CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Helena, please keep your head straight. You don't want me to make your braid crooked, do you?"
She felt a pair of soft hands come from behind her and gently, yet purposely, press against her small cheeks, aligning her head forward once more so that she was staring at the warped plank of wood that served as the door to the tiny hovel.
"Sorry, Mommy," Helena chirped in an apologetic voice that had yet not been hardened by time.
As her eyes followed the outline of the door, she felt her mother's warm smile burn from behind her. "You needn't apologize, Helena, you needn't ever apologize for anything."
Helena smiled contently as she felt her mother's slender fingers rake through her golden hair, softly platting it in the same way that she had seen it that morning on a wealthy woman in town.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound the crackling of the warm fire as the orange flames licked inside the decrepit hearth. As her mother was finishing and tying the braid off with the black velvet ribbon that had been hers as a little girl, the antediluvian floorboards issued forth protests and an affable baritone rang out behind them.
"Jules, had Ollie come home yet? I'm starting to get worried about him. I feel just awful about putting all this pressure on him of being sole breadwinner. If it hadn't been for that accident my blasted leg would still be fine and I'd still be at the factory-"
Her mother tied off the ribbon into an exceptionally neat bow before flipping the plait over Helena's shoulder. She placed both of her hands on her daughter's small shoulders and whispered into her ear, "Go run along to the mirror in my bedroom, Helena, and see how pretty you look. Don't take long for dinner will be soon-whenever your brother arrives home."
Helena eagerly nodded as she dashed off the three-legged stool she had been occupying for the past quarter-hour and to the room her parents shared together. It was nothing spectacular by any standards, just a tiny room in a tiny house in the slums of Brooklyn. But if there were one possession that was more lavish than any of the other scanty belongings, it was the mirror that was an heirloom passed down from generation to generation on her mother's side.
She quickly approached the hastily-constructed vanity that had been confiscated from the rubbish of one of the wealthier families on Main Street (the Rockwells they had been, if she remembered correctly,) and went straight for the second drawer down on the left hand side. Her small hand opened the drawer and there she saw the exquisite mirror lying amidst other meaningless junk, like a rare diamond among many zirconiums.
She picked it up by its delicate handle and turned it over and over, observing it carefully. The actual handle and backing itself was crafted from some type of ebony stone that had tarnished in some places but still remained thoroughly glossy. The back had been wrought with pure silver that formed a scrawling design, almost like a rose bramble, that crissed and crossed and snaked its way down the handle.
Helena turned it over so that her reflection was evident in the mirror shards. She smiled and her reflection smiled back at her as she held the mirror parallel to her face. The silver mirror always reminded her of the lake that froze over in the winter that was a few blocks away in the park.
She touched her fingers to where her café-au-lait hued brow converged with the first wisps of pale blonde hair and ran them all the way down the long braid to the very end that was tossed over her shoulder. Her first finger and thumb remained on the black velvet ribbon, and she ran it between her fingers, relishing in its soft touch.
The slamming of the front door brought her eyes from her reflection as she stared out of the opened door. She pricked her ears and could hear the conversation clearly for sound carried effortlessly in the small home.
"Son! Welcome home! How was your day of selling newspapers?" her father was asking in his cheery baritone.
So Oliver was home. She quickly replaced the mirror in with all the other myriad piles of junk that were unworthy of it and slammed the drawer shut. She made her way out of the bedroom and into the small parlor that served as both living room and dining room.
Oliver was closing the door behind him so she was only able to snatch a glance of his lanky back. He did not answer their father, only turned around. Helena could hear her mother calling her to help set the table for dinner, yet she did not move from her place in front of the crackling fire. She only kept her eyes to her brother and father.
Oliver had sprung up a remarkable two feet since reaching adolescence and was only a few feet shy of rivaling her father's height. Naturally, he possessed a gangly appearance: his feet and hands were much too large for his thin, skeletal body. His dirty thatch of greasy brown hair fell over his brow, framing his piercing, chilling dark eyes. One of his eyes-his left eye-was black and swollen. Deep red blood oozed from the nostrils of his hooked nose and down his chin. His lower lip was split and puffy.
Her father's good humor had been lost. "Son, who did this to you?" he asked, his voice full of concern as he reached one hand out to his son.
Oliver, still standing by the door, flinched away ferociously akin to a wounded animal. His eyes regarded his father with unabashed hate. "I told you," he said in a soft snarl, "just like I've told you for the past month. It's that Spot Conlon. That goddamn Spot Conlon. He hasn't given me a break; he'll never give me a break."
"Son," her father said genially, "I'm sure it's just boys being boys-"
"Bullshit!" Oliver shrieked, his temper getting the best of him. Helena's father reeled from the outburst. "I can't take it anymore, Dad, I can't take it anymore. Today-just today-he and some of his cronies beat the ever loving living shit out of me just because I was selling in a place that he wanted. When I signed on to be the families' personal slave I thought it would only be for a few weeks-not this. Not this. I mean, when the hell is your leg going to heal-"
"Now listen here, young man-" her father bellowed, yet Oliver interrupted him.
"No you listen to me!" he screeched, the noise like that of finger nails scraping against a chalkboard to Helena. "I cannot be a newsie for you any longer! I can't and I refuse! I have dreams too, Dad, dreams! I want to go back to school and get an education! I don't want to be a newsie forever- not while I have to live in fear of Spot-fucking-Colon each and every day."
"Oliver Haddox, do not take that tone of voice with me under my roof!" Her soft-spoken father's normally genial voice had risen to a great tremble, and his bellows filled the miniscule home.
The heated argument between her father and brother was sending cold pangs of fear through her. It was not wise to tempt her brother on the subject of the profession he had had to take up because of their father's accident at the factory. She rather fancied him insane and wont to break any moment of any day.
She shifted her gaze back to her brother. His eyes sparkled wildly against his wane skin that was pulled tightly against the skeletal-like bone structure of his face. "I'll take any goddamn tone I want under this roof! I'm the one that's working, not you!" he raged, stalking past his father and shoving Helena out of his path to his room.
He halted suddenly and turned around, but Helena did not see his face. "Don't worry, Henry," he hissed in a low whisper, "you're leg won't be hurting for you for too long now."
No, she did not see the chilling grin that alighted upon his lips as he turned and slowly glided to his room, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. Her eyes had been trained solely on the ebony pistol that was sticking out of the back of his pants, the ebony pistol that glittered ghastly in the dim light of the cozy home.
She awoke to the audible bang. She sat bolt-upright in her slanted bed, the darkness of the starless night filling her room. Her pulse raced and she was scared and disoriented. She had been dreaming some wonderful dream of that Spot Conlon her brother so detested (she had spied on her brother on a few occasions just to catch a glimpse of him,) when she had been brutally awakened by the gunshot. Of course she did not know it was a gunshot, but the word just seemed to settle so smugly in the folds of her mind that that's what she naturally assumed it to be.
Helena was trembling, unbeknownst to her, and covered in a cold, damp sweat so that her flimsy nightgown adhered to her back, despite the warmth of the muggy June night. She tried to force her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they were protesting and all she saw was a sinister blackness.
She realized quite belatedly that after the gunshot a disturbing silence had ensued, save the hammering of her heartbeat in her ears. Her ears absurdly pricked, she caught the slight creaking of a floorboard outside of her room. She snapped her head to the opened door of her room and caught sight of a pale yellow light that spilled down the hallway, illuminating the walls outside of her room.
She heard another series of deliberately hushed footsteps against the boards, and the light grew brighter outside of her room. "Mommy?" she asked in a voice that she did not recognize as her own, a voice that was absolutely constricted in fear. "Daddy?" The intensity of the pale light incremented and he could now discern a shadow cast upon the wall. "Oliver?"
At the name of her brother, she heard a crash and saw a darkened silhouette step from the shadows and into her doorway.
"Oliver?" she asked, incredulity laced into her voice. "Oliver what are you doing outside my room-"
Her words died immediately and brutally on her lips as her brother staggered slowly into her room and stepped into the bar of silver moonlight that filtered in from the tiny window. His greasy hair was awry and stuck up at all ends. His skin was pale, rendering his hideous eyes stark against his flesh. He wore an expression in his eyes that she had never seen before. His eyes were wild, glazed-over, and utterly insane as they stared down at his hands that he held before his face.
It was when she saw the blood that she began to scream as though she were being exorcised to rid the devil of possessing her immortal soul. The blood, the dark red dripping blood, was smattered all over him. It coated his lower jaw, almost like a comically red beard. His shirt that she had thought to be black had in its genesis been white-it was the thick maroon blood that made it a darker hue. But it was his hands, oh his grisly hands!
As he staggered towards her, she paralyzed and screaming passionately on the bed, his flickering eyes stared at his hands that were utterly doused with thick scarlet blood that dripped uncontrollably to the floor.
As he reached her bed, he halted and raised his vacant, crazed eyes to her. "They didn't listen to me, Hel," he babbled nonsensically, "they didn't listen to me so they had to pay." Intense fury crossed over his countenance and his eyes blazed as he clamped his bloody hands down hard upon her small shoulders. The blood of her parents quickly saturated the thin material of the white nightgown, and she could feel it ooze onto her cold skin. "I said they didn't listen to me!" he bellowed above her hysterical shrieks. "They didn't know, they didn't understand! He caught me sneaking out! He caught me sneaking out with my gun to blow that motherfucking Conlon's head off. But he stopped me. But I couldn't be stopped-Stop your screaming, you bitch! Come on!"
He viciously clasped one hand about her wrist as he pulled her harshly so that she fell from the bed to the ground below like a rag-doll, splinters embedding themselves into her soft knees and palms.
"We're going! We're going now!" he roared, pulling her across the ground by her wrist, sobbing and screaming. "Stop it, you bitch! They're dead!" He yanked Helena forcefully across the splintered floorboards to the smeared window that looked out into the back of the house. "We're going! We're leaving! Stop crying, you bitch!"
"Angel, are you crying?"
Angel opened her eyes as she involuntarily bit her lower lip to the point of drawing blood. Flynn Finesse's glittering eyes with the stunning green under tints gazed back at her, like some kind of eyes belonging to that of a cat. They had a touch of worry in them.
She closed her eyes once more and placed her head heavily back down upon the ratty pillow as she felt him thrust harder into her. She brought her hands from under the sheets that had become entangled under their bodies and coiled her arms about his neck, plunging her fingers into his wild blond hair that had been freed from the queue. She arched her back under him as she felt a painful tremor rake through her.
She quickly shook her head in the negative, but she could not deny the mortal proof of the hot tears that stung her eyes and clung to her lashes. She inhaled through her mouth sharply as an excruciating jar of pain rocked her body.
She felt Flynn suddenly halt as he raised his sweaty chest from hers. The pain was indescribable; it washed through her like molten lava, incinerating every fiber in her body. Her jaw was clenched and her eyes still clamped shut, her expression twisted into one of mortal pain.
As another spasm raked her, she felt one of Flynn's knuckles gently sweep below her left eye. "Let me tell you, you're one hell of a horrible liar. You are crying."
Here, Oliver had said, quietly slipping her the ebony revolver. She had stared at it void of emotion as he had continued.
You're going to need this, Hel, he had said, but she had interrupted him. Don't you dare call me that, she had hissed, don't you dare call me Hel. Helena Haddox died whenever you shot our parents and you brought me to this shithole, Midtown. Call me Angel. Angel of Death-that's what that little oily bastard Night that you met the other day called me. Angel of Death. I guess he thought it would be a big riot to name an assassin Angel.
She had roughly thrown the revolver back to Oliver. An assassin, she had cried, Jesus Christ, Oliver, you want me to be your assassin? Your assassin- you're fucking assassin? I won't do it. I refuse to do it.
Flynn slowly withdrew from her and lay beside her. His broad, perspiration slicked chest was pressing into her side. "Angel, come on. Tell me. What's the deal?"
She clenched her eyes together, trying to ignore the thought of the ebony revolver that was behind the pillow her head was laying on at that very moment. She could not denounce what was worse: the pain she experienced from giving herself to a man for the first time or the hot tears that streamed down her face from the notion that she was now to assassinate him.
Angel opened her eyes and stared at him. In spite of the soreness her body was encountering, she could not help but have her breath taken away by his raw beauty. Her eyes traced the angles of his visage, the full lips, and the marvelous emerald cat-eyes. The flaxen hair that touched his shoulders had come free from its binding and fell wildly around his neck and across his brow, offsetting those eyes.
All right, Angel, Oliver had hissed, shoving the weapon back at her. I'll call you any damn name you want but just take the gun. Don't give me that look! I've already explained how important this hit is if I have any intentions of rising as a leader.
She had stared at him insolently and sibilated, You only told me his name, Oliver. So why is he so important to you that you need him dead?
Oliver's eyes had glittered intrinsically as he had explained to her, His name's Flynn Finesse. He is one of the greatest assassins this side of New York. He's almost like a bounty hunter; he doesn't work for only one person-
You still haven't given me just cause to kill him, Oliver, she had said shortly.
I'm getting there, Angel, Oliver had said impatiently, drawing out the syllables of her new appellation, if you'd give me fucking three minutes to explain myself. I've been hearing rumors lately that he's been working for Rylie Lyner. You know, the mean son of a bitch up in Queens. Anyhow, I know that Lyner's going to send some of his thugs out after us, I've hear he doesn't take well to rivals-
You mean send thugs out after you. So you basically want me to knock off this Flynn Finesse because he's working for Lyner and you think Lyner will send him to Midtown to kill you, she had asked.
Oliver had nodded, In a nutshell.
She had looked at him lazily, And just how the hell do you expect I do that?
Oliver had simply shrugged, Seduce him.
A smile played upon Flynn's lips like a shadow of the light as his eyes glittered benevolently. "What? What is it, Angel? You were just staring at me with this blank look."
Angel quickly shook her head and pulled herself into a sitting position, her back against the peeling headboard of the bed in the run-down inn in Midtown. She tugged the shabby cream-colored sheets to her neck, covering her bare flesh, as she hastily brushed away the tears from under her eyes.
Flynn had sat back, the covers draped around his legs, his solemn gaze fixated upon her. "Angel, just tell me why you're crying? I mean, we seemed to hit it off great at the tavern before this-"
His form grew blurry in her tear-stained vision. She placed a hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs as they finally broke.
But Oliver, she had said quietly, realization of what she was about to do finally dawning upon her, I don't want to sleep with him.
Oliver had turned ferociously on her, his eyes cold. I don't give a fuck what you want, he hissed in that low voice, you're mine now, Angel. You owe your life to me. I saved you from those people you still refer to as our parents. I save you and you don't give me an ounce of respect. If you don't want to be my assassin you can go out and be a little whore and sell your sweet ass to any man that is looking for a go. But I can see you don't want that. Now, you are going to get Finesse up in an inn room-I'd recommend the Devil's Head-it's the seediest tavern around this God-forsaken area. Get him drunk, give him a quick go, and then shoot him for Christ sake. It's not as hard as you think it is.
But, Oliver, she had protested, her voice starting to become strangled with tears, I've never slept with anyone and I've never shot anyone. I don't want to. I don't know how to. Why are you making me your assassin? I'm only a stupid girl, I don't know anything. I'm not any good at it!
While she had been speaking he had started to the door of her room, yet he had halted and turned around to regard her. The wicked gleam in his eyes had caused her breath to immediately catch in her throat. Oh, don't underestimate yourself, he had said. You soon will be. You're no longer Helena Haddox, you're the Angel of Death from this moment on.
And he had shut the door behind him to leave her to collapse to the floor as the sobs overwhelmed her.
"Angel! Jesus Christ, why are you crying?" Flynn asked, a note of panic in his voice, holding a hand out to her shaking shoulder.
She roughly shook off the gesture and turned to stare him squarely in the eye. "Do you want to know why I'm crying? Do you really want to know, Flynn Finesse?" she asked in a whisper, not being able to trust her voice. She reached under the flat, moldy pillow and brandished the immaculate revolver, holding it aloft. She only stared at him as his eyes went wildly to the weapon. He was pushing himself away from her, most likely trying to reach for his own revolver that was jumbled among his pile of cloths that were strewn across the floor. "This is why I'm crying."
"Helena, what do you have?"
She felt her stomach tighten as the blistering tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He had risen slowly out of his chair and was making his way towards her. She could only stand still for she did not trust her legs without buckling from under her. He approached her steadily, his blue eyes burning upon her with a vengeance and she knew that he could stare into her immortal soul with those eyes.
He finally reached her and he placed his hands around the wrists of her outstretched hands and the object that she held in her palms. The grip became tighter.
"Helena, you're shaking," he said quietly, his eyes to the object displayed to him.
She choked back a sob. She could see him studying it intently, though her eyes needn't waver from his beautiful face for she had gazed intently at the object the entire sojourn to Brooklyn: the glass vial with the rounded body and slim neck that was covered by the white handkerchief.
"Flynn gave it to me," she whispered, her voice wavering erratically due to the tears.
His piercing eyes immediately flickered up to hers. "You can't, Helena."
Her body had become so numb that she could not even feel the smoldering tears that slid liberally down her cheeks. "I can and I will because you are my soul, Jonathan Conlon."
At the words, her last thread of sanity shattered and she allowed the sobs to consume her entirely as she felt him press himself against her and take her cheek in his palm as he raised her head and brought his lips to hers.
The dreams came to her endlessly, as she lay in the deep, dark confines of oblivion. They came, one meshing seamlessly with the other. They would burn excruciatingly bright and vivid in her mind at their prime, like the rays of some white-hot luminosity. And then they would fade as quickly as they came, extinguishing like a candle, leaving only lasting wisps of remembrance.
It wasn't until that Angel awoke from the swirling black haze of unconsciousness, that she could recall any of the brilliant and candid dreams that haunted the realms of her psyche.
She awoke to voices.
"Jesus H. Christ, Finesse! You gotta be kidding me! You gotta be cheating, you know, have some fake cards up your sleeves or some shit like that. That's the twelfth time in a row you've won."
A deep chuckle came. "It's just natural luck of the draw, Halloran, pure luck of the draw. And besides, I'm not even wearing sleeves, nonetheless a shirt."
"Yeah, but you sure'd know something about luck."
Indeed consciousness had been restored to her, though it was still as though she were in a dark, hazy dream. Her brain was drenched with various emotions and sensations that were residue from the myriad dreams and she could not seemingly banish the site of two brilliant indigo eyes from being emblazoned in her mind. She inhaled deeply, restoring life to her, and pressed her lips involuntarily together, tasting the lasting remnants of a kiss that had seemed so real-a kiss that tasted of hot tears, stale nicotine, and dated rum.
She was now hearing the conversation that was taking place around her quite pristinely. She opened her eyes and found her vision blurry, but soon it focused. She realized that she was staring at the ceiling that she had numerous times before-the rotting wooden ceiling that was over her mattress of the third-floor of the Midtown headquarters. She felt the God-forsaken mattress under her back and the flat, moldy pillow under her pounding head.
And she heard the voice.
"Oh, come on, Hal! You're not just gonna quit because I'm kicking your ass, now are you?"
She did not hear the sullen response ("Of course I would, Finesse. You think I'm gonna give you charity just cause you were shot by Brooklyn 'imself? I think not) for her breath had caught painfully in her throat and the she felt the gears in her brain overloading at that very moment as she tried to process the sheer incredulity of the breezy baritone voice.
Oh come on Hal you're not just gonna quit because I'm kicking your ass now are you. She stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. No, it can't be, the practical-sensible portion of her psyche screamed. It's not possible. It can't be him because you were there. You saw the blood and the blood and oh God the blood. You saw his face, how lifeless it was. You know it's not true because you were there over his damned corpse for Christ's sake, his corpse! You cried over his corpse. It's not true. It's not-
"Oh, come on, Halloran. Don't be like that. I can't do anything else but play cards and who am I supposed to play with? Angel? Yeah, I can play with Angel! If you prop her up and give her the cards maybe I can still play with her while she's stone-cold knocked out!"
But oh God, the rebellious part of her mind raged. It is him. It's Flynn.
But Flynn's dead, Practical-Sensible scolded. He's dead. This is just another dream you're having.
Angel eradicated the embattled voices by raising herself to a sitting position and twisting her torso so that she faced the wall with the small window that allowed the sunlight to flood the room.
She had never known in all her years tears to strike so swiftly and with such passion. She needed only to steal one glance before the sobs rocked her body and the sizzling tears streamed down her face.
Flynn Finesse sat with his back against the wall under the window. A sullied pillow was behind his back and a pile of soiled, torn covers were tangled around his legs. He wore only a pair of russet-colored trousers and his broad chest was bare save for the massive, bloodied white bandage that was adhered to his right shoulder. His bright hair that touched his shoulders was wild and unkempt, falling across his brow and catching the sun. A fuming cigarette hung from his bottom lip, the smoke curling above his head, and an opened glitter-shot bottle of whiskey sat companion to him. He sat with his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, and a pile of playing cards fanned out in one hand. Hal Halloran sat beside him, crossed-legged, holding a similar grouping of cards.
Angel felt her stomach twist violently as she regarded his beautiful living, breathing form. She nearly did not tempt herself to believe it true; to believe that he was actually animate flesh and blood. She released a tremendous choke that caught her assassin-partner's attention and caused those glorious, sparkling emerald eyes to flicker from his cards to hers. His countenance glowed as a smile alighted upon his lips.
"So you've finally woke up! We thought you were going to sleep for another twenty years like old Rip Van Winkle himself!'
Her gaze slowly shifted from Flynn to Halloran who watched her with gaped lips and beady eyes. As Angel turned back to Flynn, she slowly rose to her feet and, in measured strides, approached him. She could interpret the unabashed amusement in his eyes as he read her incredulous gaze as though he were some breed of phantasm.
Her eyes wide and her full lips a gap, Angel sank to her haunches beside him, her gaze flickering about his face, recalling all of his wonderful golden features. She brought a hand to his left cheek, cupping it in her gentle grasp, as she turned his smiling face towards hers.
"Flynn, is it really you?" she asked in barely above a whisper, for she did not trust her trembling voice that was apt to succumb to tears at any moment.
His shining grin grew broader as he placed a hand upon hers that rested upon his face. "No, Angel. I'm actually Hal Halloran. Flynn Finesse is sitting over there."
He motioned slightly with his head to Halloran, who still sat crossed- legged, but looked keen to bolt out of the room due to Angel's unusual behavior.
Her eyes rapidly scanned his face as she felt her heart swell in her chest and shatter all over again. The tears pricked her eyes and ran copiously down her cheeks. "I thought you were dead!" she wailed. "How can you be alive? I was there-over your body! I saw the blood! I saw the blood-"
The sobs consumed her aching, exhausted soul and she fell against Flynn, burying her clammy, sweaty brow into his chest and clawing at his broad torso with splayed fingers. His jovial disposition soon fell and he turned his solemn gaze to Halloran. He only need slightly motion with his head towards the door before Halloran was quickly to his feet and to the door. When Flynn heard the door click behind him, he turned back to Angel.
Her words were utterly incomprehensible for a fair ten minutes. The raw tears constricted her words and the sheer, inexpressible exultation and rapture she felt at his being alive only made them fall with more passion. Flynn only held her, his strong arms around her heaving shoulder blades and his chest dampened with her tears. But he did not care.
Angel's cries soon became less and less potent and she finally pulled away from Flynn, drawing herself into a sitting position. Brushing away unshed tears with the tips of her fingers, she gazed unwaveringly at him with raw eyes. His emerald stare glittered back austerely.
She was thankful for her external hide, for she was sure that without it, every part of her would have crumbled like a deteriorating fortress. She deeply inhaled deeply to compose herself before she spoke. She tried vehemently not to allow her eyes to wander to the bloodied bandage that marked where he had almost been fatally wounded, but they would not allow.
"I thought you were dead," she murmured softly, her eyes solely trained on the blood-spattered dressing that covered his right shoulder, extending down to his chest.
Flynn shifted his weight, presumably uncomfortable by the notion. "So did everyone else, Haddox."
She shifted her gaze to his, her eyes smoldering with unshed tears. "No," she gritted, "no. I saw you, Flynn, I saw you. I saw the blood and I saw you weren't breathing and I saw how cold your skin was and I saw-I saw your eyes. They were so-dead. You were dead. I leaned over you and cried for you. You didn't move, you didn't breathe, you didn't blink. You were dead."
He cast his eyes to the floor, not being able to meet her eyes. "When I saw you running towards me in the alley, with those two from Brooklyn running after you and I heard that gunshot-" He met her gaze. His eyes were glassy. "-I thought you were dead. I saw you fall and I thought you were dead. I saw you fall, and-" His words suddenly became choked. "-I felt my heart rip in two. I thought I had lost you."
He placed three fingers to the bridge of his nose and turned away from her, as he was defeated by his emotions.
"Oh, Flynn," she whispered softly, edging towards him and placing her arms about his neck. He collapsed against her, placing his head to her chest. She allowed her fingers to get lost in the tangles of his disheveled hair that was matted with sweat and grime.
"I thought he had killed you," she breathed in a low voice as she settled her back against the wall under the window, the image of two burning blue eyes invading her mind. "I thought Conlon had killed you for sure-"
At Angel's words, Flynn abruptly sat up and regarded her with wide, raw eyes that were rimmed in red. "You thought that who killed me?"
She looked at him incredulously. "Conlon. I said I thought Conlon had killed you for sure-"
Her words died on her lips at the disbelieving stare he was bestowing upon her. "Angel, where in the hell did you get Conlon from?"
Angel felt the world drop from below her. The mental picture of Conlon standing before her with the smoldering eyes and the pistol pointed downward blazed brilliantly in her mind. "He was in front of you! He had a gun pointed at you!"
Flynn had gained his composure and now sat beside her, his back to the wall. The sun that filtered in through the window bathed him in a golden glow. A new cigarette dangled between his lips as he struck a match against the floor, igniting it. "Angel, I wasn't shot from in front. I was shot from behind."
"Oh my Christ," she whispered breathlessly, not believing the words that she had heard her assassin-partner uttered. Flynn regarded her, a smirk upon his lips, as he waved the match quickly in the air, extinguishing the flame. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
"Haddox, what in the name of Christ is your deal? You're giving me this look as though someone had died.
Angel felt her blood run cold and her mouth immediately turn as dry as cotton. "Because, Flynn, someone might have. I shot at him, Flynn. I shot at Spot Conlon because I saw he had a gun lowered in your direction."
Flynn simply shrugged, exhaling, and wispy smoke curling around his head. "Who gives a shit? So you killed him. That's one less problem up your brother's ass, hence that's one less bullshit problem that we have to deal with. Who knows, maybe Oliver will spring for a parade in your honor. Besides, why do you care?"
Besides, why do you care? As she sat paralyzed by Flynn Finesse who lazily smoked a drag, she could not for the life of her comprehend why she was feeling so fantastically culpable over the attempted murder of a man who was her mortal enemy. It was not just guilt on behalf of her ever blossoming conscience, but it was something different, some bond that was infinitely more powerful-something that was in her soul-
Alas, her reverie was shattered before she could deduce the resolution, as a quick series of raps came to her door and Hal Halloran stuck his head into the room. His small eyes bulged and his chubby face was as red as a tomato and slicked with sweat.
"Can I come in, Flynn?" he asked warily.
Flynn absentmindedly nodded and Hal cautiously entered the room and approached Angel with the comical waddle that his weight had imposed on his gait over time. He stopped before her.
"Angel," he said through deep breaths, "I was just on my way to get something to eat when your brother stopped me. I told him you had finally woke up-I mean, Jesus Christ, it's been four days-and he told me he wanted to see you in the parlor right away."
She nodded, noncommittally, not actually hearing that words that Halloran was saying for she was too lost in her own thoughts of blue-eyed Brooklyn leaders and Lazarus-like assassin-partners.
"Oh," Hal added, as though an afterthought, "Oliver wanted me to give you this. He said he wanted to talk about it."
Angel's gaze had been trained on her legs (the one wounded by the bullet had been tightly bandaged) and she had not been paying attention to the overweight newsboy. It was only when he dropped the cold, metal object in her opened palm that reality came to her once more.
She glanced down at her hand and a stupendous wave of nausea washed over her that she had to use her entire will from retching her guts out right then and there. A key, a silver key that glittered like molten silver, was in her palm, the adjoining chain sprawled on the floorboards. It was his key; Spot Conlon's key; the key that she had unwittingly unclasped from his neck in a state of blissful fever.
She raised her eyes to seek out Halloran, but the door was already slowly closing behind him.
"Hey, what the hell have you go there?" Angel heard Flynn ask, but she did not respond, she could not respond. An icy, primordial terror had wrested control of her entire being. She felt herself shaking in unbridled horror in spite of herself.
Her fist closed over the key.
Oliver knew. Oliver knew everything.