CHAPTER TWELVE
The star-filled crushed velvet dusk sky on that particular smoldering, muggy June night would always stay with her for its sheer beauty, like some type of particular secret locked deep in the abysses of the soul. She would always remember how fantastically expansive and utterly deep in scope it seemed right then long after she no longer walked the earth, if at all possible.
She and Flynn had always skated away the hours of the night after an assassination drinking cheap gin and she thought perhaps she had been so out of her senses to appreciate the true unabashed beauty of His indigo canvas.
But tonight was a different tale. Tonight she was utterly sober and completely enamored of the sky. It was absolutely clear that night, and the bone-colored moon was full and so waxed that it looked as though she could pluck it out of the sky. It was absolutely breathtaking.
She would always remember that night for that afternoon was the afternoon that her life went to shambles.
Angel exhaled deeply. The wispy smoke curled around her head and evaporated into the night. She brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. It was almost down to the butt and the embers at the tip glowed a dim orange. She tapped it, allowing ashes to fall to the dirt and gravel littered around her.
She released a prolonged sigh and rested her head back on design of bricks that jutted out slightly from the rear of the warehouse. She stared at the haunting moon, wondering if perhaps there was a man on it after all. But then again, she thought listlessly, it's most likely all bullshit. All bullshit just like all the bullshit Oliver's given me every day of my pathetic life.
The silver key on the chain that she had draped around her neck caught a beam of moonlight and flashed violently for a moment. She heard distant voices from the façade of the warehouse, nonetheless the brute, gruff voices of a few boys from Oliver's legion of jackasses engaging in an intellectually stimulating conversation.
"I need to get me laid tonight, Thor, I just need to get myself laid tonight if it's the last thing I do. It's been almost a month."
"Lookin' at you, Bull, I'd say the last girl on earth wouldn't give it up for you. But there's always your mother, you know."
"Ooh, you think ya so fuckin funny, do ya, Thor? But you forget that my dear sweet mother is long dead in the grave."
"Well you know there are people who are into that kind of shit."
"What? You mean fuckin dead people?"
"Yup."
"Ya kiddin' me, right?"
"Nope."
"That's pretty fucked up."
"Damn straight. Now give me a hit of your cigarette. You can't have it all."
"Here. Hey, Thor, what's all this I've been hearing about Oliver nearly shooting his bitch sister dead? I was at The Hideaway havin' a few drinks when it all happened but when I got back everyone was talkin' about it. So what gives?"
"Beats me. But I saw Haddox-the bitch, that is-walking to Oliver's room. Limpin' too, you know? Got shot in the let most rightly by those Brooklyn sons of bitches. Only thing their good for. Anyhow, I sees her and starts givin' her grief about wakin' up and all 'cause you know we had that poll goin' of how long she was gonna stay conked out-"
"Yeah. Gussy won the sucker, right? Said four days?"
"I said forever."
"I would have been with you on that one. I wouldn't mind that bitch bein' dead. Tried to get some once, but the bitch pulled that revolver-"
"You gonna let me finish sometime this year, Bull?"
"Yeah, sorry. Go on, Thor."
"So as I was sayin' before I was so rudely interrupted, the bitch comes down the hall towards Oliver's room, and she looks all scared. She tells me in not so pretty words to fuck off to Jersey and then she goes to Oliver's room. I don't hear nothin' for at least ten minutes and then I hear all the yellin', see. Can't tell what the hell they're screaming about, but then I hear the gunshot and I run into the hallway with a couple of the other guys. The door opens again and the bitch comes out and slams it behind her just as there's another gunshot. Then she starts runnin', or limpin' with that goddamned funny walk down the hall and Oliver sticks his head out the door. He's all white and his eyes are all wild and he's waving his gun, screaming in a really high voice crazy shit like, 'Do you hear me, Angel? Do you hear me! Don't you dare come back! Don't you dare show your fuckin face here ever again unless you have him! Don't even fuckin think about it if you don't have him!'"
"D'you know what it meant?"
"Fuck if I know what the hell it meant. But he shot at the bitch again and she ran upstairs to that pansy Finesse. Hasn't been seen since the afternoon. Last time Halloran went to check on Finesse, Finesse told him that he hadn't seen her all afternoon. What a crock. Oliver told her to go get someone, and she left. He was royally pissed off about it. Hey, look who it is! Bones finally decides to grace us with his presence. Where the fuck you been, Bones? Me and Bull have been waitin' for ages and Bull's itchin' to get laid."
"Watch me cry a river here, Thor. I was caught up in all that shit back at the warehouse about the bitch gone missing. But let's go. I want to go to The Hideaway and get me a knockout whore. The best Bull can do is his sister."
"Or his dead mother."
"Fuck you guys. Let's go."
The three voices soon dimmed; blotted out in the night, as their moronic owners traded colorful insults as they headed to The Hideaway in hopes of getting the chronically celibate Bull laid that night.
Angel was once again left with a silence that was all but peaceful. It was as though the constant stream of relentless thoughts that bombarded her mind were as loud as a freight train.
She sighed deeply, mournfully, and inhaled on the cigarette. She recited Thor's crude narrative in her mind once more. She nearly laughed in spite of herself. Despite a few key details that were illusive to them, her apocalyptic quarrel with her brother was well known amongst the minions. It was as though they were old wives in some type of knitting group; where they sat round in a circle and circulated gossip.
She had to give the obtuse void that was Thor Whatever-the-hell-his-surname- was credit, though. His ending words on the topic stayed with her like spirits at a haunt.
Oliver told her to go get someone, and she left. He was royally pissed off about it.
From what she had garnered, most of Oliver's boys took it with a grain of salt that brother and sister had had a scuffle and he had finally (and thankfully) kicked her to the curb because she was falling back on her position of assassin. It was speculated that the little ass-kisser Night might get the job, but then again Oliver might just possibly be apt to knock for Tristan Dark, a former Bronxie who now resided Brooklyn under Conlon, who was the best kept secret of gunslingers in all of New York.
But Thor. He, perhaps unwittingly, possessed the knowledge that Oliver had dismissed Angel from his Midtown with a scream and a shot of a gun to go on the prowl of a victim. But it was the magnitude of the victim that he did not know. The victim was unbeknownst to anyone on the face of the planet besides the children of the deceased Henry and Julia Haddox. Oliver's little boys would sure have one hell of a field day when she showed up with him. It would be like all the hazy frenzy of a witch burning, substituting the heretic for a comely, blue-eyed Brooklyn leader, of course.
He's going to get us all killed in the end. The words came back to her, haunting her, as she inhaled lazily on the cigarette and regarded the waxing moon. Oliver Haddox is going to get all of us killed in the end, she thought bitterly. Just as long as it's not him, he doesn't care. He doesn't care. But don't you remember, Hel? Don't you remember? There's still time to save your immortal soul from going to Old Scratch down below. Just take the advice of a drunken leader who spits out prophecies like an oracle.
The drunken leader who you have to kill, she added ruefully. But when you kill him, it will be no less different than suicide. You'll be killing yourself if you kill him-
A dull scuffling against the gravel in the alley in back of the warehouse distracted her, shattering her reverie. She immediately lifted her head, her grip involuntarily around the key round her neck and the cigarette dangling from her lower lip, smoldering. Flynn Finesse's cat-like green eyes gazed back at her, hidden partially by stray strands of bright hair the moon tainted silver that fell out of the short queue. He wore a crinkled, white collar-shirt that was unbuttoned, exposing the bloodied bandaged that covered his lower shoulder. He stood silently in front of her for a moment, and she dropped her eyes away from his so that she stared at his russet-colored slacks. She inhaled and she heard him issue a slight grunt as her collapsed into a sitting position beside her, his back against the exterior wall of the warehouse also.
They sat in a peaceful silence for a few minutes, a silence that only true friends could appreciate, before Flynn spoke. His voice was low and gentle.
"Mind if I take a drag?"
With no qualms and no words, Angel parted her lips and removed the cigarette, handing it to Flynn without glancing his way. The moon glowed brighter. Angel sighed.
"How'd you find me?"
She turned to Flynn to find he had his head cocked back against the wall and was creating immaculate smoke circles. His eyes flickered to hers and he smiled. "It wasn't too hard, Angel. From all that I've heard this afternoon, it was the only place I could think of. Behind the warehouse. The last place they'd ever think to look for you."
"I wasn't interested in Oliver finding me again. In fact, he told me never to come back in so many words. I was more interested in Tristan Dark being able to find me."
The smoke rings abruptly halted and she could feel those emerald eyes burning ferociously into the side of her head, the eyes she so dearly tried to avoid. His voice was laced with rage. She knew of his history with Dark. "Angel, what the hell are you doing with Tristan Dark? You know he's a no- good fucking slippery son of a bitch! Don't you know he's with Brooklyn?"
Angel cast her eyes from the bright moon to her hands that sat on her lap, doused in shadows. "I know," she murmured, studying them. "I know. Don't you think I know of his reputation? But I had no other choice. Besides, his being with Brooklyn now is a plus this time."
"Angel, what the hell are you doing with Tristan Dark and what the hell are you doing with Brooklyn? Angel, look at me. Haddox, just what in the name of Christ happened in that room with your brother today? You wouldn't believe all the shit that stupid son of a whore Thor has been passing around. What happened? Is it an assassination?"
Angel turned suddenly on Flynn, her dark gray eyes glittering as vehemently as the key she bore around her neck. "Yeah, Flynn, I guess you could call it an assassination. In so many words it's an assassination. And I guess you call it a pretty fucking big assassination at that." She elicited an exhausted sigh and slammed her head angrily back against the warehouse. Her voice was low. "He wants me to knock off Conlon."
The stark silence that fell between them was obscene. It seemed epochs before Flynn finally collected himself, whispering in a disbelieving voice, "He what?"
She raised her utterly disgusted gaze to the bright moon, the bright moon that seemed to be laughing wildly at her, mocking her. Mocking the brilliant anger that had suddenly over taken her, mocking the inexplicable pain she felt within the abysses of her soul as she spoke the words. "Conlon. He wants me to knock-off Conlon. He doesn't want him assassinated. He wants him executed. Wants me to get him from Brooklyn to Midtown and then at sundown make a big fucking spectacle of it. He wants him, wants him in front of every last goddamned Midtown newsie, and then he wants me to blow his brains out. Me. Even in the end he still can't do it."
Even Flynn, Flynn Finesse, a most seasoned assassin that took his profession of slaying the innocent with a grain of salt, could only elicit a shock-strangled whistle. "Why did he tell you to do it now? After all these years of having the rift and doing nothing, why now? Was it you getting shot?"
Angel released an indifferent laugh as she brought her knees to her chin. The moon glowed brighter in the velvet sky. She had a sudden, passionate desire to be on that bone-colored moon, away from the atrocity that had become her life. She sighed mournfully. "Me getting shot? No, it wasn't me getting shot. You know Oliver doesn't care what happens to me. He only cares what happens to his allies that are with him in burning Brooklyn to the ground. It was when we were walking to Gulliver's Inn; Lyner approached me and cornered me into telling him that what I saw at the Brooklyn Lodging House was a lie-"
"You lied to Oliver?" Flynn interjected, inhaling on the cigarette between his lips. The glowing embers burnt brilliantly against the backdrop of the nighttime shadows.
She regarded him with a cocked brow. "Yes I lied to my brother. Tell me you actually didn't believe that bullshit story of Night getting mugged?"
He shrugged, an impish grin playing at the corner of his lips. "It was pretty damned wonderful to hear that Night had been mugged." The smile and sparkle in his eyes soon dimmed. "What were you trying to cover then, Angel?"
Angel was obligated to look away from her assassin-partner for the mental pictures of she and Conlon lustily making it in that darkened room were suddenly emblazoned in her mind. Her blood burned as a warmth ran through her entire body. She could only be grateful for the darkness so that Flynn could not discern what shade of scarlet her flesh had turned. It was not the initial time she had lied to him. "I can't tell you, Flynn," she said at last, knowing how utterly obtuse the reply sounded as it came from her lips. "Just like I couldn't tell Rylie Lyner. Actually, I never outright told Lyner that the mugger story was a crock. He just inferred it and started blackmailing me. Saying shit like if I just told him that I had lied, nothing about what I had seen though, then he wouldn't go to Oliver and tell him that I had lied. All Lyner really wanted was for me to come to Queens under the title of 'assassin' so that he could nail me whenever he pleased. He was trying to bribe me, saying that if I didn't tell him he would go to Oliver and tell him I lied and that Oliver would believe him over me. Of course, I spit in his no good fucking face and anyone with half a brain could tell I was lying so I guess-"
"-he went to Oliver. He went to Oliver and told your brother that you had lied to him. Am I right?" Flynn interrupted somberly. The flawless smoke rings he blew wafted into the dark, muggy night sky before disappearing. Angel nodded absentmindedly, observing them intently.
"In so many words. I guess Lyner was just so angry that I spit in his face that he went to Oliver. Of course Oliver is absolutely head over heels in love with Lyner so he believed everything the son of a bitch said and he called me to his room-"
"But why does he want you do commit certain-suicide by waltzing to Brooklyn and knocking-off Conlon?" Flynn sharply turned his gaze on her. His voice was cold and frigid as winter's first frost. It chilled her.
"It-it was what I said," she confessed, having to look away from those fantastically intense eyes. It was at though she were in confession and spilling forth all of the dirtiest and most corrupt of her sins to a priest. "My brother made me extremely angry. My patience was very short at the time-I had just woken up, was getting over the fact that you were actually alive, and my leg hurt like a bitch-and as soon as I entered his room he started screaming that I had lied to him. He was rambling on like some backward preacher with all the normal bullshit; that he had saved me from the monsters that were our parents and still I am a dirty and dishonest little bitch to him. That I show him no respect for what he did- saving my life from a life of misery, if you'd believe that. That he had given me everything and still I lied to him. I asked him what the hell I had lied about, and he said about what had happened at the Brooklyn Lodging House. I asked him who told him differently and he said Rylie. Jesus Christ, Flynn. You wouldn't believe the little number I did on Rylie Lyner's name. I must have said every unholy thing that there is in the book. Oliver went totally crazy over what I said about Lyner and then he asked if I hadn't lied then where the hell I got the key from-"
"What key, Angel?" His voice was flat, hard, lifeless.
Angel immediately halted mid-word to regard Flynn. His handsome visage was cool and indifferent under the moon, yet his emerald eyes blazed with an intrinsic inferno.
The key. The key. The goddamned key. Realization soon dawned upon her as to how utterly devastating stating that piece of information had been. Her jaw soon fell, lax, and she feverishly scanned her assassin-partner's eyes as she stumbled for the golden words. "Key. Oh, key. Conlon's key. I found it whenever Brooklyn came into Midtown."
"Is that the key you're wearing around your neck?"
She quickly glanced down to espy the accursed key hanging round her neck, glittering like molten silver in the moonlight. "As a matter of fact it is. I kept it as a reminder that Midtown will be victorious over Brooklyn come hell or high water. Stop looking at me like that, Flynn."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like he gave me the fucking key himself. Oliver asked me if no one had been at the Brooklyn Lodging House the afternoon of the war-council then how the hell I got the key. This, I must say, is where I was partially responsible for the order of execution Oliver issued against Conlon. I was absolutely infuriated at my brother, like you couldn't believe, Flynn, and I decided to be a smart ass. So when he asked me how I got the key I told him that I had lied." She halted suddenly and drew in a deep breath. "I told him I lied that Conlon had been at the lodging house that afternoon and I had known that because I had fucked him. I screamed this to Oliver at the top of my lungs-that I had fucked him and that's how I got the key- just to see the reaction it got. And Christ did I get a reaction."
She elicited a sigh and collapsed against the wall, gazing longingly at the swollen, bright moon and unwittingly fingering the key. "He went absolutely insane. Of course I knew that I didn't actually fuck Conlon, but just hearing it come from the mouth of his precious assassin was enough to do him over. He just drew his pistol and pointed it at me. He said he wanted Conlon. He said he wanted Conlon alive. Alive so that I could execute him in front of all of Midtown. I was screaming at him as he said this, I can't actually remember what I said. I think I said I fucked Conlon good and hard and this just made him angrier. He said I wasn't to come back to Midtown unless I had Conlon. That we were finished if I didn't have him-But I do believe I heard Thor sum it up just wonderfully, 'Do you hear me, Angel? Do you hear me! Don't you dare come back! Don't you dare show your fucking face here ever again unless you have him! Don't even fucking think about it if you don't have him!' And the big finale was him shooting off a few rounds at me. The shots got his door, actually. I slammed it behind me."
Her voice trailed off into a sigh, a sigh that was lost in the brilliant night. A notion once more came to her, unabashed and blinding, as she sat regarding the moon and rubbing the key. But when you kill him, it will be no less different than suicide. You'll be killing yourself if you kill him. It was a thought that she could not comprehend for the life of her, yet for an inexplicable reason she just took it without any qualms for being true.
Flynn finally spoke. His voice was low and drenched in bitterness and acerbity. "So where the hell does Tristan Dark come into this. Christ, Angel, I thought I always told you to stay away from him."
She gazed softly at Flynn who was staring indignantly into the moon. She read his handsome profile; read the eyes that had been narrowed into slits; read the jaw that was clenched inhumanly tight. It was simplistic to deduce that the emotions were brought upon by Dark, emotions of the utmost hatred. She had heard the tale plenty of times. Before becoming contracted by Midtown, Flynn, along with Dark had been two of the best ad hoc assassins this side of New York. The two met one day at a party thrown by a mutual employer and despite better judgment went into business together. Dark had done something wicked to Flynn soon after for the latter to hate the former with a raging passion. They had soon parted ways, though Angel could not recall for the life of her what the deed had been.
"I know things, Flynn," she said, her inflection utterly void of any type of emotion. "I know Conlon has a liking for a whore named Breathless. I took my chances this afternoon meeting with Dominiquette at The Hideaway this afternoon. You know, Oliver's all-time favorite fuck. I had a plan, the only plan I could think of, and turns out she can help me. So Conlon's laid-up in his room I heard because of me shooting him. I know he and Breathless had an encounter that they never quite got to finish. Dominiquette made me over quite wonderfully whenever we went to Brooklyn to knock those two newsies off during the poker party. Turns out she can make me look like Breathless. And she also knows Tristan Dark. Turns out he's a seedy assassin with no loyalties, but he just so happens to be living in the Brooklyn Lodging House right now. For a small fee to him, I get Dark to act as though I'm Breathless and he's bringing me to Conlon. It will be night when I go and I'll work my magic and I'll just have to pray that I won't get killed."
As she spoke it, she knew the entire stratagem sounded like an utterly ludicrous suicide mission. Her assassin-partner's words only reinforced the sensations of thorough dread and terror.
"It's a death wish, Angel. You know you can't trust Dark as far as you can spit."
She felt his warm hand slip into hers. The gesture seemed so intimate, yet so completely comforting, that she turned to him, her eyes wide. Flynn's gaze was not on her. It was on the moon. He was smiling, a quiet smile at the brilliant, waxing orb. Pale silver beams played across his features, mixing with the shadows, and for a moment she was sure she was regarding an utterly different Flynn Finesse.
He spoke, his eyes still to the heavens yet his words to her. "I remember, Haddox, when you asked me if you had a conscience. I remember when you argued with Night about the sanctity of our victims. I remember when your eyes lit up like diamonds when I told you that you were going to get out of here, make something of yourself. I remember when you argued with me about the morality of being an assassin. I remember when you told me Oliver was going to get us all killed in the end. I remember when you paused shooting that one newsie down by the docks during the poker game. I remember when you desperately asked me to pray with you all night. I remember the first time I saw you cry last week and I've seen you cry many times since then. I remember holding you after you passed out because you had cried yourself into exhaustion, and thinking, I don't even know your name.
"And I think now, Angel, that I know you must be holding onto your true name inside with a passion. And I wonder why don't you just take all that passion and leave. Why don't you just leave? I've seen you do things this past week that I would have never deemed possible of you before. And I see that you're not your brother and you weren't meant to be his assassin. I know that you want to leave Angel, but I see you still here and still doing these same stupid fucking suicide tasks for him and you know that if you don't stop you're going to die. I see it inside you so badly, and I wonder why you don't leave. Most days my wish is that when I knock on your door after an assassination to go to The Hideaway for lunch I find your room empty and you gone. Your revolver's still there, but your gone. You're gone to a place where you'll never have to think of Oliver Haddox or Midtown ever again. But then I come in and you're still there and you're still doing your brother's bidding. And each time you do what Oliver tells you to its like making your own death wish. And I can't see you die, Haddox; I won't see you die because I don't have nothing on this earth but you. And if you die then what does a second-rate illiterate assassin have? Nothing. Abso-fuckin-lutely nothing."
Flynn Finesse, a self-proclaimed second-rate illiterate assassin aged eighteen, said that to the moon on a whim. Angel regarded him in utter bewilderment for a moment, trying to reckon that such puissant, literatim poetry had spilled forth from his lips as to utterly bind her heart and cause it to shatter so brutally. Yet Flynn only sat against the back of the Midtown warehouse beside her, one leg bent and the other straight in front of him, his unbutton shirt tugged so his wounded chest was visible, and awry strands of bright hair fallen over his brow and into his eyes that had come loose from the queue. And he looked at the moon with those unbelievable green cat-eyes, smiling at the bone-white orb, as Angel's entire heart and soul were ripped to shreds.
And a fragment of a dream came to her, a dream that she had had while in the dark work of unconsciousness. Flynn had been intended to be her first victim. He had stolen her chastity away and no man since then had, for after him, she refused to seduce a man just to assassinate him. She hadn't been able to assassinate him because he had been so beautiful, so beautiful just as he appeared now in the moonlight. He had asked her why she had been crying.
"I never told you, did I?" he inquired softly, breaking her reverie so that her blurry gaze fell upon him. He still stared at the moon, though his smile had vanished. "Four years ago I was working for Rylie Lyner. Four years ago he heard of a new leader called Oliver Haddox and his sister. Four years ago he got worried that his power might be unbalanced and he sent me to assassinate both brother and sister. Four years ago I met you at the Devil's Head Tavern where you seduced me and I'll be damned if you didn't try to shoot me. That day I was just at the Devil's Head to get a cold one before I went to Midtown to kill Oliver and Angel Haddox. Christ, isn't it a kicker that you were sent to kill me? And if I wouldn't have slept with you then I would have killed you? I still think it's one of those crazy type stories that you tell to a crowd at a party when you're all drunk." He turned to her, those green eyes burning into her soul. "Why didn't you kill me, Angel?"
Angel was utterly flabbergasted for a moment; flabbergasted at the utter incredulity of Flynn's words. She could only smile grimly as her back fell against his arm. "Because I couldn't. Because you were my first, both ways I mean, and you know I wasn't meant to be Oliver's fucking assassin. Because I was scared and innocent then. And now, now my life is just a complete fucking train wreck. I would have done myself in long ago if it hadn't been for you, Finesse." Her hand easily slipped into his and tilted her head to his shoulder as her gaze drifted slowly to the diamond-covered velvet night sky. "Though I still don't know why I go on."
Because there's still time to save your soul. The accursed words once more invaded her mind, relentless. And because if you do stick your revolver in your mouth and pull the trigger you'll end up in The Wood of Suicides in the Seventh Circle of Hell and shall be turned into a tangled shrub that shall howl in pain and weep blood when torn at by the Harpies.
She shook her head, closed her eyes and opened them. Flynn's shoulder shifted under her head and her tangled hair was pressed against her neck, feeling slovenly and sweaty. She wouldn't kill herself because she could not (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 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) because the bottom line was that she was too utterly terrified to pull the trigger. She was nothing but a spectacular atrocity inside (you want to die in this life you created because you don't know who the hell you've become) and truly did not care if she were to be killed as she went to Brooklyn to somehow seduce their leader and bestow him to Oliver.
She was more concerned at the moment for the own life of Spot Conlon, a man who by Oliver's book her mortal enemy, than she was for her own.
You have it backwards. I don't give a damn if I die, yet you do. His words haunted her, as his eyes haunted her, as he haunted her. She released a soft cry and sat up, pressing her eyes shut and bringing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She felt Flynn shift under her as he brought a hand to her shoulder. "Angel, is something the matter?"
She turned to him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I can't do this, Flynn. I can't do this."
Her assassin-partner only smiled. "Then don't. Don't ever listen to Oliver Haddox again. Get up and leave Midtown forever and be free, Angel. Leave the Angel of Death right here with me and go and leave. Why don't you just go and leave? What's holding you back?"
Oh, how fantastically easy Flynn Finesse's words sounded. Though leaving Midtown was akin to committing suicide. They were both the effortless routes out and yet she could do neither. Her soul-her soul-When she had kissed him, something had been transferred to her; his overpowering emotions and raw passion and want and desperation. And now something was inside her-part of Spot Conlon was inside her as utterly mad that may seem-
Her thoughts ruptured as she heard the faint crunch of gravel in the alley that ran behind the warehouse. It was an unexpected, intrusive noise for she and Flynn had lapsed into an almost pious silence. She raised her to find a tall, lanky shadow approaching in slow, lazy strides.
Angel immediately sat upright and brushed away the unshed tears that lingered with her fingers, composing herself. The crunch of the gravel under the figure's boots incremented and soon the silhouette stood before she and Flynn. She knew who it was immediately. Tristan Dark. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Flynn go rigid. She knew that he had not intended on meeting Dark ever again lest in Midtown.
"Are you Angel Haddox?" Tristan Dark inquired with a slight drawl.
Angel slowly nodded. "Yes."
"I was contacted through Dominiquette. You need me to take you to Brooklyn, is that correct?" Dark asked, in a straightforward, business-like voice.
"Yes, I-" she started, yet Dark cut her off quickly.
"I don't need to know what your business is, as long as I get my money. You pay up front, I don't do none of this 'afterwards' bullshit 'cause I've got stiffed a lot. If you don't need me to do no assassinations, then I need the flat fee of five bucks to deliver you to Brooklyn."
Angel nodded. "I got the money." She had heisted the cash off of Oliver some time ago.
"Good," Dark's shadowy figure nodded. "Then let's go. You can tell me the scenario on the way there."
Angel nodded once more in compliance and slowly began to rise to her feet, when she felt Flynn's hot hand find hers, bringing her down again. Her gaze met his burning emerald one. She then felt him emancipate her hand from his, and move it to her cheek where it quickly warmed her flesh. She then saw him fiercely bring his face to hers and felt him passionately press his lips to hers. Instead of being overcome with a sensation of lust, she felt a terrific burst of white, pristine clarity for the first time in her entire life.
And as quickly as it had begun the kiss was over; Flynn pulled away and removed his hand from her cheek. She opened her eyes to find that emerald gaze regarding her intently. Even in the darkness, his flesh was pale and his eyes read her face. His voice was hoarse, low.
"Angel, you don't have to do this, you know you don't. But I know you are. Even though you despise your brother I know you are going to do this. You know how goddamned dangerous is and you know you might die but you're still going to do this. But before you go I have to tell you something. Angel I- "
"Ah, am I interrupting anything?" Tristan Dark asked from over her shoulder, where he had been witness to the act.
Angel witnessed Flynn's visage blanch to a cadaverous ashen hue save for the two patches of bright scarlet on his cheeks. His smoldering eyes turned towards Dark. "As a matter of fact you are interrupting something, you betraying son of a bitch," he growled in a malevolent tone.
A smirk alighted upon Dark's lips as he stepped back, as though trying to deduce who had said the scalding words. "Hey, who is that?" he asked, his voice dripping with amusement. "Is that-no! It can't be. Is that you, Finesse?"
Flynn began to rise slowly to his feet, and Angel tried to futilely to pull him down again, yet he only simply shook her hand roughly off. He was bathed in a ray of moonlight. "Yeah, Dark, it's me. But you most likely thought that Lyner had had me killed, didn't you?"
Dark's chilling laugh sliced through the muggy summer night. "Finesse, well I'll be damned! You in Midtown, I never would have thought." He regarded the bloodied bandage on Flynn's chest. "Guess you'll be on the unemployment list for sometime and that's why you're sending the broad to do all your work? Anyway, I ain't got time for all this bullshit." He turned to Angel. "Are you ready? Brooklyn's quite a walk."
"I'm ready," Angel breathed rapidly, rising beside Flynn. Dark nodded in her direction and, lighting up a fresh cigarette, began striding took the direction out from behind the warehouse opposite that of The Hideaway. She watched him for a few moments before she turned to Flynn. His eyes were locked malevolently upon Dark. His faced was flushed, hair falling in his eyes, and chest rising laboriously. Angel softly placed her hand within his.
The gesture seemed to startle him and he turned quickly to Angel, locking gazes with her. "Angel, I-" he began, yet she interjected suddenly.
"Flynn, I know that you and Dark had issues that date back God knows how long ago, but he's the only means I got. I know that it's a bona-fid death wish to walk into Brooklyn and somehow get Conlon to Midtown, but I have to do it. You asked what's holding me back and I'll tell you. It's you, Flynn, you're holding me back and I'm holding myself back. You're the only thing that I've come to care about all the time I've been in Midtown and I can't think of not ever seeing you again. Fuck everyone else. I could leave and then Oliver would just make you do the job and I can't do that to you Flynn, I just can't because you're the only person I-"
The words became difficult as her words became strangled with tears. She felt the fingers of one of Flynn's hands tangle within her hair as he drew his mouth close to her ear. His hot breath played in her ear canal and she shut her eyes. He spoke, in a low, gentle voice.
"I cry for him, for our love, and for the war. Whoever said all is fair in love and war, has never experienced love and war, for love and war are never fair."
She choked back a sob at his words and closed her eyes as she felt his hands move to her cheeks and the bridge of his nose touch hers. His hot breath blew across her face. "Don't come back, Angel, for Christ's sake don't come back."
Angel opened her eyes to find those marvelous green eyes staring intently back at her. She released a soft sigh as she brought her fingers across his brow, sweeping the strands of hair that had fallen from the queue back. She knew they were pleading with her. Pleading for her life.
"For the love of Sonny Jesus, are ya gonna make me wait all day for you to fuck my old buddy here or what, Miz Haddox?" Tristan Dark's audible drawl was an incommodious interruption and the moment faded into oblivion. She felt Flynn begin to lunge, yet she held him firmly back. "Don't, Flynn, please," she whispered. "Let it go."
Her hand brushing slightly against his, she turned and joined the tall, darkened silhouette of Tristan Dark garbed on overcoat and derby cap. They began to walk out of the alley, out from behind the warehouse. She did not, could not, glance back at Flynn.
She never forgot the words that Flynn Finesse said to her on that night, just as she never forgot the star-filled indigo sky itself. As eloquent as he spoke at intervals, she knew that he would never be able to recite prose to her like that on the spot.
It had been a message. It had been a sign. Perhaps from God who was perhaps was telling her that there was time to save her soul.
What she felt in that ethereal kiss with Flynn was what it would be like to be Helena Haddox again. After she had saved her soul.
Alas, as Angel walked towards Brooklyn while the night grew deeper with an assassin who pledge allegiance to no one but his currency, she felt the first true fear for her immortal soul. For she knew she could never be saved if she were to deliver Spot Conlon to her brother, though the reason escaped her. The key wore heavy round her neck and her blood raced with an internal fire.
Killing him, as much as she dare not think of the notion, would be like committing suicide.
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. 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.
He had read her so immaculately. Had known all that she thought so flawlessly for 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.
He had read her soul and now she was to execute him for her brother, his corporeal foe.
I cry for him, for our love, and for the war. Who ever said all is fair in love and war, has never experienced love and war, for love and war are never fair.
At that moment she would have heeded Flynn and would have left everything behind. Though simply stealing onto the box of a freight train with myriad other tramps, unseen, to be taken to a region of America that had never before heard of the appellations of Oliver Haddox, Flynn Finesse, Nero Night, Tristan Dark, or Spot Conlon would not be enough. Suicide would be the only unadulterated method in ending her suffering in the world. Damn all what would occur to her in the fiery, smoldering reaches of Hell. Damn her eternal soul. Committing suicide would be the only means possible of ending it all.
It began to rain. The muggy night air was lacerated as cool zephyrs began to pick up and slowly breeze about. The once clear heavens clouded over in to a stormy black haze, obstructing the stars and blurring the moon. The rain commenced as a mere drizzle, but soon was pouring down with a vengeance.
Yes, suicide was the only method. If she were to only of known that in a mere few hours she would be standing as Breathless in a raging downpour on the Brooklyn Bridge, Spot Conlon's pistol in her mouth and her revolver at his temple as they both attempted to end their lives with one pull of the trigger.
Alas, the deities were not so generous in disclosing knowledge and Angel made her way through Midtown and through the gathering storm to the bordello on the outskirts of Brooklyn where Dominiquette the harlot waited for them in her lavish room that smelt of intoxicating lavender.