Chapter Two: The Would-Be Assassin
~ Blame it upon a rush of blood to the head.~
There were only two things in the world that Kieran Grey truly and deeply detested: rain and Monday mornings.
It would be fitting then, that he was standing knee-deep in a fucking puddle of muddy water, rain pouring down his coat on a very early Monday morning, his eyes trained on the iron wrought gates of a white, pillored, very British estate.
He had a Sig Saur in his left hand, cleverly concealed from passersby by his thick coat and the way his body was leaning against the brick pillors, and a check for fifty thousand pounds in his pocket from one Mr. Nicholas Lovell Morgan, pulled from a personal Swiss bank account.
I know you're the best, Kieran, but for Christ's sake make it quick. She is my sister, you see.
He had found the look of absolute sincerity on the man's face somewhat troubling. The amount of the check, equal to almost 100,000 U.S. dollars, was even more troubling. The sister must have done something very, very bad indeed to have her own brother gunning for her with that amount of money and anxiousness to have her eradicated from the face of the earth.
So, under the working theory that little sis must be just short of being the Anti-Christ, Kieran had no problem with the fact that he had two bullets ready for her skull and one for her chest.
Well, he had no problem with it anyway. To be honest, even if little sis turned out to be the Virgin Mary reincarnated, she still couldn't escape the loud, distinctive thrush call of his rent being due next week. And since he liked to live well above his means, Mr. Nicholas Lovell Morgan's check would go a long way toward helping pay a lot of different things. Drinking, whoring, gambling: the essentials, to put it bluntly.
Sorry, little sis.
He just wished she'd put in an appearance, say, before the second coming. Had Kieran been alive and breathing, he probably would have caught pnemonia ten times over. Being dead then, had its benefits but couldn't stop the slimy, slick feeling of water gathering under his coat collar or save his Italian leather shoes from becoming an utterly ruined disaster.
Well, job hazards, he supposed, and ran a hand through his hair, spiky from the rain, and hunkered down to face little sis. Nicholas said she usually left the house between seven-thirty and eight o'clock.
A glance at his waterproof watch put the time at seven forty-five.
It wouldn't be long now.
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She stepped out in the rain.
She didn't mind the rain and couldn't feel it anyway, but she knew it would utterly fuck up her hair and carefully arranged outfit; better, then, just to pretend she gave a good damn and wear the raincoat rather than face the stares of classmates.
Last year, she'd faced them more than she cared to remember. The long, quiet looks from total strangers and the whispers of her name floating down the hall, invariably paired with the words 'poor' or 'crazy', was more than she could bear. A return to "normalcy" had shut them up for a while and Samaire didn't need to give them an excuse to start up the rumor mill again, with their patient eyes roaming her body, looking for any excuse to cut her down to her knees.
"You have a good day, Miss Samaire." The immaculatly dressed, but rain soaked, old guard at the door smiled at her and tipped his hat. He wasn't standing under the porch, but in the rain and she could only imagine how the man must be wishing to hell down low for a straight razor right now.
"You understand, Miss Samaire, the cars are being used in preperation for Mr. Nicholas's trip to the airport. You'll have to walk, today."
He spoke as if it was the world's greatest tragedy, her having to walk two blocks down on a rainy day. His eyes were soft, even, and they followed the lines of her face.
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss."
"It'll be fine, I'm sure." She nodded once, opened her umbrella, and started walking down the long, winding lane that led out to the city. For a minute there, she thought the guard was going to be the one to do it. She had anticipated his sorries and then, when she least expected it, for him to pull out a gun and smile that sad smile and say, I'm terribly sorry, Miss.
She wondered who and where. She wondered if she would let them go through with it or not- to be or not to be, that was the question of Samaire's last hour.
"Good morning to you, Missus Samaire." Another non-descript guard, this one stationed by the gate. Her presence appeared to have roused him from some kind of comrade-like conversation; when she got closer she could see the guard's talking companion was actually standing outside on the street, dressed in appropriate villian black and leaning against the outside pillor in way that suggested absolute indifference.
His face was unconventional. His eyes were dark blue, so blue she could even see them from where she was standing, and deep-set, creating shadows underneath the bold sky colour. His nose was almost perfect, but just a tad too long for his face, and she imagined, if so inclined, she cut diamonds on the harsh lines of his cheekbones. He was pale, but not unappealingly so, and the lean, angular shape of his face hinted at an equally lean and angular body hiding beneath his bulky, black coat. His hair was blonde, dark blonde, and twisted into a disheveled spikes on top of his head by the rain.
He looked older than her, but not by much, late twenties at the most. And… Vampire, she thought. Lamia. And wondered, ever so briefly, what he was doing at Nicholas's estate, the house of a known shapeshifter and enemy to all things dead.
"Open the gate, please?" To the guard and then, "Thank you."
The heavy, iron gates swung inward, lurching and creaking every rusting inch of the way to reveal the silent streets of the posh section of London. She stepped out, then turned towards the man near the gate who had been speaking with the guard: he was watching her like a particularly interesting insect, writhing on the cloth just before he pinned her down.
He's the one.
She stared at him while the rain poured down her face and raised her hand to trail across her unbeating heart. The rain felt like blood, like all the blood she'd ever shed returned back to her and running down her face.
"You gonna do it, then?" she asked, and tilted her head to the side as if considering something of vital import. "Surely, you won't let me catch cold first. That, my friend, would be insult to injury."
Her eyes stayed on him and she moved towards him suddenly, not stopping until her body was pressed against his and her mouth just a breath away from his ear.
"And, as you're a shot or two away from killing me, don't you think that's injury enough?"
No answer and she couldn't read the fleeting, flitting shadows in those dazzling eyes. Didn't even want to try. Slowly and smoothly, she pulled away from him, and looked back over at the guard, who was staring at them open-mouthed and wide-eyed like a nervous little boy about to piss his pants. Obviously, he'd been told to expect something and in some way they had all deviated from the set upon plan.
"Lighten up, sunshine," Samaire said to him, with a forced grin. "It'll happen soon enough."
She turned her back on them both and started walking down the street.
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He couldn't believe he hadn't killed her. Kieran's fingers tightened on the gun as he watched her walk away. The Anti-Christ, indeed. Fucking unbelievable.
"I'm not sure, Mic, but I think that was your cue to…you know," the guard beside him gave a sheepish, rubbery grin. "Kill 'er." He whispered the last and sent a surrepitious glance back at the main house. "I mean, yeah?"
"Yeah." The girl was out of sight now, sauntering to school he was sure, without a care in the free world and he was still standing in the rain like her stood-up prom date, waiting for a deliverance that had long past him by.
Infuriating, bleeding, fucking woman.
He'd kill her if it took the rest of his miserable, rain soaked, immortal life.
"Tell Nicholas…" Here, Kieran hesitated. If the wrong message was conveyed, he knew Nicholas would not hesitate to sever his head from his body and stick it on one of the spikes on the gate. Or, try at least. "To start planning his sister's funeral. It'll be complete by nightfall."
He stared into the fog of rain that was a London Monday morning in April and stood up straight, already moving after little sis with the gun hidden under the folds of his non-descript coat.
"Give him my word."
He didn't look back.
~ I don't have a soul to save. ~
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