CHAPTER TEN

Angel Haddox sat on the Fearless Leader's bed. For a guy who had supposedly fucked half of New York's female population she thought the furnishings would be a little more carnal knowledge inspiring. Instead, a dilapidated bunk bed supported her weight. The mattress was concave in the center, no doubt from the numerous trysts he had encountered over the years. Her revolver was set point-blank between her eyes.

"So now that you have me Conlon, what are you going to do? Fuck me or kill me?"

Before her, Wilson's hold on the gun faltered due to the lightness of her tone. The hardness in his face dissipated to a look of surprise. Angel looked past him and saw that Conlon's steely gaze hadn't changed. The remark only prompted him to rise off the warped chest he was sitting on and stride across the room. His shoes were hard on the floorboards. He halted behind Whitie, the gleam in his eyes akin to that of a knife. Angel's eyes were too trained on the coy smile that danced on his lips to even realize that he had pounced on her. She released a great gasp of air as his knee smashed into her stomach, sucking the wind from her. As she fell backwards onto the mattress, Conlon harshly positioned his knee in her groin, his hand locking her wrists above her head in a powerful grip. When she regained her breath, she opened her eyes to discover the dagger that she routinely wore strapped to her thigh was brandished before her. As her eyes noticed how blindingly the light played off it, she also realized the first cold slabs of fear overtaking her. Her body broke out into a cold sweat as he lowered his lips to her ear, strands of hair brushing across her cheek. Her gaze never left the memorizing blade, as he spoke at not more than a whisper.

"You think you've outsmarted me this time? Is Oliver at such a loss in Midtown that he has to resort to eavesdropping? No matter what you say, I know your brother won't take the disappearance of his most prized killer lightly. He will pay me nicely for you." He was lightly tracing the blade of the dagger across her cheek. "And to answer your question, Angel, I would let Night fuck you and Oliver kill you, you worthless Midtown whore." As a fitting emphasis, he slashed the blade across her face with a growl. Angel released a howl of pain, feeling the flesh sear open and the hot blood begin to trickle down. She wretched under Conlon, her body contorting wildly. She tried desperately to soothe the open wound.

Through her screams, she did not witness the glance exchanged between the two Brooklyn newsboys. She just felt Conlon's weight being released from her. Angel emitted a sigh of relief as she brought her emancipated hands to her gashed cheek, her cupped palms filling with blood. Alas, she was not beset with the horrifying pain for much longer, for the butt of her revolver was brought down heavily to her face. She only felt a sliver of pain as it connected, until she slipped into black oblivion.

She awoke with a jerk, her head snapping back before she actually opened her eyes. The pain consumed her almost at once, shrouding her entire body. She elicited a slight groan as her eyes dazedly began to adjust to the darkened room. She brought a hand to her cheek, yet winced in pain. The bone hadn't been broken, yet a fantastic bruise remained in the revolver's wake. The blood had congealed, although the gash remained uncovered. To Angel, it felt as though her entire face was being ripped opened.

"So she finally awakes."

The voice was low, yet it was enough to awaken her senses. She scanned the darkness for the owner of the voice. "Who is there?" she barely whispered.

In response, she saw the sultry red glow of a match being struck. She watched the flame as a pair of hands cupped around it, encaging it. They fell away, revealing the bright scarlet embers of a cigarette. The embers flickered as the owner of the voice took a long drag, exhaling an invisible puff of smoke. "Probably someone you don't want it to be." The voice was light, almost jovial.

Angel's breathe bated painfully in her throat as her body became rigid with fear. It was a trained response to terror, one that that Brooklyn Leader had smartly forced her to acquire. "What do you want with me?" she inquired in a shaking voice.

There was a pause in the dark, before she heard the squeak of a chair under his weight as he rose. His footsteps were light as they fell across the ancient floorboards of his room. The embers of his cigarette seemed to float across the room as he moved. "Now that's a rhetorical question if I ever heard one." His voice was coming from her left, and she promptly snapped her head in the direction. "What could I possibly want with the Angel of Death herself."

Angel was painfully aware of the intervals of her ragged breathing, as there was a break in his words and a dangerous pause. She inhaled sharply as she felt the barrel of a gun being pressed to her right temple. He was standing only mere inches away from her. She could hear his quick breaths. "To kill you," he intoned simply. "To pull this trigger and let your fucking brains splatter across the wall."

She was paralyzed. Fear clenched at her body. She was at the brink of urinating herself when the gun she felt the gun drop away and Conlon step back. Angel elicited a painful sigh of relief as her body went lax. A flame erupted across the room in a kerosene lamp, illuminating the squalid room with a warm glow. Conlon shook the match and carelessly flicked it aside. He collapsed into a chair (the same chair she had straddled him on, she thought ruefully,) with his shoulders hunched. He raised his eyes to hers. "But I'm not going to do that."

An insane, high-pitched laugh escaped her lips and she dug her fingers into the gashed cheek. "You…you really expect me to believe that?"

He erupted into a slight grin. He knew her eyes were trained on her revolver that he held. "No, not really." He motioned towards the gun. "But then again I don't have the rep as a murderer."

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. He called youa murderer. How many people have you shot to death, Hel, you old Angel of Death, you old murderer. 10? 20? Does it even really matter now? Cause you know after a certain number the old Guy in the Sky up there loses count and loses patience and will just sent your ass straight to Hell. Just like out of the Inferno, Hel. Just like out of your dreams. Old Conlon here himself will have the honor of blowing apart your pretty head with your own bitch revolver again, and again, and again. What you reap is what you sew, isn't that how that old saying goes?

"So now you have me, Conlon, you ain't gonna get scared are you? You ain't scared of a girl are you? Is the only way you can be in the same room with me with my own gun pointed at me?" she cried shrilly.

His comment sliced her to the core. "You're not a girl. You're a monster."

Angel Haddox, aka the Angel of Death, was rarely ever at lose for words, especially when she made some last, snide remark to a newsie before she murdered him. But now, with Conlon, she could barely comprehend what to say. "If I am such a monster, then why don't you kill me right here, right now? Splatter my brains across the wall. No more Angel of Death."

Conlon flashed her a winsome look before releasing a hearty laugh. He rose from the chair. "Do you really think I'm that goddamned stupid, Haddox? I ain't the Leader of Brooklyn for anything." He strode across the room towards her and, with outstretched arms, leveled the revolver at her face. "Let's say I do kill you. Would it make a lot of people very happy? Sure. But will it make Oliver very happy? He'll come to Brooklyn with all his goons and kill even more of my boys all cause I did you a favor and killed your ass. Besides, Haddox, you're worth more alive than you are dead."

She stared up at him past the gun pointed at her, hatred burning in her eyes. "What, Conlon, you want to break me in on your bed or something?"

He released a laugh, his blue eyes shining gleefully. "Don't flatter yourself there, Haddox. I figure I could use you as sort of a spy."

Angel laughed incredulously at him. "A spy? A spy! What a wonderful idea. Except if you do let me out of here, what the hell is making me keep my promise to you? You gonna have one of your newsies always following me?"

"No, Haddox, I thought that you might want to do something good I your life for once."

Because I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes today. I saw fear in your eyes. You're not one of them. You want more. But your scared shitless. Scared shitless. You want to die in this life you created for yourself, you don't know who the hell you've become. But you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past that the future will be brighter. You bitch, you fucking murderous bitch, you are the same as me.

She felt her breathing begin to convulse and she lowered her head, not allowing him the pleasure glimpsing her unshed tears. She wanted to tell him that she did not love her brother, did not know the last time she had ever even felt the emotion. That the only way she and her brother were connected was through the blood of those she had killed joyfully for him. She was tired. She was weary. She felt like a husk of a human being, empty, nothing inside. She wanted to die, but she was too afraid to commit suicide. That she wished he had killed her already. Of how much she wished she were just a regular girl who had grown-up in Brooklyn whom Conlon had seduced. She would have a cry, he would listen to her problems, and then they would make good use of the mattress.

But she was not just a regular girl growing up in Brooklyn. She was the Angel of Death. Oliver had made sure of that after he murdered their parents one moonless night and proclaimed to her that they were finally free.

She raised her head, eyes still glassy, and murmured, "What do you want me to do?" Yet she was jolted to find Conlon had taken a seat on the mattress beside him. His hands clutched her gun upon his lap and he stared at it. She was struck again of how incredibly handsome he was, with the light playing off his hair that resembled burnished gold. She was tired, and he had said words she had understood, and she wished she could collapse against him with sleep. But then she remembered her place. And who they were.

Conlon raised his eyes and locked her gaze. They were solemn, yet nonetheless pierced her soul. Wordlessly, he placed the revolver in her lap. It took her a moment to process the gesture, and when she finally grasped it, she stared at him, thunderstruck. She was still staring as he rose to his feet and slowly padded across the room, hands deep in his pockets. As he placed his hand on the doorknob and prepared to open it, he turned over his shoulder. "To answer the question you asked before truthfully, I don't think I would let it be Night." Sitting dumbfounded, Angel thought she detected the faint trace of a smile on his lips, before he slipped out of the room.

Except if you do let me out of here, what the hell is making me keep my promise to you?

He did not have to answer her question. Angel knew. Spot Conlon already had her.

Regaining her composure, Angel tucked the revolver into the band of her trousers, and quickly stole out of the room and into the blackened night. She knew she had made a deal for her soul with Satan, an act that if discovered could be treason to Midtown and punishable by death.

Angel Haddox, though, couldn't give a damn.

A/N: It's been a few years since I have updated this story. As some may notice, a few of the chapters I had originally posted are gone. I had taken them down to some revisions, and before I could put them back up, my computer crashed and I lost my original files. So, I have to write from scratch again. I have had terrible writer's block on this story for years, and I think I have come up with an ending that satisfies me, so the story may veer in a different direction than the first, but will incorporate the same elements. Reviews are appreciated as always. Thanks.