Some readers may be familiar with this story from the past. I've posted bits of it on and off in various forums since 1999. This has since undergone a drastic re-write as have many of my works. In the past I fell into a trap – the story unfolded in my head like a movie, I could see everything that was going on, see the backdrops and so on but forgot that the reader could not. I had the bones of a decent story but it lacked meat. I hope I've corrected that now without going into overkill.

Leyende.

Chateau Des Sept Verges,
Montjoie-Saint-Martin, Normandy, France.

He breathed almost silently, chest barely moving as he exhaled. For almost ten hours he had hidden here in the darkness, black bodysuit blending his shape with the shadows. His night-vision was incredibly sharp, so sharp in fact that he could have read even the finest print on a letter or in a book, held at arms length. Where others were blind and helpless, Andrzej Staniek was invincible. It was for precisely this reason that he had taken up the position so long ago. By allowing himself sufficient time to become accustomed to the darkness, he eliminated the need for night-vision goggles, a device he found to be both cumbersome and difficult to conceal.

The Chateau Des Sept Verges sat on the outskirts of Montjoie-Saint-Martin in the Manche arrondissement of Normandy taking its name from the seven orchards that ringed the house and lawn. In previous years the estate was famed for its cider and brandy production, courtesy of the four fruits produced there. Once owned by a wealthy family the estate had been purchased by a wealthy industrialist four years previously. The stables which had once been patronised by wealthy Arabs whose stallions stood at stud, was now home to non-running thoroughbreds ridden by the chateau's inhabitants. The large barn was little used, save for storing excess hay that the feed store could not hold. When asked why he did not pull it down the estate's owner flashed a trademark photogenic smile and simply replied "It looks impressive. Why waste money on pulling it down?"

He had planned this mission meticulously, working out all details from entry to escape. He had examined plans of the estate in fine detail, from the layout of the estate through to the location of the "nightingale" floorboards – an age-old early warning system used by the powerful and the paranoid that squeaked or "sang" when trodden on – in the chateau itself. Preparation was the key, and Staniek refused to take on a job or mission, without thorough research and planning. Money, coercion and theft were the tools of this particular trade, and Staniek was a master of all three.

Getting into the estate was easy. The man he had been hired to kill, Mitchell Ward, multi-millionaire, entrepreneur, and patron of many charitable institutions, was a stickler for social events, often throwing lavish parties at his country home. Tonight was one such night. For all his wealth however, security at the estate was lax. The guards failed to even pay cursory attention to the additional workman who arrived later than his colleagues, and much less notice that he headed away from the chateau. His destination was the barn adjacent to the shed that housed the main generator. Once safely in the barn, he removed the overalls he was wearing, stripping down to his bodysuit. A final check of his equipment followed, before he positioned himself in the corner of an empty stall, lying on a bale of hay, completely motionless.

Before leaving the United States, Staniek had been painstaking in his preparations, scouring the internet, newspapers and journals about the man he had been hired to kill. He attended seminars and events put on by Ward and his companies, the better to learn about his target. A brief thought of getting himself invited to one of Ward's parties was swiftly dismissed. Not through the risk to himself, but because of the terms of the contract. A message had to be sent. This required more time and preparation on site than a simple "drop off" job. While attending as a guest was out of the question, Ward's social events were the key to his demise.

Digging deeper he found out that Ward and some of his companies were mob fronts, laundering money and fencing stolen goods for a crew based in New Jersey. The highly respected Ward made a suitable figurehead for such companies, since his squeaky-clean image and sheer public and media appeal deflected any notions of any wrongdoing within his organisations.

However, Ward was suspected by many of his backers to be embezzling funds from these organisations to pay off gambling debts and maintenance payments for a half dozen illegitimate children. Ward had outlived his usefulness, and was in danger of becoming a liability to his backers. The risk was one that the Mafiosi were not prepared to take. The problem needed to be solved, quickly and discreetly. To do so they needed an outsider, someone not associated with them, to keep the spotlight away from them when Ward was gone.

Staniek didn't care why the decision to terminate Ward had been taken. As he told the capodecina who hired him, all he wanted to know was what Ward did after the parties at his home. The price for the hit: $10 million. When you wanted a job done properly you hired the best. Staniek was the best.

The capo didn't disappoint. When he called Staniek again he had everything. The parties usually finished around 3 a.m., the last guest usually leaving about half an hour later. After the departure of the last guest, the eight guards resumed their rounds with dogs. Ward would personally see off all of his guests then take brandy in his bedroom before retiring for the night. A maid called Yvette, a regular bed partner of Ward's, supplied the brandy and more besides. Staniek listened quietly as the contact related Ward's sexual habits. Although disinterested in the particulars, experience had taught the Pole to pay attention; a key fact could be contained within. It would not pay to miss it.

According to the capo there were three keys to the bedroom. Yvette and Ward had one each; the third resided with Ward's butler, who inhabited the annexe on the far side of the house. The butler, an old man in his late sixties was harmless enough owing to a distinct predilection for his cider, made from the apples of the estate's orchard. The butler played little part in Ward's socials and in any case was too drunk to be of any use to anyone by midnight.

"How you do it is up to you." the capo said. "We don't care. However, if you get caught you are on your own. Don't even think about coming back here. We don't tolerate failure. Talk to the police and you'll be dead before the sun sets"

Staniek grunted at that. He expected nothing more. In truth, he held all the cards. He knew it, and so did the capo. The crew were in deep, and Staniek held the lifeline. They needed him and hated that fact. There would be no double-cross because they had too much to lose.

Enjoy your party Mr Ward, he thought, it's going to be your last.

Staniek glanced at his digital wristwatch. 0320. Show time.

His ears picked up the sounds of departing guests. Quietly he stepped from his hiding place, edging towards the side door to the path that separated the barn from the generator shed. The hinges of the door creaked, but the sound was drowned out by the post party hubbub. A quick glance in both directions showed the footpath to be clear. Three steps and he was at the generator shed door.

Once the generator failed it would be three minutes before the auxiliary generator in the chateau's basement kicked in. The main generator was oil-fired. Draining off the fuel would be the quickest way to kill it, but that presented its own problems. For starters the smell would attract the attention of the dogs, if not the guards. Obvious damage would also create suspicion and make his job harder than it needed to be. He paused, thinking.

The only light in the shed came from a single overhead bulb. Staniek smiled to himself. European bulbs had bayonet cap fittings. Bend one or snap it off and the light was useless. How many times had this been done by heavy-handedness? It would not arouse suspicion. Reaching up he twisted the bulb out of the socket and bent the cap before screwing it loosely back into place. Anybody removing the bulb now would think that they had caused the damage. The darkness would be his weapon. Seeing no obvious damage the guards would doubtless shrug and investigate again in the morning, thinking it a simple generator failure. Staniek was counting on their sloppiness to aid him in the job.

Moving around the back of the generator Staniek unscrewed the cap on the fuel pipe. He peeled back his glove before touching the pipe with his wrist. Cold, as he had hoped. A hot pipe would pose a risk of igniting the fuel, but with the older models you could never tell. Cautiously he unzipped his suit before urinating in the fuel pipe. His bladder emptied, Staniek replaced the cap and zipped his suit. The steam build up would cause a rupture in the generator, knocking it out completely. When it blew, he would have his chance to enter the house unseen. His superior night-vision would put him at a distinct advantage.

Exiting the shed he headed back for the barn, keeping the chateau on his left. He cracked the side door of the barn, keeping it slightly ajar after he entered, to save himself crucial seconds when the time came. A series of dull metallic bangs signalled the generator blowing.

Mentally he counted to ten slowly. Through the opened door he heard the sounds of confusion amongst the departing guests and the dogs, five Alsatians and three Dobermans barking loudly. Good, Staniek thought and he exited the barn sprinting for the house. The guards were preoccupied with the guests and controlling their skittish dogs. Pausing behind a tree he watched the confusion. The house was unguarded. He crept to the doorway that had remained open and quickly stepped inside. He sprinted up the main stairs, taking them two at a time before halting at the landing. Nightingale floorboards.

He carefully navigated his way around the boards, his target a closet across the corridor from the master bedroom. Stepping inside he left the door ajar, the better to allow his sight to adjust when the lights came back on. Checking his watch he saw that two and a half minutes had elapsed since he left the barn. Now the fun could begin.

Presently the lights flickered back on. Too late Staniek turned away from the doorway, finding himself temporarily blinded by the sudden light. He blinked to clear the spots from his eyes, silently cursing the mistake. The change from night vision to bright light was always hard at best. He shifted position to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the light. Gently he dropped his bag on the floor before moving his hands in front of his face. Extending his fingers he pushed his hands and arms out to their full extent, before pulling them back in. Palms facing the floor he pushed downwards. The kata helped slow his breathing and he repeated it three more times. His eyes now adjusted, and breathing controlled he was ready.

A dull thumping started in the back of his head growing in intensity. Migraine. Obviously the change from dark to light had been so drastic his brain could not cope. Never mind, it would pass. Staniek rotated his neck and shoulders loosening them up. The thumping eased but was still present, nagging, but not distracting. He picked up his bag and removed his silenced Berretta 96 semi-automatic pistol. The faithful friend would see action tonight. He slipped the bag over his shoulder and tightened the strap. He doubted he would have time to retrieve it afterwards, and although he had not sensed another Immortal it would not do to be caught without a sword.

A nightingale board squeaked along the corridor, followed by a curse in French. The rustle of a satin dress and soft footsteps reached his ears. Yvette or someone else? Staniek peered out ready to change tactics if it proved was a lost guest. It was indeed Yvette. Hair piled high in plaits and curls, a shapely bosom cosseted by the green satin of the dress. All alluring, all for show, a rich mans whore.

The headache intensified again, pulsing and fading, pulsing and fading. Staniek concentrated harder, focussing on his target. The hem of her train brushed the carpet as she passed him, a rustling sound that reminded him of wind in the trees. The dress had a plunging back, revealing milk-white skin that ended in a curve around the small of her back. A most inviting attire, and a cumbersome one. Yvette would be unable to fight him off, encumbered by the fabric, and by the items she carried, a brandy bottle and two glasses. Her scent reached him, perspiration mixed with an expensive perfume, doubtless a favourite of her master's. All weapons for the assassin sent to terminate him.

Staniek slowly opened the closet door as Yvette put the bottle and glasses on the floor and took a key from the folds of her dress, and unlocked the bedroom. As she pushed the door open Staniek charged, skipping over a nightingale board and shoved her into the room. She tripped on the hem of her dress and fell face first onto the carpet. Staniek stalked her like a cat until he judged the range was right and kicked her in the thigh. The leg buckled as she tried to stand. Staniek sidestepped readying himself to strike again, the gun gripped loosely in his right hand. The next strike did not come from him. Snakelike Yvette threw out a hand, the fingers bent claw-like, her nails raking like a hawks talons, catching Staniek by surprise and buying her time. It didn't land, but forced him back anyway. Encouraged she lashed out again, a stream of French curses exploding from her mouth. Staniek almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. This rich mans play thing, the millionaire's maid with the expensive clothes and perfumes, spewing forth guttermouth language he expected to find in the sink estates around Paris. Her skill was a surprise too. Someone had taught her to fight and taught her well, but he was better, much better.

He dipped his head forward, faking an attack and looking to draw Yvette forward. She did, lunging forward to claw at his eyes. He dodged, ducked under the outstretched arm and hooked it, pulling her off balance and throwing her against the side of the bed. Before she could react he pistol-whipped her twice on the back of the head. She went limp, leaning on the bed, her arms outstretched and torso on the mattress, a crude parody of sexual invitation. This time Staniek did laugh. He had planned to use her to trap Ward, but now she would tempt him to his death instead. He retrieved the bottle and glasses from the corridor and placed them on the night table next to the bed. Yvette still had not moved, not that he cared. She would die anyway when he was finished. She had to, there could be no witnesses. He placed the key next to the bottle, and backed up to a commode that hid him from sight of anyone coming through the door. He unstrapped his bag and dropped it on the floor. He could clearly see Yvette lying on the bed her hips thrust invitingly upwards, lacking everything but a sign saying "come and get it." Ward would not be able to help himself. The trap was set.

Mitchell Ward was a stocky man, twice divorced, in his late forties, with receding brown hair. He strolled up the stairs and onto the corridor in sprightly fashion. Under his feet the nightingale board squealed loudly. He chuckled to himself. His second wife had told him she wanted rid of them because they made too much noise in the night, particularly when he was drunk. "They go or I do." she had told him during one blazing row. "It's bad enough you screw the staff at night without advertising to everyone when you come up the stairs." The boards stayed. Estelle did not. No, he thought it wasn't Estelle. Estelle was the wife of a charity administrator at the party, and he had rutted her like a hog in the stables before she indignantly demanded to be returned to her husband. Silly bitch, nothing like the flame-haired beauty he had just slipped into when the power went out.

Money brought him all the attention he could handle, and all the sex he could want. Then that American idiot had turned up, threatening to take it all away because his "employers" had noticed large sums of cash disappearing. As he had explained, sometimes investments go bad, or just take longer to come to fruition. A bodyguard had given the messenger a message of his own, a good kicking and sent him packing.

"Bad investments" was an understatement. His bitch of an ex-wife was trying to clean him out, and threatening to drag his name through the mud with a series of lurid kiss-and-tell stories. He had married her for her looks, nothing else. His lawyers were telling him to reach a settlement, but her demands were ridiculous. He would rather cut off his own hand before he caved into them. She came with nothing except her looks and left with much more. What gave her the right to sell tales of the special parties he enjoyed? Every rich man had orgies, it was a status symbol, and besides hadn't she been a willing participant once upon a time? He wondered if he should not get his contacts to get rid of her for good. It would be one way of cutting his losses.

Ward mused on the idea as he inserted his key into the lock. It did not turn, and the door opened instead. That was unusual, so obviously one of the staff had not been paying proper attention. They would cop hell in the morning. He pushed the door open and the thunderous look on his face was replaced by one of pure lust when he saw Yvette. That was why the door was unlocked, she had wanted him to find her and take her where she was!

He chuckled lasciviously. Yvette lay there with her pelvis thrust high waiting for him. She would let him ride her the way that that prude Esther would not, driving deep until he reached that explosion of light that had been denied him by the redhead. Three in a row, and none knew of the others. He closed the door behind him, and unzipped his trousers. He stepped out of them dropping them on the floor and stroked his engorged member as he approached Yvette. Lift up the satin and slide right in. Fuck that American, and Esperanza, and the ginger girl, Yvette knew how to please a man of his standing.

He pushed her skirts up over her back and pushed into her, ignoring the strangely cool feeling of her flesh. He had expected wetness and warmth, not cold. Maybe it was the alcohol. He pushed deeper and grabbed a handful of her hair to pull her head up by, the way he liked it and felt the stickiness. Leaning over he realised what it was. Blood. Yvette's blood was staining the sheets of his bed. He was fucking a corpse!

He recoiled in horror then suddenly realised he could not breathe. It took his brain a few moments to realise that it was not fear that obstructed his airways, but an arm across his throat, holding him in a vice-like grip. He panicked, kicking over the table with the brandy and glasses. The contents poured onto the floor while he fought against the demonic force that held him tight, and then suddenly released him. He collapsed on his front gasping for air. His crushed larynx turned his voice into a raspy whisper as he stared at the feet of the black clad figure. "What do you want?"

Staniek looked down at him. "They got your message, and have sent you a reply." He grabbed Ward's right ankle, pressed the Beretta to the back of the knee and pulled the trigger. Ward screamed, an ear-splitting shriek of pain at the feel of the bullet tearing through his joint. He could taste blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue in the struggle.

Staniek grabbed a pillow from the bed and pressed it over Ward's head, forcing it into the carpet. Brandy flowed from the broken bottle and Ward felt it soaking his hair. The pain was unbelievable, it could not be happening to him. He felt like an observer watching his own execution. When Staniek destroyed his left knee, he came back to himself. The excruciating pain made it all too real. Ward lost control of his bladder, the smell of urine filling the air and mingling with that of brandy, the coppery smell of blood and sweat.

He felt himself being rolled over and stared into the face of his killer. Sensing what was to come he clamped his right hand over his left elbow. Staniek shook his head slowly and stepped on Ward's left forearm and shot him in the hand. Ward pulled the crippled hand to his chest, any thought of protecting his elbows forgotten. Staniek let him do so, and ignoring the moans and pleading, fired into his right hand. This time Ward merely whimpered, his eyes glazing and staring at Staniek.

"You took something that did not belong to you. In the old days, they'd cut your hands off. Now, well we do it differently." Staniek shrugged. "Now those that you stole from are going to take the most precious thing you have in return."

He sat Ward up, ignoring the sobs of the crippled millionaire. He pressed the silenced pistol against the base of Ward's skull. Ward felt the hot metal burning his neck but made no attempt to move. Staniek normally remained devoid of emotion during the critical stages of a hit, but this time he felt contempt and disgust. Killing the fat slob would probably do the world a favour. He pulled the trigger.

The sensory explosion in his head shocked him. For a moment he was disorientated, wondering if the the gun had misfired and blown up, but no, Ward was slumped on the floor, blood and brains mixing with the brandy and urine. The headache returned, blindingly strong, yet familiar, tinged with... recognition. Another Immortal was close by. But where? He hadn't felt anything before. Surely this wasn't a set-up? Thoughts of betrayal raced through his mind before a moaning from the bed answered his questions.

So this mission had an added bonus. Little Miss Yvette was a new Immortal. He had killed her earlier and activated her Immortality. Realisation came swiftly. That was the cause of the headaches, not the lights at all. Well, he'd have this girl's head. Ten meg and a bonus Quickening. Not bad for a night's work.

Yvette quickly pulled herself up from the bed, pulling down her dress, before shock took over. She saw the blood, her blood on the bed and touched her head which throbbed worse than anything she had ever felt before. Her hands came back sticky with her own blood. She screamed and turned around when she saw Staniek who grinned. Clearly she knew nothing about her latent Immortality.

"Batarde!" she spat and then saw her lover, dead on the floor. Concern for Ward showed clearly on her face.
"Non!" she cried repeatedly, and scrambled over to his body on her knees and cradled him. Staniek crossed to his bag. He dropped the Beretta in, and picked up his sword. Flexing his shoulders he walked back towards her.
"No," she sobbed. "Vous l'avez tuė! Meutrier" she screamed at Staniek's back. Revenge was the only thought on her mind as she lunged for him. "Batarde!"

Her momentum carried her onto the blade as Staniek swung it in a lazy arc. No time to scream, or realise what had happened. Staniek opened his arms to embrace the Quickening. In seconds it was over, a short one needing little recovery time. That was just as well. The discharge had set alight the bedding and the brandy soaked carpet. Hungry flames licked closer to the two bodies on the floor.

The disturbance caused by the Quickening was bound to attract attention. He thrust the sword in the bag and zipped it closed. The fire was fortunate and would cover his tracks. He bounded out of the room, ignoring the nightingale boards in the corridor and bolted down the stairs and out of the Chateau. He was well into the Orchards when the first guards reached the bedroom.

Notes on Chapter 1:

Capodecina – Literally a "commander of 10" in the Sicilian Mafia.

Batarde –Bastard (French)

Vous l'avez tuė – You killed him (French)

Meutrier – Murderer (French)

Sharp eyed readers will notice similarities between this opening chapter and that of "Oni" by Marc Olden. This is not plagiarism, but homage to Marc who is one of my favourite authors. I liked the way Oni, aka Viktor Poltava, was introduced so adopted and adapted it to suit my purposes. Rest in peace Marc.