purr. "You'll have done your job by that point, your usefulness expired."
"And if I go to the cops?"
The Fireman turned, pivoting on the spot. His gaze leveled on her, hard and focused. He held it there, staring for several long moments. "Try it. Give me a reason to kill you, your girlfriend, your little Sothe and every other person you've ever interacted with."
He strut towards Heather. His boots clacked against the hardwood floor. She didn't back down, but he loomed over her. "Heather, I do trust you won't do anything stupid." The Fireman considered his words. "Especially like telling your new friend, the Queen. That wouldn't make me happy."
"I understand." It took all her will power to force her voice to not squeak.
"Good," he said. The Fireman stepped around her, towards the door. As he reached the door, he turned, "I'll tell Sothe you said hi." Then, he left.
"Fuck," Heather spat as soon as the door closed. She glanced at her phone, several unread messages from Lucia blinking on her screen.
"Fuck," she groaned, staring at the chair Sothe usually sat in. Heather took a glance around the room and the kitchen. There was no sign, no note, no indication of anything aside from the struggle in the kitchen.
"Dammit!" she screamed, punching the wall, its paper thin construction breaking with ease with her strike. Heather pulled back her hand, looking at the flecks of blood from a hundred little cuts across her fist.
She needed to get out of this city. She needed to do something.
Authot Notes: Bit shorter, but I didn't want to ruin that tense feeling.
Last of the prewritten chapters. This probably won't be updated again until the new year. Keep an eye out for a few oneshots in the near future!
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