2017
"I would think someone as pretty as you would have trouble getting a boyfriend. Most guys would be too afraid to approach you."
Kate stared at the man behind the counter, again thrusting forward the bills in her hand urging him to take them.
"Do you hit on all your customers like this?" she questioned. "Because, not that it's any of your business, but you wouldn't fit into my lifestyle."
"I'd love you to tell me about it," he probed as he leant closer, trying to keep her a little longer.
Frustrated, she slammed the notes onto the counter and walked back to the first aisle, grabbing Bianca and hauling her away from the rows of saws.
"C'mon Bianca," she said. "I swear that's the worst thing about living on your own, you only need to fix one broken lightbulb to have someone think you're the next piece of fresh meat."
"What happened?" Bianca asked.
She certainly hadn't been paying any attention to what was going on with her aunt and the hardware store employee. She'd been focused on the saws, on the sharpness of the blades, thinking constructively about how useful they would be. Michael had trained her that way. Now wherever she was she was consistently analysing her surroundings and what could be useful to her.
"He's a jerk. A good-for-nothing sleaze who has nothing better to do with his time than try to pick up anything that looks remotely female who's walked into his store." Sighing, she looked over to Bianca. "Do you want to do something more enjoyable? We can go check out The Gap. I need some new clothes after the last assignment." She smiled. "And it's always a good excuse to fill up the wardrobe."
"Do things always get that messy?" Bianca asked inquisitively as they walked further.
"Generally," Kate answered. "But there will be the odd occasion that it'll be simple. I guess they tend to be better – you can get in and get out and then go about your daily routine. No mess, no fuss. But there's no real fun to be had in those, I like to play a bit. Bigger jobs you get paid more for, then you can buy whatever you want. Get as many clothes as you want," she said teasingly, trying to make it sound more appealing to Bianca. She could see her niece was still unsure, even though she had committed herself to doing it now. "Everyone has their price, Bianca. It's just a job, a way of life. Only thing is you get more power this way, and that can be addictive. It's not so hard. It really isn't as bad as you're making it out to be. Your entire family went through this. It's a right, a heritage. You can do this."
"She's right," a male voice piped up from in front of them. They stopped walking. "I have faith in you."
"I see you haven't lost that habit of just showing up somewhere," Kate said, chuckling a little. Michael's gaze crossed over to her, a faint smile on his lips.
"Are you becoming the expert on me now?" he questioned.
Kate raised her hand to her ear, fiddling with her earlobe. "What if I was?"
"Wrong assumption for someone who's hardly ever in town."
"I'll try harder next time."
"Did you feel like taking some time out?" Bianca asked, smirking, as Michael took a step towards them. "Didn't think shopping with the girls was your idea of fun."
"No, actually, we've got somewhere else to be," Michael said cryptically. Bianca's smile faded.
"No time off?"
"No," Michael answered shortly. "You'll have to get used to this, Bianca. Things don't get catered towards you; you have to time yourself around them."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. All part of the learning process."
"You'll have to excuse us, Kate," Michael said, taking Bianca's hand in his and pulling her towards him. "You weren't factored into this mission."
"No, of course not. I shouldn't be in town, right?" she jibed. "No matter, I'll shop and repair on my own."
Bianca followed Michael as he yanked her around the corner of the store to a small, secluded place where they couldn't be seen, smiling up at him as he shimmered them both over to a suburban part of town.
"Here?" Bianca asked, a little stunned as she looked around. "Isn't this too… peachy for bad guys?"
"Not for a bijouterie thief," Michael said. She looked at him confused, needing more explanation, telling herself she really had to start insisting he give her the complete background on all the targets before he just showed up and made her do something. "He's pretty small, shouldn't be too hard for you to take him."
"What, like a dwarf? Sneezy, Dopey, Happy or Sleepy?"
"Logan. Logan Cotter," he responded. Bianca could see he was starting to get annoyed with her for not taking this seriously. "He's dangerous, Bianca. Don't be fooled by him. Now get in there and do your job before the other neighbours start noticing us. We don't want any witnesses."
Bianca nodded deferentially, making her way up the pathway towards the house. Turning she looked back towards Michael who remained where he was, staring at her but doing little else.
"You coming?" she asked.
"No. As I said, you can handle him. You don't need me for that."
"But what if—"
"No what ifs. Don't question your abilities. You know how to do this, now do it. No second guessing."
He shimmered out as if to prove the point that he was leaving her on her own to do this. She looked back to the door, straightening her shoulders and lifting her head. She could do this. She was seventeen now. She'd done this countless times over the past two years. Michael had trained her well enough; she at least had the basic powers down pat. Her aunt had told her it wasn't hard, that she was making a big deal out of it. She had to be confidant to be believable.
Reaching the doorway she lifted her hand and gently rapped on the door. Glancing to her left she saw there was a doorbell there. After waiting a moment and having no-one answer the knock, she pressed the little button and listened to the chimes ring out throughout the house. She only had to wait a short while before a twelve-year-old boy pulled the door back, looking up at her cautiously. She smiled down at him, tempted to do all the cheesy things like bending towards him, speaking baby-talk, pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair, but she restrained herself, pushing her hands into the back pockets of her jeans.
"Hi there," she said. "I'm from the babysitting service. Are your parents home?"
"I don't need no babysitter," the boy replied roughly.
"Even so, I have to talk it over with them. Can I come in?"
Looking her over, the boy finally shrugged and pulled the door back. Following him into the living room, she noticed the slight movement of his hands towards various objects in the room. She barely caught sight of what they were before they blinked out of view. The boy had power.
"So you ever see your dad do something weird?" she asked. "Or your mum wear some nice jewellery?"
Looking around the room she saw that it was nice and cosy, little armchairs sat about a small long table, woven blankets thrown over the back as if they were made by grandma and had to be shown off. The coffee table was bare except for a pack of cards stacked neatly near the side, with 5 of the pile spread fan-like next to it. There were pictures on the mantel of the fireplace just ahead of her, but as Bianca stepped up to survey them she saw they were all of kids. Three kids in all, of which this boy appeared to be the eldest.
"Dad's dead. Mum's gone," the boy said quickly.
Bianca turned back to him quickly, bewildered, wondering how that could possibly be. Maybe she had the wrong house. Michael hadn't stopped her. But someone had to be looking after these kids – maybe an uncle, or some other guardian that lived with them.
"Who's looking after you?" she asked vigilantly as she began to walk towards him.
"Logan!" a smaller girl of about four shouted out as she came racing towards him from the kitchen. He wrapped an arm around her.
"We look after ourselves."
Bianca stared at the boy. This was him. This was Logan. This was her target. He was small, yes, but that was because he was a child. Only a child and he was supposed to be some kind of dangerous criminal. Her eyes falling on the young girl, Bianca felt a strong pang of guilt. She was roughly the same age she had been when she saw the Phoenix attack her father. And here she was, about to do the same to the girl's brother, to her only caregiver according to him. Was she really going to do this? Was she going to slaughter him in front of the young girl?
"Who's that?" the young girl asked, staring up at Bianca.
"Not the babysitter," Logan said cockily with a shake of his head. Bianca instantly knew he was onto her and backed up a step. She saw an energy ball begin to power up in his hand as he pushed his younger sister behind him. "Emile, get out of here."
Bianca watched as the young girl turned and fled back towards the kitchen, moving through the wall this time and not the open archway. Logan threw the energy ball forwards, Bianca instantly leaping on top of the coffee table as soon as she felt the solid wood rest against her leg. The ball was low enough and short enough to make its collision point against the leg, blasting it out from under her as the table rocked and then tilted, making her slide down onto the floor again. Scampering back, she reached around and upturned it towards him as he moved forward.
'This isn't right,' she thought. 'I'm fighting a child. Why is this happening?'
Again she heard her aunt's words echo in her head, that everyone had a price. She had originally thought she was generalizing. In truth she was being thorough, it was an apt representation. There was no discrimination in it. Man, woman, black, white, child, adult, bad, good, witches, demons, warlocks, humans, they were all targets. And she would have to kill them. Every last one she was paid for, she had to do it.
She saw him vanish, just as he had made various objects in the room vanish when they had walked in. Now she understood, he had the power of invisibility. More than likely he had been concealing the evidence of his thievery as she walked in. Closing her eyes, she listened for him. She heard him move. Reaching to her right she grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, throwing it forward, seeing that there was a writhing figure captured underneath. Racing forward, she tackled him to the ground, reaching to her left this time and whipping the poker from the storage rack. It was extremely long, bronzed, made of brass, a rounded knob at one end and a spear like edge at the other with a little hook for latching. With vicious intent she drove the end of the fire poker through the holes in the knitted blanket, watching the pale coloured wool begin to darken to a deeper red as an unseen figure bled out. She tilted the poker, driving it deeper, catching the hook into the edge of the skin and pulling it back. The invisibility dropped away, and now she could see the carnage beneath her that had once been Logan Cotter. The blood ran out and over her hands as she took some kind of perverse glee in twisting the poker inside of him, tearing the muscles, rupturing the organs, driving it deeper until it popped out the other side, bouncing against the soft edging of the carpet, pools of blood splaying around his body until it began to soak into the knees of her jeans. Savagely she ripped the poker back out, lifting her head, the contents caught up in the reversal splattering across his body, the floor, the broken table, and even part of her clothing. Remembering to keep her presence unknown, she picked up the edge of the blanket and scrubbed away the fingerprints on the handle, reaching over to dust the top of the broken table, glancing around quickly to check nothing else had been left. Shimmering out, she reappeared back at the main headquarters, Michael awaiting her arrival as she knew he would be.
"So?" he pressed.
"It's done," she said dismally.
"I see," he said, looking her over, noting the blood on her clothes and hands.
"He was only a kid, Michael."
"I know."
"His little sister was the same age as me. When they killed my dad."
"That's a shame, but what's done is done," he said coldly. She bit her lip, looking down to the floor. "Go home. Get yourself cleaned up. We'll clear this up tomorrow. You won't be needed tonight."
"Go home," she repeated. He nodded.
Thinking of home she shimmered there. Not to their apartment, but to their house - the old one that held so many memories for her, both good and evil. The sky was beginning to darken now. It was a good cover for the state she was in, making it less noticeable for people to see her in her bloody attire. But she wasn't thinking of any of this, she was just standing, staring at the two storey house, her eyes locked on the front door, on the window to the front room. The living room was dark. Her gaze drifting upstairs she could see a light shining from the side, from her old room. There was someone else living there now – someone else sleeping in her bed that didn't know anything about the horrors from that night fourteen years ago.
She didn't know how long she had been standing there for, maybe until the lights turned out upstairs, and one began to shine downstairs again. Breaking her stare and bowing her head she shimmered back to the small apartment, just inside the doorway. She could hear the television on in her mother's room. Passing by the doorway she saw its bright reflection as the daily news flickered across the screen. The swirling lights of police vehicles crossed the camera, the blood-stained sheeted body being wheeled out through the front door as a hyperactive reporter tried to propel the story into something more than it was. Describing the event as a 'heinous act of cruelty against an innocent child', trying to enforce the desperate situation of the children left behind, the trauma of the youngest bearing witness to the brutal attack. They stated only a monster could do this, propositioning that it may be just the start of the work of some insane serial killer.
"Did you do this?" Lyn asked, seeing Bianca shadowing the doorway. She smiled. "You did good, baby. It's all over the news. You'll get paid ten-fold, and then we might be able to go out and celebrate."
Bianca turned away, not saying a word, making her way to the bathroom. She closed the door solidly behind her, grateful for the quiet. Turning on the faucet at the sink she splashed water onto her hands, picking up the rounded piece of white soap that lay on the side of the basin and scrubbing her hands furiously with it, trying to get every last remnant of the blood off. She watched as the light reddish colour swirled around the porcelain, diluting into the water as it emptied down into the drain. Her hands and forearms finally clean she pushed her hands together under the faucet, scooping up the stream that fell. Drawing back, she splashed the water against her face, reaching out and grabbing a hand towel to dry the residual drops. Pulling her hair free she let it fall into her face as she stared down at the sink, the water still circling in its rush to escape. Turning the faucet off she continued to stare into the porcelain until the last of the water disappeared, her hands gripping the edge of the basin. She felt numb, the quiet only enhancing the thoughts of what everyone had been saying today, about her, about what she'd done. Her eyes travelling up to the small mirror that stood above the sink, she stared at her reflection through the limp strands of hair that hung over her face. This was more than the face of a girl, more than a Phoenix witch. It was the face of an assassin, the face of a cold-blooded killer who had no discretion. It was the face of someone who could destroy someone else's world. It was the face of someone just as guilty as those men that had killed her father. Unable to bear the sight any longer, she balled her fists at the edge of the basin, raising her right and smashing it into the glass. The mirror cracked, shattering into a disturbed version of herself. This was right. This was how she felt inside - broken, fractured, beyond repair. She paid no attention to the pain in the knife edge of her hand, watching the fragmented pieces tumble down into the basin. Not all went down the drain, not like the water. It wasn't enough, it still wasn't enough. Her eyes caught sight of the birthmark on her left wrist. That was the reason she was like this. That was the reason she had to live this way. She couldn't do this anymore, couldn't keep killing people so mercilessly. It had to go away; then she'd be free. Finally free. Her hand dipping into the basin she picked up one of the broken shards, adjusting her grip as it slipped in the blood that trailed across her palm and down her fingers. Placing it against her skin she pressed down, letting it bite in, drawing the glass back as she tried to slice the birthmark free. The pain was justified; she had caused countless others this kind of suffering and worse.
"Bianca!" Lyn shrieked from the doorway.
Bianca lifted her head, as if she'd awoken from some kind of daze. She could see she had barely gone a quarter of the way through, her mother standing at the door both shocked and terrified.
"What?" Bianca grunted, as if she was doing nothing more than brushing her teeth.
"What are you doing?" Lyn questioned. "Put it down, Bianca."
"Why?"
This seemed to anger Lyn. Quickly she lost her cool. "I don't know what you think you're doing…"
"You don't know what I'm doing?" Bianca shot back. "What does it look like, mother? I don't want to be a part of this anymore. I'm trying to escape it. This is the reason I'm doing this. If I get rid of it—"
"It won't solve anything, and you know it."
"Then I'll have to find some other way to do it."
Bianca threw the glass back down into the basin, pushing back past her mother. Lyn spun after her, furious.
"Don't you walk away from me, Bianca. You stay here and fix this!" she shouted after her.
"Go to hell," Bianca said vehemently, reaching the front door and yanking it open.
"Bianca! I'm warning you! Don't you walk out on me!"
"What, like you walked out on me and dad?" Bianca cried, spinning to face her mother. "You left us there to die! You didn't care. He's dead because of you, because you didn't stay there to protect us. Because you were so wrapped up in this odious lifestyle that you would do anything for them and nothing for us. God, you were the one who put me here in the first place!"
Again she turned back towards the doorway, not waiting for a response from her mother, wanting only to escape, to leave, to never have to face her again. Lyn's expression softened as she realised the pain her daughter was going through.
"Bianca, you're hurt," she said softly. "Bianca. Can't we just talk about this? Stay."
Tears burning behind her eyes, Bianca walked into the hallway, traipsing up the corridor, paying no attention to the people in the other rooms, not caring if anyone saw her, ignoring the physical pain as the blood streamed down her hands and trailed behind her on the floor. She knew of only one place to go. Only one place where she would find someone who could understand, who cared, who knew. She shimmered out from the hallway and into the training room where she found the very person she was looking for, in 'his second home if not his first'.
"Bianca?" Michael questioned. "I thought I told you to go home."
"I did," she said softly. Her head swimming, she sank to the floor.
Michael walked towards her, noting as he got closer that the blood that covered her now was not the blood that had covered her before. Wounds covered her hands and arms, freshly opened. Tears began to stream down her face as she looked up to him. He quickened his pace.
"What the hell did you do, Bianca?" he yelled.
He dropped down in front of her, and now Bianca felt the tears flow from her eyes, just as the blood flowed from her hands laying helplessly on her lap. Feelings of guilt and shame began to override the numbness. She was embarrassed now that she had come to him, made him see her like this.
Conjuring what appeared to be a medical kit, Michael began rapidly pulling things from the small box, first grabbing her wrist and brushing a cloth over it, seeing now exactly where she had cut herself. Frowning, he poured some iodine onto a cloth, pressing it down over the exposed wound.
"Ow!" she screamed, feeling the liquid burn into the already stinging pain, her body shuddering as the tears fell harder.
Michael picked up a bandage with the other hand as he held the cloth in place, winding it around her arm and pulling it tight. She whimpered with each jerk of his hand as he pulled the loop tight then wound around another.
"Why? Why did you do this, Bianca?" he asked, pulling again. He pulled so fiercely it hurt, and she wondered if he'd completely cut off her circulation. She cried out again. He paused briefly, looking up at her, staring at her in dead seriousness. "Get used to the pain, and learn to be silent about it. It'll be like this and much worse."
He fastened it off and she felt the bandage was tight and secure, but despite the many layers soaking and suppressing the flow of blood, the never-ending stinging sensation remained underneath. She lifted her bandaged wrist to her chest, moving to hold it with her other hand.
"I wanted it to go away. I want to stop feeling like this, acting like this, being like this." Sniffling back the tears that still continued to come; she lifted her eyes towards him. "I can't fight it all away. I want to escape."
He grabbed her chin between his fingers, squeezing tightly. "You can't escape. I told you that. Did you not listen to a word I said to you?"
Bianca choked again as the tears she had been fighting made a quick return. She had listened to him. She had remembered what he said. She had done what he instructed her. But none of it would fight off the darkness; none of it was going to stop it.
"Obviously not," he said, throwing her face to the side when she didn't answer, grabbing her right hand which was still bleeding and lifting it to his eye level. There were small slivers of the mirror caught inside. Grabbing a pair of tweezers he pushed the metal into the side of her hand, grabbing what he could and pulling it out. She winced. "I told you to look after your hands, and look what you did. This isn't taking care of it."
"Since when was I off-limits to affliction?" she queried. "I deserve to be punished for what I do."
"You do what some rich bastard pays you to do. None of this is your choice," he said, finally fastening the second bandage around her hand. "And you think you should be condemned to eternal suffering? Because I can tell you right now you don't need the self-mutilation kind. Every time you step out that door you're risking it all." Sitting back he watched her; seeing the tears had dried now, that she was beginning to drown once more in the anger that spurred her on to do this. "Should I call your mother?"
"No! I'm not going back there. She started this."
Tilting his head to the side, he studied her face, reaching out to brush her hair aside, his hand resting against the top of her head.
"Do you want to come with me? I'm heading off home now. I'm sure I can fit you in somewhere."
Meekly she nodded, not knowing what else to do. She didn't want to go home. She could have just stayed here but she didn't want to be alone. She didn't want the thoughts of darkness to start torturing her again. She needed a distraction, and Michael seemed the only one who would be able to supply that at this moment. She felt safer around him; he was always there to back her up.
He stood; collecting his belongs before returning to her and helping her up. He shimmered them both back to his apartment. She stood by the front door, his hand still on her arm, looking around the clean and crisp apartment. The living room was larger than the one at her place, adorned with comfy red couches, a rug on the floor, a crafted wooden coffee table that looked as if it had been imported from Europe. There were paintings by Matisse and Derain adorning the walls.
"So what do you think?" he asked.
"It's so… big," Bianca said a little awestruck that one man could live by himself in such a large apartment.
She followed him through another doorway, finding herself in his bedroom as he dropped his bag down by the chest of drawers. It was basically the only thing in here apart from the closet and a large bed that sat in the centre of the room.
"You can sleep here," he said. She turned her head from the bed towards him. He walked towards the closet, pulling some blankets out. "Until we work something out, I'll crash on the couch if I need to." Placing the blankets on top of the chest of drawers as he returned to them, he pulled open a drawer and tossed her a long sleeve shirt from it. "Get changed. You don't want to be sleeping like that."
Looking down at the shirt in her hands, Bianca lifted it and opened it out as he disappeared with the blankets back into the living room. Undoing her jeans she pushed them to the floor, hastily kicking them away when she saw the dark stains around the knees. Pulling her shirt over her head, being extra careful of her sensitive arm and hand, she replaced it with the shirt he had given her, grateful for the length and size. Hugging herself tightly she walked back into the living room, curling up in one of the armchairs and pulling the sleeves over her hands so that only the ends of her fingers were showing. She watched Michael construct a makeshift bed on the sofa, lifting his head as someone rapped on the door.
"Lyn, hi," he said, pulling it open and seeing Bianca's mother standing outside.
"Have you seen Bianca?" she enquired.
Bianca climbed out of the armchair, slowly walking towards the front door until she stood behind Michael. He glanced back at her, his hand still on the door.
"What do you want?" Bianca asked quietly, stuffing her hands under her arms as she gripped the edges of the shirt. For some reason she feared her mother seeing the bandages, hearing the disapproval in her tone, and it was as if her mother had never seen her do it in the first place.
"Sweetie, I want you to come home," Lyn answered.
"Why? You don't care about me. You never have! Don't pretend to start now."
"Sweetie, I do care," Lyn said, quickly changing her tone as she realised Bianca was not going to fall for the fake pleasantries she used to fool many other people. "Well, where are you going to go? There's nowhere you can run to. You'd be better off in your own room, with your own things."
"Michael's letting me stay here," Bianca said, indignant.
Lyn's mouth fell open, her gaze shifting to Michael and her eyes darkening as she closed her mouth again. Michael, who at first seemed to have been caught a little off-guard by the outburst, quickly resumed his usual expressionless demeanour, looking to Lyn as she glared at him; taking a step forward and pushing Lyn back lightly with his hand, half-closing the door behind him as he lowered his body slightly so he could keep his voice low.
"Don't worry, Lyn. I'll look after her," he said reassuringly. "It's better than having her run around on the streets. I'll send her to pick up her things tomorrow, if she hasn't already changed her mind about leaving."
"This wasn't supposed to happen," Lyn said, her voice wavering slightly.
"Perhaps it wasn't, but it will work out for the better. You'll see."
Leaving her outside, he slipped back into his apartment and closed the door, watching Bianca disappear into the bedroom, her hands raised to her mouth as she lightly chewed on the edge of her thumb.
"Goodnight, Bianca," he called, lifting the blanket on the couch, pausing for a response before slipping underneath it. All he received was the closing of the door in answer.