"I feel the rain on methe whispers on the wind...I only need to think that I'm your kind.
I gotta break the wall,to reach the skies above,and fall into your arms to live and die..."

Ivan Torrent-Dandelion

"The Gods are rolling their dice, playing games with the lives of men,"

~Terry Pratchett

Chapter One: Rituals and Reunions

Ed woke with a gasp arching off the bed as though an electric current were twisting down his spine. His heart felt as though it were trying to tear its self from his chest and beat painfully against his ribs. He tried to draw in a breath to quell its rapid rhythm but the beginnings of panic quickened through his blood digging needle sharp fangs into his lungs that were already strained from smoking to many cigarettes. He slouched forward trembling from a combination or terror fueled adrenaline and rage. He could still feel the press of splintered teeth against his throat and the warm drip of blood sliding down his neck. The smell of the storm and freshly turned soil still lingered in his nose and so did the feeling of a grave cold hand digging into his wrist.

After all the years of having the wraith stand mockingly out of his sight in his dreams this had been the first time that it had actually touched him. He shivered the ghost of the shades breath crawling across his skin with all the maddening lightness of a silken thread of spider web. It made him want to gag. After a few moments he regained some of his breath and took a haphazard glance to the polished marble floor half expecting to see bloody boot prints by his bedside. But of course there was nothing there, only his discarded cloths and empty liquor bottles. He gave a half amused snort of laughter at his own paranoia.

Sweat had made his skin damp causing his silken sheets to cling uncomfortably to his body. He gave an annoyed snarl and tore the suffocating cloth away, flinging it to the floor. Without thinking he reached to the bedside table and fumbled for the etched crystal glass that was rested just on the edge. He knew that there was still was a shot of bourbon at the bottom. He had drifted off to sleep looking at how the amber liquid had distorted the opposite wall with a splash of gold. He brought the drink shakily to his lips hoping that the liquid fire would burn away the last remnants of his nightmare.

He gave a hiss of pain as it slid past his lips causing a flare of pain to spike into his brain. He drew the glass away startled when he saw that it was smudged with scarlet. He gently brought his fingers to his mouth and found that he had bitten though his bottom lip in his sleep and the wound had dribbled crimson down the side of his face and neck.

"I know all of you, better than Gin…,"

The mocking voice tumbled into his thoughts like hot coals, burning his mind. He tightened his grip on the delicate glass until it groaned beneath the pressure of his fingers. In a fit of unleashed rage he hurled the delicate object at the wall taking a small amount of pleasure in how it shattered and rained jagged pieces of crystal onto the floor.

He absentmindedly wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before bracing his hands against the edge of the bed and levered himself up to a standing position. He swayed on his feet the liquor he had nursed all day sweeping across his sense of balance in a nauseating wave. He took a few shaky steps forward the sick feeling sliding from his belly to reside behind his eyes. The welcome coolness of the bathroom beckoned to him and he made his way there.

After a few steps he had to reach out and brace his hand against the side of the massive claw footed chest of draws that loomed beside the entrance to the bathroom. He heard the distant rumble of thunder and cast his gaze to the stately French glass windows that lead to the balcony. The last glimmer of light from the evening sun was just a golden thread spun against the tops of the trees. It was swiftly being swallowed by the swell of the oncoming storm. He watched as the last luminescence faded, swallowed by shadow.

"See how easily light falls away before the oncoming darkness,"

The words of his grandfather from years past rose up in his mind, stirred to his consciousness by the last wisps of his nightmare. He shook his head, not wanting to think of his guardian, not wanting to think of anything. Gin was gone, absent from his life for months now, and without the strong comforting presence of the blonde his old depression was slowly lurching back into his mind. It had settled on the fringe of his thoughts, patiently waiting for entrance into its old domicile. It was beginning to pluck with decayed fingers at strings of memory that had remained so clandestine that Ed had forgotten their repulsive resonance. It made his heart ache, and bile burn at the back of his throat. He turned his attentions away from outside, and continued on his path to the bathroom.

A single white light burned through the gloom, a spark of hope. It was the notification signal on his cell phone. The gnarled feeling of sickness loosened its grip on his belly and he quickened his pace almost tripping on the damp towel on the tile floor. He caught himself on the edge of the sink, ignoring the bark of pain that snarled up his leg as his knees banged against the oaken cabinets beneath the counter. He reached for his phone and pressed the power button. The screen lite up and the top bar indicated he had a new text message. His heart hammering in his chest flicked to the screen and saw that the message was from a number that he didn't recognize but the message was held all the familiarity of a lovers embrace.

I will see you soon Red, I love you and I have missed you.

Ed found that he was trembling all over again and pressed his forehead against the coolness of the screen. He huffed out a heavy breath that was tinged with a sob.

"That mother fucker,"

The thought was heavy with the pouting anger of a spurned child who had just been denied his favorite toy. But like most childish emotions it was fleeting and left a sense of relief trailing in its wake. The harrowing feelings that had been gnawing at his mind with rat like teeth skittered back to their dark corners and faded. Thunder rumbled again, the fall of the sword of Fate, the laughter of the gods. It's far away voice shook another memory awake in his mind.

"Hear that Eddie baby, that's the sound of the Gods rolling their dice, playing games with the lives of men,"

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth and the heavy brittle mask of sadness begin to crack and fall away. The blonde was so romantically poetic sometimes that it was striking, alluring in way one finds absolute grace of their lovers every day movements beautiful. He was then struck by how much his missed Gin, summer was waning into autumn and this was the first time he had heard anything from him. Wiping away a stray tear that had trickled down his face, he unplugged his phone and slipped it into his pocket, his heart lighter in his chest.

He turned to leave the bathroom just as lightening flashed and he caught a glimpse of his haggard reflection in the mirror. His jaw tightened and soft cry of horror leaking from between his clenched teeth. The blood drained from his face and his heart plummeted to his knees. His eyes were wide in a terror that nipped at the galloping hooves of madness. Against the vivid pale white of skin of his throat were blood smeared finger prints.

Edward Senior glanced up when he heard the sound of glass shattering from the room above him. He paused, the envelope he had just received held lightly in his hand, his silver letter opener still poised beneath the wax insignia that sealed the document inside. A sudden flash of lightening spilled into the room filling his steel gray eyes with liquid mercury. He waited assuming that this was just the first note in the symphony of destruction that was about to ensue. His grandson had always been prone to fits of rage, but lately he had been becoming more violent and destructive. Not that the older man gave a fuck. He relished those moments when Edward lost control, it reminded him that no matter how wretched his grandson had become they were still bound by the rage that sang through their blood. His son had lacked that certain trait, his grandsons father had always been soft spoken even when provoked to the very cusp of anger.

That personality trait was something that Wuncler would test often, purposely antagonizing his son straining to get a glimpse of the beast he knew lurked beneath the others calm and collected demeanor. But Wuncler the II always found these trials amusing he would laugh at his father, his frost colored gray eyes taking on the hue of sharpened steel. He would twist his father's words around as gracefully as a fencer turned his opponents sword

That hadn't however meant that his son was weak, he had no preference in weapons, for anything he laid his hands on became in instrument of death. When it came to his contracts he was just as cold and calculating as any assassin. Wuncler often lamented that his son had refused to pursue a military career the older man had no doubt that Edward II would have easily surmounted any obstacle and could have become part of the BUD/S or MARSOC. But death had stolen upon his son when his eyes had been turned to other matters of importance and he had been struck down along with his wife. Leaving Wuncler senior with a young prodigy, one that he had hoped he could sculpt to fill the void that his father had left behind. Wuncler now realized how foolish that endeavor was, the memories of his own son had blinded him to the fact the Edward was nothing like his father. He was stubborn as a Brahman bull, fiercely independent and had a wild streak careened through his blood on mustang swift was these episodes fury gave Wuncler hope that buried beneath the layers of addiction and reckless behavior Edward still held a warriors spirit, one that was capable of destruction and violence.

Somewhere from the darkness Saint-Saens Fourth Piano Concerto drifted though the shadows of the evening, mingling with the music of the storm. It barely masked the sound of silk as the assassin that had been reclining on the couch in front of fire quietly slipped from a few moments Wuncler dismissed the sound, his grandson was either too impaired or too lazy to continue his temper tantrum. It was no secret that Wuncler didn't like his grandson, he loathed his very presence and often went out of his way to inflict him with pain. The thought of his inferior prodigy so upset caused a small amount of smug satisfaction to bloom in his chest. That coupled with the knowledge that he was the cause of grandsons suffering also brought him a sense of malicious joy.

The silence waltzed by on storm heavy feet and after a few more moments he returned his attention to the sealed envelope. He flicked the thin blade across the obsidian wax breaking the engraved image of a falcon tearing the throat from a crane1 in twain. A few photographs tumbled onto his desk he picked them up and idly flipped through them. When he was finished he stacked them neatly on the corner of his desk before he unfolded the heavy hand pressed parchment. He saw that it was a bank statement along with a hand written note informing him that his contract had been completed with no extra expense to the initial fee. A million dollars had been withdrawn from one of his companies accounts an amount that meant as much to him as his grandson. It was only a few coins missing from the dragon's hoard of wealth that he reined over.

It was a paltry price to pay for the reconstruction of his fallen empire. Each stone would be baptized in the blood of his enemies. He would leave a trail of corpses to his throne and no one would dare raise their voice in defiance to him. He glanced up when he heard the door to his office softly open and then close. His gaze followed the assassin until she reclaimed her place on the couch.

"So…?"

He asked, getting up from his desk refolding the piece of parchment he grabbed the photos as he walked to the fire place. The assassin's eyes followed her patriarch as he stood in front of the hearth his figure silhouetted against the fiery hue of the flames. She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts, phrasing her words very carefully.

"I am not sure, the doorway to his bedroom was open. He was standing slack jawed in front of the bathroom mirror and he looked like he may have been bleeding."

She paused nervously licking her lower lip before continuing,

"I watched him a few more moments, I thought he was going to pass out but he staggered out onto the balcony. I left him standing in the rain. "

Wuncler remained silent staring into the fire. Thunder gave a faraway chuckle before rolling to a crescendoed a roar. He sighed than glanced at the paper one last time before casting it into the fire.

"Do you know what was on that parchment Priest?"

She stayed quiet knowing that he wasn't expecting an answer. He turned and almost carelessly tossed the photos in her direction.

"Another one of our complications has been eliminated, and as you can see he has met his end quite gruesomely."

1. The falcon killing the crane in the family insignia of the Graham clan in Scotland, this is the clan that my family hails from and according to history the Graham were assassins/mercenaries who, on a plea from King George sailed to the United States of kill the founding father. They however turned on their English and offered their services to the United States during the war. This is the only clan that I am aware of who openly advertised that they were blades for hire.