CHAPTER SEVEN
Despite the sweltering nature the morning had possessed, night was refreshingly cool. The sun had just settled in the west for a bout of slumber and clear darkness had fallen, rendering the cold stars prominent in the sky. Gusts of winds travailed about, subduing the threatening return of the heat.
One such gust slipped through the window that Angel had cracked before she went to bed. It brought a slight howling noise with it as it fluttered about the third floor of the warehouse. Its chill caused gooseflesh to appear on her skin as she lay on the forsaken mattress, tossing and turning in restless sleep.
She elicited a soft cry in her slumber as a cold sweat washed over her, kindled by the cool breeze. She tossed restlessly on the mattress, the moth- eaten sheet that covered her becoming twisted with her legs in the motion. Her back arched slightly as she twisted to her side, her hair, pale silver in the moonlight, becoming askew.
As odd as the notion was, Angel could not sleep at night. After nearly half a dozen years of assassinations under the face of the moon, she had become accustomed to slumbering away the beginnings of the next day. Perhaps the light from the sun had kept her dark nightmares at bay, or perhaps she hadn't given a damn at the grisly acts that she had performed at her brother's whim. At any rate, the night offered her no solace. Its darkness crept into the cavities of her mind and released their brutal workings. The nightmares she experienced now made her long for death.
Besides the hideous deaths of all she had ever slain replaying themselves in candid, vivid details once again, she also witnessed her own fate. She was in the First Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, yet instead of having the fate of spending eternity in a river of boiling blood, what she was to experience everlastingly was far more hideous. She was on her knees, utterly disheveled and trembling, her head bowed and flaxen hair reflecting the flames that licked about her. Before her stood Spot Conlon, proud and erect. His blue eyes dancing with intrinsic flames and shadows of the Underworld setting off the smooth crevices of his set face, his right arm was outstretched at a downward angle towards Angel's crown. In his grasp he held her revolver, its ebony hue glowing a hell-fire red. Her revolver that had ended the short lives of all that she had slain stood in a ring about them. They were living cadavers, all disgustingly mutilated with Angel's signet of a bullet hole to the head, coated with dark red blood that glittered prismatically in the light, and all in different stages of decay.
They watched on, ecstasy and orgiastic elation on their ghastly faces and crackling in the air around them as they regarded the murderess who had shot them all finally getting her comeuppance.
Angel only stared at the ground, the ground that was charred and barren saturated with undiluted evil. She could not stare at anything else for she was paralyzed with complete and utter fear. Immortal fear. Her mind could not comprehend the terror that passed through her blood, chilling it. Her tongue twisted when she tried to translate it into words. It struck more than her heart; it struck her soul and bound itself around the sacred vessel. It was an ironic moment, for even though she was fully conscious of the heinous acts she committed she had always prayed to Jesus Christ that He would save her soul and place her in Heaven with the ones she had killed.
O, how foolish she had been. It was the ultimate revenge. They stood around her, the air heavy with lust, as they watched as Conlon cocked the trigger of her revolver. Her eyes shut tighter, as she held back the bitter tears and the absolute terror that surged through her. She was experiencing the pure, unbridled terror that her victims had felt in the last moments of their life. And who more fitting then to assume her role as assassin than Spot Conlon?
She heard her victims' murmurs rise to fever pitch as Conlon pulled the trigger and the bullet lodged itself into her head. And then nothing. Darkness blacker than pitch. Not a sound in the air. And then the darkness brightened somewhat and the murmurs returned and her eyes opened. She stared at the ground, the ground that was charred and barren and saturated with undiluted evil. Her mind choked back a sob as her fate finally dawned upon her in its entirety.
The clicking of the trigger rang in her ear. It was not fitting that she should have to endure what her multitude of victims had endured only once. Nay, she was to endure it for the rest of eternity.
Angel awoke with an audible gasp; her gray eyes opened to their entirety, and a cold sweat covering her flesh. She drew herself into a sitting position, her breathing labored. Running a hand through her perspiration- slicked hair, she dare not close her eyes at the recollection of the ghastly nightmare. She bit back a sob and fought the tears that welled in the creases of her eyes as she battled to steady her breathing.
Darkness encompassed the room, bringing the shadows to life, save the soft light of the full moon that filtered in through the window. A coldness hung heavy in the air, chilling her to the marrow of her bones.
Angel furiously rubbed her upper arms with her palms in attempt that the friction would bring about some heat. It was an act that kept her mind from wandering the heinous dream that had ravaged her psyche enough as it was.
Her eyes glanced around the room as the tears dissipated. "I didn't think I had opened the window that much," she murmured, noting the cold, bringing herself wearily to her feet.
Her unfocused eyes to the floor and a hand still rubbing an arm absentmindedly, she slowly shuffled to the window. As she approached it, a frigid blast of air hit her, breaking her reverie and sending her tangles of hair flying behind her like a flag whipping in the wind. She dropped her arm to her side as she averted her gaze upward to the window.
She was astonished to find that, unlike the mere inch or so she had cracked it before she retired for the night, the pane of glass was pushed up as far as it would go, granting the cool summer zephyrs egress to the third floor. The dark dream was lost for a moment as bewilderment washed over her as she stepped closer to the window.
"What the hell?" she whispered, incredulity laced within her tone. Her hands reaching for the pane of glass, she was prepared to close the window once more when a feeling of dread slithered down her spine. She halted; her breathing abated, and slowly turned her head to the right.
What Angel espied caused her to elicit a gasp, place a hand to her mouth, and turn around, flattening her back against the open window. A darkened silhouette of a human was emerging from the shadowed corner, its face indistinguishable until it stepped into a bar of moonlight filtered from the window.
Her eyes widened and she sharply, painfully inhaled as she regarded the intruder's face. Spot Conlon, the leader of Brooklyn, stood before her. He was still garbed in the same clothing that he had worn previously that morning during the rumble, though his physique retained none of its nobility that would have been assumed to him. His lanky stature was now weary as his shoulders were rounded. The shadows only intensified the haggard expression that adorned his visage; intensified the utter exhaustion. The crystalline eyes no longer bore any sign of glint. They were vacant and lifeless.
Unable to bridle her absolute shock, Angel relied on the innate reaction that occurred anytime an intruder crept into her room. She quickly fell to her haunches and launched herself to her mattress, which she landed on sprawled on her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Conlon fluidly spring towards her as she furiously reached under her pillow for the revolver. Her pulse racing violently, she grasp the hilt in her clutches, only to have the tattered pillow take flight as Conlon's booted foot sent it across the room.
Angel released a sound, a hybrid of a sigh and a whimper, as she cocked the trigger, her panic incrementing with each passing moment, as she fumbled to align it with his head. Though, Conlon brought his boot down hard upon her hands and fingers, causing her to issue a shriek of agony. She quickly released the weapon and brought her hands to her chest, curling into a fetal position on the mattress.
She knew that he had wrest power of the revolver as she heard the trigger click for a second time. At the sound, she immediately froze, her eyes squeezed together and her heart in her mouth.
"Get up." His voice was colder than winter's chill, tones of hatred and exhaustion underlying it.
Angel tacitly obeyed, her eyes still shut. She assumed a kneeling position and opened her eyes expecting to see the barrel of the revolver aligned point-blank at her skull. She released a slight gasp as her eyes fell to Conlon. He had turned away from her, the revolver at his side in a lax grasp, as he was pressed against the window, staring out into the night. The light of the moon shone upon his face and an expression of sadness, of remembrance. After a moment of reverie, he turned to her, his skin pale and hair silver in the light. "Nine. Nine of them."
Angel remained silent, still, not comprehending what he was mumbling. She regarded him unwaveringly, her carriage erect as she knelt on the unforgiving mattress. It was an elaborate posture, assumed to suppress the waves of fear that washed over her.
Conlon's unblinking stare and abstract countenance then vanished as though a shadow passed over his face. In their place, he wore a hideous mask of pain; his lips twisted into a sneer and his eyes glittering like blue fire. In a stealth motion, he fell to his knees on the mattress before Angel. Before she could react, he had taken one hand and plunged it into her hair, gripping it hard and tugging it until her scalp burned and tears welled in her eyes. His face only a few inches from hers, he held the revolver aloft and placed the tip against her left temple, the cool barrel pressed against the side of her face.
The absolute fear paralyzed her as she watched the revolver out of the corner of her eye. Conlon gave the fist-full of hair he held a sharp tug and Angel cried out in pain, falling to her elbows, fighting with every essence of her being to halt the tears. He brought his face close to hers; the grip on her hair causing her to shake from the rage coursing through him that made him tremble. "Did Oliver think he was smart?" Angel began to convulse from the slight sobs that raked her. Conlon brutally pulled her shining hair, causing her to cry out. "Did he think he was smart?" He exhaled sharply, his breath tainted with hard liquor and nicotine blasting her cheek. "Did he think that he think that he was so smart as to have one of his whores come to my party and try to seduce me and then kill me? Does he think I'm that pathetic? Did he think he could just kill me like that?"
Angel's weeping abruptly halted at the hideous word of the profession that had always followed at her heels like a nightmare if Oliver were to ever tire of her being his assassin. Her body grew ridged and her eyes narrowed as a red hate surged through her veins. "I can answer yes to all of your questions, you son of a bitch. If my memory serves me correct, was it not I, my brother's so-called whore, who was straddling you in a chair, you at my mercy. I could have slit your throat right then and there. Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing the fearless leader of Brooklyn. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."
The hard, malicious lines that were etched upon Conlon's visage soon smoothed away to reveal his soft, handsome features once more. His eyes lost some of their blaze as his lips parted. He stared at her unblinkingly, Angel's breathing racing for want of the knowledge to know what had brought on this sudden change in expression. His grip on her tresses loosed as he raised himself to his knees once more. A grim smile passed over his mouth as his gaze flickered to the revolver and then to Angel, his visage half- masked by shadows.
"Some quivering mess on the verge of tears." Angel was unsure whether the glint in his eyes was cause of the moonlight or tears brimming in the creases. "A quivering mess. You'd be a goddamn quivering mess too if each morning you found one of your friends in the river with a bullet hole in their head. You'd be a quivering mess too if in the stinking hot sun you had to carry nine, nine, of the people you'd grown up with all you life back, dead. Dead. And your opponent had none die. None. Gavin. Mickey. Paul. Zero. Duke. Blackjack. Caprice. Max. Dodger. All dead. All gone." His eyes burned into her soul, as did his moving words. They were full of utter hurt and agony that was unfathomable. Tears involuntarily came to Angel as she silently, disgustingly, thought of which Brooklyn newsie named she had carelessly slain.
Conlon fell silent as he closed his eyes, as though in remembrance to those who had died so brutally at the hands of Oliver. He caressed the revolver, and Angel watched this gesture, as his eyes once more opened. They flashed with anger. "But look here. I can shoot your brains out right here and now." He lined the weapon with Angel's forehead as she lay on bent knees and elbows on the mattress, her strands of her disheveled hair falling in front of her vision. "Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing Oliver Haddox's most prized assassin. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."
Angel squeezed her eyes shut as she felt her being suddenly numb. Whether it was from utter fear or the absolute truth in his wisdom, she could not decipher. The notion was not so incredulous: she and Conlon were alike. They shared a powerful reputation under a false appellation, their true name kept close to their hearts, unwilling to show their true nature. They had both created a façade, a façade that appeared crack-proof and faultless from an onlooker's perspective. They both were creatures of fear and blood, polar opposites in their allegiances. Yet, here they were, raw and stripped- down to their barest emotions and shedding tears to the one they were to hate with undying passion. It only seemed fitting.
She finally opened her eyes, steel-gray eyes rimmed with red, and gave him her most courageous countenance. The soft moonlight reflected off the tears that lined her cheeks. "Go ahead, shoot me. I'll scream." She desperately tried to maintain a steady rhythm with her voice. "They'll hear me. They'll find you and blow your head off even before you step out of the shadow of the warehouse. Even if you do escape, they'll enter your precious district and burn Brooklyn to the ground and kill every last one of you."
A grim smirk crossed Conlon's mouth as he rose slowly to his feet, the mattress fluxing under his weight. He never broke Angel's gaze, only allowed his arm to grow taunt as he kept the revolver aligned with her brow. "Will they really, now?"
Angel gazed past the barrel of the revolver and into his burning eyes. "I don't give a damn if I die, but I suggest you on the other hand do."
His mocking simper broadened as he lowered the gun. His lips parted, as he was poised to utter a remark to her. Angel saw this as her sole chance to wrest her revolver out of his power. With a shriek, she brought a leg out from under her and extended it. In a fluid motion it connected with an unsuspecting Conlon's hands. The sheer surprise of the impact caused his eyes to widen and grip to loosen on the revolver, the tip of her foot sending it in flight across the darkened room where it landed with a clatter in a mass of shadows.
Conlon elicited a growl as he fell to his haunches and lunged at Angel on the mattress. A shrill cry issued forth from her lips as she quickly rolled off the mattress and onto the splintered floorboards. Conlon landed on the mattress with a soft thud, the last remnants of moldy feathers that filled the mattress wafting into the air from the impact.
Angel's eyes flickered to his to see his burning gaze upon her as he drew himself from the mattress. Her heart pounding in her chest, she assumed a sitting position, her eyes locked upon his. As he advanced towards her, she blindly reached to her right upper thigh. She groped under the material until she felt the sheathed blade that was kept bound to her thigh. Fumbling, she awkwardly unsheathed it just as Conlon lunged for her. On impulse, she raised her legs to the sky just as he took flight, the soles of her feet settling on his lower torso. With a heave, she pushed her legs towards her head, sending a bewildered Conlon over her head to where he hit the floor with great cacophony.
Not daring to turn around to regard where he had fallen, Angel fell to her hands and knees, the blade clasped in one hand, and pulled herself away from him, the splinters of the floorboards digging into her palms. Crystalline tears streaming freely down her face, she felt her body begin to break down as the mortal terror began to consume her. She could finally crawl no longer and she halted, bringing her brow to the floorboards. Her pale silver hair falling around her face, she pounded the fist the clutched the blade in furiously against the ground, allowing the sobs to overpower her.
She soon felt Conlon's strong hands blindly groping her legs, pulling her back towards him. He flipped her easily onto her back, pinning either of her wrists to the floor with his hands, as he placed one bent knee between her legs and the other near her right hip. Angel turned her head away from him, not being able to look at him. He emancipated one of her wrists so that he could remove the glittering dagger from her grasp. She turned her face towards him at this action, and lashed out, bucking violently under him and bringing her free arm across her body to gain control of her sole remaining weapon.
Yet, Conlon easily brought the blade to his mouth, clenching it between his teeth as he once again pinned her to the ground, slamming her wrists above her head. Angel regarded him, her body and soul trembling with undiluted hatred. He was suspended over her, his perspiration-slicked face but a few inches from hers, slovenly strands of hair falling across his brow. His features were set and his eyes blazed with a passion. In an expeditious motion, he spat the blade from his mouth so that it landed away from Angel's reach. She turned her head to where the weapon had fallen with a distant clatter. It had landed in a bar of moonlight that filtered in through the open window, glimmering in the beams.
"Sorry, doll, but you already used that line on me." Angel sharply snapped her head to observe Conlon. Not allowing her time to respond, he continued. "You've got me all wrong, Ms. Haddox. I thought you at least knew something after that hot little number we shared." He released a soft laugh and applied more pressure to her body as she writhed furiously under him. "But you don't." The simper that had brightened his features soon vanished, leaving him with the pathetic, sorrowful expression that he had worn when she had first seen him that night. Angel immediately halted in her attempts to escape, startled by the sudden change in demeanor.
He brought his softened gaze to hers as his eyes roamed hers. "No, you got it all wrong. Out of all people I thought that you would get it right." His grip on her loosed somewhat as his head bowed, his voice overcome with emotion. "You have it backwards. I don't give a damn if I die, yet you do." She swore she could feel a lone tear fall to the hollow of her neck.
Angel's eyes narrowed. "And just how in the hell do you conclude-"
He sharply raised his head, and her suspicions were confirmed. His jaw was clenched in mammalian pain as his eyes glittered with unshed tears that he desperately tried to suppress. "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." His eyes utterly burned into hers. "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-"
The laments that she had suppressed for too long were ignited once more at the absolute candor of his words. Her body convulsed under him as she turned her head away blinded by tears, not being able to face him. She need not inquire how he had read her person so correctly-he had spoken for himself, also.
Just as when they had shared the fiery kiss, it had not been of pure, unbridled lust but of longing, of needing for comprehension of why their souls were in so much turmoil. And now, as they both wept uncontrollably of how hideous their lives were, if did not matter if he was indeed Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn, and hated enemy of her brother. It was a potentially odd way to release fettered emotions, and that the electricity between them did just.
Alas, over the sonority of the tears came a rapping at the door. Angel immediately froze, her sobs halting and breath bating in her throat as a cold fear washed over her. Conlon's grip had fallen lax on her wrists.
"Angel? Angel? Are you all right in there?" Angel inhaled painfully. It was Flynn's voice. She quickly locked gazes with Conlon, who reciprocated in her widened eyes.
"Yeah, Flynn, I'm fine!" she shouted, her voice broken, as her eyes lingered on Conlon.
There was a pause on Flynn's side of the doorway before he responded, "No, you're not, Angel? What the hell is with your voice! Open the door."
Conlon rose to his knees as Angel replied. "Flynn, I'm fine! I was sleeping until you came and woke me up!"
"Angel, you're not fine, now open the door," he replied, his voice hard.
Angel rose to her feet as Conlon had, and regarded him warily as he stood still, a beam of moonlight washing over him. "Jesus Christ, Flynn, I said I'm fine now go!"
"Angel. Angel, you're not fine now open the door. Open the goddamn door, Angel!" She elicited a low gasp and directed her eyes towards the darkened door to the third floor as Flynn began to throw his weight against it. Panic-stricken, she turned sharply towards Conlon only to find that he was beside her, his mouth near her ear. His hot breath entering her canal, he whispered, "There's still time."
She turned him, her eyes wide and lips a gap, not comprehending his cryptic statement. He only smiled a mysterious smile, as though to assure that things would be all right, the light of the moon playing upon his features and causing his dark eyes to dazzle.
Angel jumped and turned as Flynn threw himself against the door once more, the measly plank of rotted wood shuttering under his weight. She averted her eyes from the door and turned to Conlon once more, yet only found that he had vanished, leaving only in his wake the open window that granted the cool breezes to entrance to the third floor. She elicited a gasp and dashed over to the window, placing her hands on the sill, and peered out into the night, her hair tossing behind her. In the blackened street down below, where the massacre of the districts had taken place that morning, she saw a shadow figure running at break-neck speed. If she listened carefully enough, she could hear his heavy shoes connecting with the cobblestones and ringing out into the world. As she watched him, his words came to her once more, though she could not make sense of them for the life of her.
It was only when Conlon had crested over the hill in the street, disappearing and Flynn had finally succeeded in breaking down the door, causing it so splinter to pieces, that she understood the true extent of his wisdom.
There's still time. There's still time. There's still time to save your soul.
Involuntarily, tears came to her and cascaded freely down her already stinging cheeks as she stared out into the empty avenue.
There's still time to save your soul, Helena Haddox. There's still time. That dream doesn't have to be your fate.
She broke down even harder as she rested her lower arms on the sill and clutched her head within her clammy hands.
Flynn's footsteps caused the boards to creak as he approached her, warily. "Angel?" he asked quietly, reaching out a hand to her.
Angel suppressed her tears and slightly raised her head from her hands, a red hatred brimming over her.
"Angel?" he inquired gently once more, advancing towards her.
Stealthily, Angel straightened, her countenance twisted in rage and her eyes burning. She inched towards the warped bureau that was a few paces towards the window, her back arched and gaze never leaving him. She rifled blindly on the surface of the piece of furniture, finding a small trinket and clutching it firmly in her grasp.
"Why can't you just mind your own fucking business, Flynn?" she shrieked, her voice made raw by tears, as she bent her arm back and launched the object furiously at Flynn. He ducked, his gaze following the object, as it sailed over his head, landing in a darkened corner of the room.
He cast his gaze to Angel once more, his expression that of wild bewilderment, and straightened. He was silent for a moment, before his sonorous voice ripped the cool air. "Angel, what in the name of Jesus Christ has come over you?"
Angel regarded him as a heavy silence hung between them, regarded him as his bare chest lurched with each harsh breath he inhaled.
There's still time to save your soul. Helena, there's still time.
His darkened form was soon made blurry and distorted by the tears that found their way to her tired eyes once more. The sobs returned with a vengeance, wrecking her soul, and causing her to become weak. She released the sill as she collapsed slowly to the ground, her legs curled under her. She buried her tear-streaked face within her hands as her shoulder blades shook uncontrollably as she released the agonizing pain that had built up within her soul.
Flynn called out her name in grand surprise as he crossed the room and fell beside her, placing a hand on her quaking shoulder. Angel raised her visage and looked into Flynn's emerald green eyes flooding over with worry. "Flynn, Flynn, do something with me," she choked.
"Anything, Angel," he softly whispered breathlessly, moving closer to her.
Silently, Angel brought her slender hands to his, entwining their fingers together. Angel looked at him just as he cast his wide eyes to her in surprise.
"Pray with me, Flynn." Flynn remained silent at her request. Her soft marred by tears voice finding itself weak at first, filled the cool room, though grew confident with sound as she tightly closed her red-rimmed eyes. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed on us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for Thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory forever and ever. Amen."
Her eyes remaining closed, she gently applied pressure to Flynn's hands for him to join her. She soon began a second round, his voice sparingly joining her with the unfamiliar words. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed on us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for Thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory forever and ever. Amen."
On the third chorus, her voice, sweet and soaring as she spoke the hallowed words, was joined by his, unsure and wary, in unison. They parleyed, basking in the light of the full moon, eyes closed and the light rendering their flesh and hair a shade of silver as so they almost looked ethereal.
It was a sacred moment for one of them, at least. The one who wished above all else to shed the ugly cocoon she had bound her true being in and to emerge transformed as a fantastical, beautiful creature. The other, who did not have any barriers holding him down, did not know any other way of life and in that he could not appreciate the prayer.
Yet, Flynn's voice never wavered, and he spoke in a low accompaniment to Angel's passionate voice full of tears all through the night, until the moonlight they sat in was changed to sunlight. Until Angel's voice left her from sheer exhaustion and she fell into a deep slumber.
Flynn pulled her close, her head resting against his bare chest, his back against the splintered wall below the window. He sighed, his expression blank, though his eyes reflected the weariness he felt.
The sun was awakening in the east, and the first pale slivers of sunlight were finding their way in through the open window. Flynn exhaled and settled against the wall, Angel's head slipping from his chest and falling to his lap, where she remained sound asleep.
He regarded the assassin with unabashed wonder. The dim bars of light reflected off her fall of hair, causing it to glow like burnished gold. She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. An absolutely beautiful assassin.
He snorted at the notion. She sure the hell was a complex character. He had only been in Oliver's services for the past four years and had grown mighty close to Angel Haddox. Close enough to call her his closest friend in the world if he had any. Yet, he was a highly in demand assassin, at least he was before Oliver hired him to partner with his sister.
Flynn lowered his gaze and regarded her once more, deep in slumber, and the tears remaining on her cheeks glittering in the light. His closest friend. Yet, he knew nothing about her. Absolutely nothing.
Not even her true name.