Prologue

Two years ago

I looked into his black eyes. People said eyes are the windows to the soul. That's what they say, isn't it? His...his were black. Dark and emotionless. Death and shadows brightened his pupils like black rivers of emptiness. His touch was cold, ice cold. I've heard he killed people for fun, that death was his constant companion and that he couldn't understand the difference between Heaven or Hell. People said there were voices in his head. People said he would be our next King. People said a bunch of shit, because I knew him better than I knew myself. I knew he will kill me and finally set me free. I've asked him for it. I've asked him for a way out.

"Choose," he said in that tone of voice that cut more than daggers. He was ordering me to choose life or death, as if he already didn't know my answer. He sounded detached and distant. There was an inherent darkness inside of him. An overabundance of frightening power that always differentiated him from the rest. When he spoke, people listened. When he killed, he did it beautifully. I would have never found a better way out from this life than by the mercy of his blade.

"Kill me," I asked him. I begged him with my eyes to finish me. I hadn't been made to live in this world. I wasn't one of them and he knew it. He looked down at me, his black eyes focused on my neck. One of his big, cold hands closed around it. This was it. He could kill me with a simple twist of his fingers. One second and I would be finally gone from this shitty, fucked up world. He dragged my body closer to him, until I was shadowed by his tall frame. He didn't smell like a boy. He smelt like the forest around us. Like wood and stone, moss and smoke. We have been taught to never make our presence known. To blend in with our environment. I've never managed to blend in, but he...he became whoever and whatever he needed to be in order to kill.

He pushed my ear directly under his mouth and whispered something. People around us frowned, trying to understand what he was saying. I felt my own eyes open in horror at his words, before the blade he kept concealed flashed under the light of the moon. One cut and I screamed. Blood oozed from the wound like a crimson sea. I fell on my side, holding to my chest my wounded hand while I looked in shock at my pinky finger laying on the dirt.

When I blinked he was gone, leaving me alone with a life I didn't want to live.

Chapter 1

Present day

"Nine! What brings you to the Royale?" Asked me Fat Lou the moment I sat at the bar. I shrugged, ignoring the hungry eyes of the men looking at me. Instead I fixed my grey eyes on Fat Lou. I've always wondered how the fuck Fat Lou could make himself be listened over the music blasting through the speakers of the club. Somehow, someway, he made it work, but I wasn't in a conversational mood. Scratch that, I was never in a conversational mood. He smiled at me, moving awkwardly behind the bar while his big belly bounced over his belt with every step he took. Fat Lou had always been fat, a fact he was very proud of. The fucker could kill using his bare hands and the weight of his body. I've heard he liked asphyxiating his victims under his body, like a damn Sumo player. He stopped right in front of me and served me my poison of choice. Two fingers of Vodka and nothing else. My Russian heritage couldn't be more evident if I tried. "I've heard the King is looking for you."

"He is now?" I asked, taking a sip from my drink. Fat Lou lifted an eyebrow, looking at me as if I ought to know better. I did know. The reason why people called me Nine was because of my nine fingers. A souvenir from our mighty King. The same one who had been apparently looking for me. I wasn't trying to avoid him. He knew where to find me, but we both knew he liked playing games with me. I pushed the thoughts about him to the back of my mind and focused on what have brought me to the Royale.

The Royale was a neutral zone. What we called a White Place. White because we weren't supposed to draw blood in neutral territory. The punishment for killing in a neutral zone was death by the hand of the King and no one, fucking no one, dared to contradict the King. The King was the Law. Loyalty to our King was the only one rule in my world and the one difference between us and animals. The Royale had been a neutral place for years before I was born. The club was spacious and elegant, with black walls and black mirrors that reflected the bodies of hundreds of normal people, dancing at the rhythm of techno music. There were two floors available to the clientele. I looked up, studying the private boxes that couples rented to fuck and drug themselves to death. The third floor was restricted at all times, a fact some people liked to put to test. If you knew what was good for you then you will never try getting on the third floor. Some things were worse than death. Ironically, I needed to visit the third floor tonight. Hence the reason I've come to the Royale in the first place.

"I need to see the Manager," I said, and Fat Lou nodded. He looked up and signaled his men I would be going up. Then he looked at me, his fat face covered by greasy sweat. I had no clue how the hell Fat Lou ended married and with five kids. The man looked like a mix between a hippopotamus and a bald eagle, but he was always nice to the clientele and tonight I was only that. Clientele.

"Let me give you my unsolicited advice. Rumor has it that the Venetian Games would be bloodier this year. The prize, I'm afraid, is one that not many women can walk away from. If the King is looking for you then go to him. You will need all the help you can get Nine," said Fat Lou while I finished my drink and elegantly moved down from my stool.

"You are right," I said, smiling at him, "It was unsolicited advice."

Fat Lou laughed, his second chin trembling under the exertion of his opened mouth and strong laugh. When he laughed his entire body moved, which was gross and morbid. He was so fat that he probably couldn't see his own dick when he peed. I smirked at my own thought and turned around, waving my hand goodbye and walking away from the bar. All eyes were on me when I walked. I've been taught how to be invisible. A good assassin should always be invisible. Good thing I've never been good in my line of work. I enjoyed feeling the eyes of men on me, I enjoyed dressing as if the end of the world was about to come.  And sure as hell, I had an attitude problem. The crowd of people moved to let me pass. I was tall for a woman, porcelain white skin and long auburn hair. For my visit to the Royale I've decided to dress in a very tight, very small black tube dress that revealed my long legs and made my curvy body look sinfully good. Men wanted me. I could feel it with every step I took, shaking my hips one way to the other as if I owned the world.

I called for the elevator to the third floor and waited patiently, inspecting my manicure. Like always that I looked at my left hand I felt a pang of hate and sadness. There was a gruesome scar in the place where my pinky finger should have been. A reminder that I shouldn't play games with the King, but he and I had always enjoyed what I liked to call a "twisted animosity". We loved to hate each other. We haven't crossed paths in two years since the day he cut my finger and became the greatest Assassin of all times. At times, when I was ridiculously bored or mad enough to remember my fucked-up life I thought about him. The King was a man that would always stay with you once you met him. He left an impression in you, whatever you liked it or not. I didn't like it, but it is what it is...Or so they said. The lights of the elevator announced the doors would be opening soon and curious I looked at the opening doors. The Manager of the Royale was a very busy man. Only experimented killers like myself had the right to ask for an interview with him. I was interested in knowing who had been talking with him before I requested an appointment.

As in cue the doors opened, and Leah exited the elevator, smiling saccharinely at me. Leah Mortensen, my long time ago archenemy. We used to hate each other while we were at school. The curious thing about hate is that it's always more dangerous when it gets cold. One would thing that hating someone would somehow fade with time, but in the specific case of Leah, I couldn't stop but to hate her more and more with every single passing hour. The sentiment was mutual. I could see how much she hated me. Feigning a courteous smile she air kissed my cheeks. Leah Mortensen was the last heir of the Americans Mortensen. A third generation of killers. Last time I heard she was a Third Level Assassin, which made me smile even bigger at her. Assassins were leveled by their kill count, not their years of experience. We could be divided in three levels parting from the lowest Third Level to First Level. Your social status and richness were all related to your Assassin Level. I was currently a Second Level Assassin, which made me some kind of prodigy at our community, since I was only twenty years old. Only our King had managed to break records by the time he turned eighteen and reached a First Level status, but once again he was...different.

"Nine, you look lovely," said Leah, her red lips twisting in her best impression of a smile. Leah was gorgeous, not that I will ever be caught admitting it openly. She was tall and blonde, with baby blue eyes that had always managed to look innocent even if the bitch was impaling her victims by their asses. The imagery was grotesque, but in my world death by impalement was a daily occurrence, as The New York Times... just bloodier.

"Leah," I smiled, softly pronouncing her name as if we had all the time in the world to compare our passive aggressive techniques, "I heard what you did with that rapist in Arkansas. Nice touch gouging his eyes out."

"Oh yes, I used my thumbs. I guess I get a little emotional when I decide killing people I don't like," I laughed at her inoffensive threat and opted to stay quiet. Silence was dangerous. A lesson I've learned from our King. Leah cliqued her tongue as if she had just remembered something, before speaking at me in a whisper as if we were sharing a secret. The only secret we will ever share was the place and time of her death, but I was very patient and knew how to play games. I listened to her, feigning interest when all I wanted was to see the Manager and get this night over with, "I heard the Venetian Games will be bloodier this year."

"So they say," I murmured, looking back to where Fat Lou kept an eye on us, while he dried glasses and pretended he wasn't following our every move. It was well known Leah and I didn't like each other, but I wasn't crazy enough to kill her in a White Place. At least not yet.

"It will be a pleasure attending the games with you," she said, cocking her head to a side.

"Oh, I decided I'm not playing this year," I informed her, and Leah gasped, looking genuinely surprised for the first time. The Venetian Games were the Olympics for Assassins. Bloody sports in which you played to kill or be killed. Usually it was an opportunity for young assassins to prove their worth, or a magnificent chance for old assassins to prove they still got what they needed to maintain their fading power. I've played twice over the past years and I've never won first place...if you didn't consider the fact I've survived them and that by itself was a triumph. Leah had never played before, but the prize of the games this year was literally to die for. If a woman managed to win first place she will be crowned Queen of the Assassins, a title that had been vacant for the past twenty years. Our last queen had died by the hands of his own husband, apparently while he fucked her and strangled her. People said he only realized what he had done after he was done coming inside of her. After that he turned wacko. Like bad shit kind of wacko. The queen job wasn't my scene, considering how our last queen had died. I simply loved myself too much to be overshadowed by my husband all the time, and by all means our present King was a thousand times more powerful than our past ones. I smiled down at Leah, knowing too well she still hated the fact I was a couple of inches taller than her. I slowly walked inside the elevator she had just vacated, "My best wishes. I really hope you win this year, Leah."

She narrowed her eyes at me while the doors closed. Leah was still trying to figure me out by the time the doors closed completely, and I was finally on my own. As alone as I could be in this world anyway. Two cameras blinked red lights at me, transmitting footage to the people under the King's payroll. I wasn't a fool to think he didn't own everyone. The King owned every one of us, one way or the other. He either spared our lives or have spared someone else's life, someone we loved or cared for. In my case he spared me, even when he knew he shouldn't have. I stared at the cameras, studying my reflection on their lenses. I looked like a million of bucks, my red lipstick covering my double lobed lips and my mascara curling my long eyelashes. I've always been pretty, but tonight I looked fucking gorgeous. I flipped the bird to the cameras right about the time the doors opened. Take that my King, I thought while I walked away. As usual the third floor at the Royale looked like a hallway to Hell. Its red diesel walls were covered with large paintings of divine wars. I knew the paintings by memory now, but years ago I used to wait patiently to be called by the Manager while I studied the large canvases. They were all covered in images of wars between demons and angels. For some reason I've always been more attracted to the demon's side. I supposed like calls like.

"The Manager is ready for you now," said one of the guards, opening the black door at the end of the hall. I nodded and walked inside of the Manager's office. Once inside the decoration changed. The Manager favored whitish tones, instead of the red and black motives of the Royale. His office had white walls and peculiar souvenirs from all over the world. There was the carcass of a dead elephant hanging from the roof, a collection of chimpanzee's teeth in exhibition on the west wall. Old Arabian scimitars adorned the wall behind his desk and from time to time their blades caught the light of the thousands of tea candles that were always lightened around his office. One candle for every soul of an assassin. If an assassin had a soul in the first place. I've always believed we were creatures that were born without souls, but long time ago a boy I used to believe was my friend promised me that I at least, had a soul inside of me. As if souls could be birds encaged inside of us. I shook my head at the old memories and faced the Manager.

I've never heard what the Manager's real name was. The Manager was the Manager, and that was everything you needed to know about him. He controlled the local neutral zones and if an assassin dared to kill in a White Place then he was the one in power to execute the criminal in the name of the King. The Manager always dressed in elegant three-piece suits, always grey ones, with double breasted vests and pinstriped ties. His black skin was covered in African Scarification writings, scars that told a tale of honor and respect for everyone to see. The Manager's hollow cheeks were covered in circular patterns of scars that reached his temples and neck. As always we were together he smiled, showing me straight white teeth and sincerity. I smiled in response, while he got on his feet and waved a hand for me to seat on one of the armchairs in front of his large mahogany desk.

"Miss Ivanov, please take a seat," he said with his strong African accent, although he would always say his accent came from The Kingdom of Kongo. A place he always promised we should visit in summer, when the sound of the mosquitoes would lure you to deep sleep and where the eyes of tigers will follow you in the darkness. The Manager was one of the only two people that never called me Nine. He believed names made you who you were and that we should never forget who we were. I accepted the seat he offered while we studied each other in silence. There was wisdom in his black eyes, the kind of wisdom that could never be learned but experienced. "Every time we see each other you become more beautiful."

"Flattery will not get you far with me," I said with a smile and the Manager laughed, his laugh strong and honest.

"There are women that belong to many men and there are women that were created only for one. I think I'm not that one for you Miss Ivanov," he said, resting his elbows over the surface of his desk and crossing his fingers, "But that's enough about me. How can I help you?"

"I've only come for some information," I said vaguely, just to keep the Manager in his toes. Rumor has it he never left the Royale, not unless he really needed to and in those rare cases it was only to extract payment over somebody's idiocy. He was always up for intrigue and gossip, his currency of choice. His black eyes shined, studying me curiously.

"And what kind of information is that?"

"Which type would you think?" I returned his question with a question, enjoying the way his face brightened in the eternal game of chasing the rabbit down the hole. He was curious about my reasons to come to him. I only visited him once or twice per month and normally it was always to check on people I wanted to keep away from me. This time it was different. I was here to gather some information for my next hit. The Manager didn't know that, but he could presume what any other person would presume. That I was behind the Queen title the Venetian Games promised. As if. I would die before becoming the queen of the man that was our King.

"The good kind of information, the information that turn girls into queens," he said, staring proudly at me with shining eyes. If I would ever be remotely interested in becoming the Assassin's Queen I knew the Manager would be a loyal subject. He trusted in me when no one else did. He gave me my first job and promised me I would do good. He accepted my stipulations and never questioned them. I never killed children, neither pregnant women nor innocents. Everything else was fair game. The Manager had taken a broken girl that missed one finger and turned me into who I was today. I looked away from him, fixing my eyes on the collection of body parts he kept in glass jars by the shelf at the side of his desk. There was a particular glass jar that was bigger than the rest. It contained a pair of manly testicles that no one else than me knew who they belonged to. The Manager revealed the sad story of that jar years ago and I've always kept it secret. The man in front of me was in some ways the father I've never had and for that he will always have my respect and loyalty.

"I'm not interested in the Venetian Games. Does anybody talk about anything else but the games these days?" I ask genuinely interested and the Manager tilted his head from side to side, considering my words more than necessary. He was reading between lines more than he should. I simply wasn't interested in playing this year. What was so hard to understand about it? I've played every year since I graduated from school. Why not this year? Asked a small voice inside my head but I ignored it and focused on what had brought me there, "I came to ask you about this."

I took the golden coin from between my boobs and placed it on top of his desk. The Manager studied the coin for a very long time, before looking up at me. We both knew I wasn't ready to accept this challenge. There are three coins every Assassin should be aware of. A copper coin left for an Assassin to find means the King's men are hiring you to eliminate a Third Level kill. A silver coin for a Second Level kill and a gold coin...yes, you guessed it, a First Level kill. It was an easy way to climb the social ladder, the only problem was that it usually took a certain amount of kill counts to move between levels and I was far, far from becoming a First Level. If I accepted the job I could upgrade to a First Level Assassin, which equaled a lot of money and very good paid jobs from now on. If I fucked up then I could be degraded, or even worse, killed. Overall, the worse thing I could possibly do was to ignore this opportunity. I knew I could do this. I had to. The Manager lifted his eyebrows and focused his black eyes on me.

"Who's your mark?" He asked me, and I smiled, knowing he would ask me such a thing. I had already memorized the letter that was tied around the golden coin that was left at my apartment's door. It contained all the info about the men I was supposed to kill.

"Pedro Ortega," I said, and the Manager pinched his chin, lost in thought. Pedro Ortega was the narcoterrorist that controlled the entire west neighborhood of our city. The Drug Lord was rumored to be the devil itself, his power was stretching toward every direction of the city and it was just a matter of time before it got out of control. If we killed the head of the snake his cartel would eventually disintegrate, and the problem will be solved. Temporally. There was always a worse version of Pedro Ortega out in the streets, waiting for the right moment to seize control and take whatever the hell they wanted. The Manager knew this as well as I did, but he also knew that killing Ortega was going to be hard. He was worried about me, but he would never admit it. We were not built like that. Assassins only cared for their own skins. We trusted nobody. We had nobody.

"Then you should go out and buy some flowers," he said, giving me a charged look. He opened a drawer from his desk and extracted an envelope, before passing it over at me. I accepted it. We both knew I will not be going for flowers tomorrow, but for the weapons supplier that the Manager so sweetly had given me info about. This was our code for "you should go out and buy a fucking bazooka if you need to." I nodded, already making a mental note to go out in the morning and buy all the weapons I would need to take Ortega out of commission. I had a small window of action before the contract was passed to another Assassin. I would need to act fast, probably by tomorrow night. The Manager sighed, crossing his fingers again. "Miss Ivanov, I meant to tell you before. The King ordered me to give you a message."

"I'm not interested in his messages," I said, shrugging and keeping my facial expression cold and under control. Inside I was curious about what the King wanted to tell me, but I shouldn't care. I wasn't completely stupid though. I knew I was playing a very dangerous game. One should not ignore our King, but I was willing to do it if that meant he would stay away from me.

"An order is an order nevertheless. He asked me to remind you that your presence is requested during the Venetian Games this year. He mentioned that it would please him if you play," the Manager's tone was clear. The King was ordering me to play. He probably even wanted me to win, but that was a satisfaction I would no longer give him. I smiled, shaking my head.

"If he wants me to play so bad then he can come and make me."

"Be careful what you wish for. Always remember the King is the Law," as if I could not know that. I nodded for the Manager's satisfaction and then got on my feet. I've said what I needed to say, my time was limited, and I should get going. I had a Colombian drug lord to kill and some flowers to buy. The Manager's voice stopped me by the door, "If I were you I will go invisible after the little party you are throwing tomorrow night. Your family is in town and eager to see you."

I froze and looked back at him.

"Nikolai and Dimitri?" The Manager nodded, staring at me with a very careful, impartial expression. Deep down I knew he hated my family almost as much as I did. Even more my big brothers, Nikolai and Dimitri, but he was the Manager after all, and he was always neutral.

"Your mom should arrive by the end of the week. They want to travel like a big, happy family to Venetia," I felt myself pale, but I straightened my back and nodded at the Manager.

"Thank you, Manager." For saving me. I added in my mind. He nodded in response.

"Always a pleasure Miss. Ivanov."

Chapter two

Five years ago

It's cold. So fucking cold. I know I can't go back, but I wish I would have stayed in my bed and never accepted Leah Mortensen's challenge. She mocked me during the entire day for my inability to kill the bird they ordered us to kill during class. This was only my first week at the Assassins Academy, but I've already won a reputation for being the laughstock of the Ivanov family. They always said that bloodthirst skipped a generation in the old families, but in my case I was the only one among my siblings that couldn't understand the meaning of killing just for sport. Nikolai and Dimitri, my older brothers, exceeded at everything. I'm sure they wouldn't have flinch if they were ordered to kill a bird. They probably would have gone into the forest and kill them all just for a good laugh. I hadn't been built like them. I hated this world. I HATED IT.

I couldn't go back though. If I returned to the girls' dormitories without a dead bird I was as good as dead. Kill or be killed, those were the rules of this world. The professors would send me back to my home, for my mother to deal with me and that was worse than killing a bird. She would probably whip me until I couldn't walk and then buy me a rabbit, or a dog, or who knows what, just for me to kill it whenever I started caring for it. She had it done it before and she would do it again. No, I couldn't go back. I needed to do this, once and for all.

It was midnight by the time I stopped in the middle of the forest and looked up at the trees canopy. Winter had turned the trees into large corpses with hands extended to the sky. At least that was how they looked to me, naked trunks without the green leaves of the summer. I kneeled over the snow and listened to the forest. It was so quiet in there. Shadows and wind, interlacing in whispers that touched my ears with cold kisses. The forest seemed to be dead, but I knew better. Twenty steps to the right I could heard a red fox sniffing around a rabbit hole, probably looking for her next kill, just like me. Fifteen steps to the left was a skunk, sleeping under the cover of dead leaves. For a moment I entertained the idea of taking the skunk with me and putting it inside Leah's bedroom just for fun, but then I thought Leah had no problem killing animals and I would be sealing that skunk's death with my stupidity. Finally I heard the sound of a sparrow, flying fast from tree to tree, as if it was scared of what was yet to come. I followed its sounds until I was right under the tree where the sparrow had built its nest. Slowly I moved, climbing the tree as softly as I could, sliding my body against the trunk to not make any sudden movement. When I was in position, right on top of it I saw its nest and I stopped. There, under dried sticks and golden straws where three little eggs. I blinked, suddenly feeling anxious and selfish. I was about to kill this bird only to prove my worth, but was it needed? Did I had to prove my strength by killing? Why? Why things had to be so black and white? Why I couldn't have been born in the normal world, where parents punished you for getting a bad grade and not because I hadn't been born with bloodthirst?

A large hand closed around the sparrow then. I froze in shock, trying to understand where he had come from. Crow. That's what the other kids called him. Tall and strong, with dark straight hair that fell over his shoulders. His white skin looked almost translucent against his black hair and black eyes. He always dressed in black coats and black pants, hence the reason everyone called him Crow. The crow that you see flying over your dead body. The emissary of death. They said all of that about him and then more. Everyone was afraid of him. Even the professors. Crow took the bird in his large hand and silently snapped its neck. The bird stopped moving, its wings falling limply at both sides of its body. Crow looked at me then, his black eyes zeroing in my face but looking straight through me.

"Why?" I asked him, hating the fact weak tears had leaked from my eyes. I was asking why he killed like he didn't care. Why was I imprisoned in this world? Why we had to do this? Why we played with death as if we had more rights over it than any other? Why? Why? Why? Crow didn't answer me. He took the eggs from the nest in one hand and put the dead bird in a pocket of his coat, before turning around and walking away. I hanged from the tree branches and jumped over the snow, following him. "You are despicable! How could you kill a bird? Birds only make this horrible world a better place! It's a crime to kill a bird, it's a crime to kill, period. I don't care what they say. This is wrong!"

Crow didn't even seem to hear me. He kept walking, his empty, black eyes fixed at nothing. It was like staring at a dead corpse that walked, moved and killed. A ghost. I hated him because of it. I hated him because everyone said he had been born for this world and I couldn't be more different than him. I jumped in front of him, cutting his way. Crow looked down at me again. This time his black eyes seemed to wake up. There were dark circles under his eyes and so much emptiness in the way he stared at me, but there, right in the middle of his pupils was a tiny flame of awareness. I groaned, hating him even more now than before. He had killed that bird and he hadn't even been conscious about it. Crow was twisted, as twisted as they came. I took him by his hand and gasped. Stone cold. His skin was stone cold. How long had he been walking unconsciously around the forest? Hours? It was so cold outside he could die of hypothermia. I shook my head and opened his hand until I could slide my fingers between his strong hold. Then I took the three eggs he had stolen and carefully walked to the rabbit hole the red fox had been sniffing. I left the eggs there, for the fox to find after we were gone. At least she would survive another day in this cruel winter thanks to Crow. Not that he would ever be aware of it. Or care for. I looked back at him, just to find him frozen, staring at the open palm I've touched. His black eyes were now totally awake and there was a new quality in them, an awareness I've never seen staring back at me. I walked back to him and took his cold hand between my hands again. Crow didn't move, but his black eyes focused on me and for the first time in my life I felt seen. Crow wasn't just looking through me. He was looking at me. Looking at the horrible weakness inside that made me so different of him. And for the first time I liked that someone could really see me.

"What is your name?" I asked him, but Crow stayed quiet, staring at me with an intensity that started making me nervous. I laughed under my breath, now very nervous. I was alone, in the middle of the forest with Crow. People said he already killed grown up men and even if I fought him I would never have a chance of winning against him. Crow was twice taller than me and a lot stronger. If he decided to kill me nobody will ever miss me. Hell, my mother probably would send him a thank you postcard from Hallmark. I sighed, finally admitting to myself that if I died it wouldn't be so terrible at all. I was not afraid of Crow, in any case he would be the first one I would go to whenever I decided I couldn't live in this world anymore. I intertwined my fingers with his and smiled at him, without any fear, without any secrets. He already knew I was weak and lame. What else he could see in my eyes that I haven't' seen when I looked at the mirror? "It's fine if you don't have a name. I'm Cassia. Cassia Ivanov."

"Cassia," he whispered my name to the wind and I loved the sound of my name in his lips. It sounded different when he said it. Beautiful and delicate. I blushed for some stupid reason and tried to take a step back, but Crow didn't let me go. His hand had closed like iron over my fingers and simply wouldn't let go. Crow started walking again, this time holding my hand. I followed him, walking by his side and blushing every single time his large coat touched my legs. We walked for what it felt like hours in the cold winter night. We didn't say anything, but Crow stared at me the entire time.

"Could you give me that dead bird in your pocket?" I asked him by the time the dawn started to appear by to the horizon. Crow only blinked and silently gave me the dead bird I've asked him for. The moment I got the dead sparrow in my hand I felt a tear fell from my left eye. Crow captured the drop with his finger, making me look at him in surprise. Nobody had ever touched me as much as he did that night. If you ignored of course the times when my mother and siblings hit me and punched me. Nobody had ever showed me so much mercy.

"No," he said, and I nodded. He was ordering me not to cry and for him I would do anything. How soon I've changed in the space of one night. I've thought I hated him, but Crow wasn't the ghost everyone thought he was. There was something different about him, something very dark that needed me. After that night I simply couldn't look away from him.

I gave the dead sparrow to Leah in my way to breakfast that morning and fell asleep over my desk right after seating down. My dreams were about a boy with dark eyes. A boy that made my name sound beautiful and delicate.

Chapter 3

Present day

From my position over the tower I could see the entire compound. To the north was the heavy guarded entrance, to the south was Ortega's mansion. The mansion was three floors high and square, like a brick that someone shitted and forgot to wipe clean. Bulletproof windows, anti-impact doors and groups of two guards watching every entrance and exit. The west area was full of Ortega's workers, or slaves. Women and men that owed him life debts and worked for him without payment. I could see them working under open tents, dressed in their undergarments while they worked with heated furnaces to cook meth. Twenty guards surrounded them, making sure they keep working. The east side was now calm, but it hadn't been like that half an hour ago. It had been a piece of cake to sneak in by the east entrance, especially since it was opened for the midnight trade Ortega's always prepared to supply his sellers. I moved in the shadows like a ghost, passing by his armed men and getting lost in the darkness that promised the large walls surrounding the compound. One good thing about drug dealers is that they were all terribly stingy when it came to paying the bills. They were not good tax payers and they all preferred to live without much electrical light, only enough water and crappy internet. A win-win situation for me, since my job didn't require getting me in the spotlight. Get it? An assassin in the spotlight! God, with this sense of humor was a wonder I didn't have many friends. Not to say any.

I was still waiting from my hidden place by the roof of the control tower when I saw a light turning on inside Ortega's mansion. The light came from the third window to the right, in the second floor. Weird. Ortega always went to bed right after supplying his sellers with new merch for the next day. His wife and children slept on the third floor and they were all good catholic people that knew not to be awake after midnight, when the devil goes out to dance under the moon. Just like me. Now I was curious to find out who had been naughty and would get coal chunks this Christmas. I jumped from the tower, feeling the wind hitting my back while I fell, staring at the night sky. It was in those moments when I loved being an assassin. Not because I loved the excitement of preying on my next kill. I knew of enough twisted assassins that got off from the feeling of hunting their victims, which I didn't. What I truly loved was the feeling of freedom that gave me exerting my body the way it had been trained to work. Danger and death were my eternal companions, and those fuckers were as addictive as any other drug that were out in the streets. I held myself from the flag pole that stuck out from the tower's walls, breaking my fall. I twisted my body around it, once, twice, holding the pole with my hands, before jumping in an acrobat arch and landing elegantly on my feet. My black, leather jumpsuit camouflaged me against the shadows, while I run fast and silently across the compound until I reached the mansion's grounds. I took a moment to kneel by the side of an old, rusty truck and draw the kusarigama I've carried at my back. Oh, the kusarigama. What a wonderful weapon. Light and lethal, with a small scythe and a blunt handle, followed by a short chain that ended in a beautiful spiked ball of iron. The moment I discovered the Japanese weapon it felt like love at first sight. The weight of the scythe was perfect for my close fighting style, but the chain and length gave me enough room of action to fight multiple enemies. I moved my head, sniffing the wind and tasting in my mouth the human scent of misery. If misery could smell I imagined it smelt like bodily fluids and rusty iron. Sweat, shit and piss. That was how Ortega's men smelled. I wrinkled my nose and slowly, oh so slowly, took three steps to my right. I circled the old truck before sneaking behind the first guard I had to put out of commission. Making good use of the concave blade of my kusarigama I drew a perfect smile on my victim. The incision was right below his left ear and then it opened in a semicircle that covered his entire neck up to his right ear. I dragged the dead body under the truck and pushed some dust over the drops of blood that escaped my control. I sniffed the air again and smiled satisfied when I realized I've made a good job of concealing the smell of the blood.

Then the real fun begun. I moved with my back to the wall of the mansion, following the steps of the next guard in my peripherals. This one was carrying a double barrel shotgun that hanged from his neck. Bad, bad fashion choice. I jumped in the air and landed swiftly in his back, before twisting the leather strap of his gun around his neck and giving it a nice squeeze. The guard pissed himself on his way down, not a clean way to go but every individual died in their own fashion and style. It was then when I heard boots coming by the corner. The steps were heavy and slow. I pushed my back against the wall and held the kusarigama by its chain. I stopped breathing, I stopped moving. I became one with the darkness. Then my victim appeared right in front of me, stopping in shock when he saw the dead body of my last kill. He opened his mouth to scream about the same time I threw the scythe to his head. It hit bullseye perfectly. The blade plunged right between his eyes, like a knife slicing through hot butter. He died in matter of seconds. I dragged both dead bodies to the shadows and once again covered my tracks with dust, until no one could see the blood. Flies would smell it sooner, too soon if you asked me. Assassins hated flies. The stupid insects were like neon signs that always directed people to dead bodies. Dumb, fucking flies. I shook my head and started climbing the draining pipes that filtered rain from the roof to the soil. Every movement made my body feel right, as if I'd been born to kill fuckers like Ortega. The anticipation of killing him almost made me hum happily. I stopped by the second floor and curiously hanged from window to window until I landed on the window sill that called my attention. I narrowed my eyes, trying to see through the dim light that came from a small lamp in the extreme corner of the bedroom. The bedroom was stupidly decorated with rainbows wallpapers and toys that covered the entire floor and then more. The overabundance of toys made me frown. What kid were they trying to bribe with so many barbies? And if that was the case, why didn't they pick up any other less traumatizing toy? I rolled my eyes and opened the window with a silent flip of my wrist. I moved my body in as quietly as it was humanly possible and moved inside the bedroom, walking around the minefield of barbies that filled the bedroom. I passed a nursery station and stopped in the shadows, my eyes fixated in the horrifying image in front of me.

I've seen a good amount of fucked up things during my twenty years of existence. I've seen twisted things, images that tortured my memories whenever I didn't expect them, but this, this was horrifying. This would stay with me until the day I died. I looked from my hidden place in the shadows, listening to the silent cries of the little girl that was pinned to the bed. I blinked, staring at the back of the man I knew was her father. Pedro Ortega. The man I've come to kill. I could see his sick expression of pleasure while the shadows morphed against the wall, playing for me the terrifying act he was performing on his daughter. I blinked, following with my eyes the sickening motions.

There are moments that define you. Small windows of time that change a person from what they were to what they will become. It's almost impossible to feel the change while it happens. Not until later a person can go back in time and realize what was the trigger that catapulted the change. For me, that moment defined who I would become. I had no choice in the matter. The moment chose me, and I welcomed my dark side with open arms. I felt the change in my blood, the temperature dropping until I was cold and numb. My thoughts vanished, darkening my mind and a black door of shadows opened behind my eyes. I was no longer whom I'd been. I transformed, like a chrysalis morphing into another creature. My dark side felt like an old armor. It covered every inch of my skin, it protected all my weak spots and gave me the strength of an army of men. What happened next were the acts of a monster and not of the person I used to recognize in the mirror. I changed in that night more than what I changed during twenty years of studying to become an assassin. And I loved it. I embraced it. Everyone has a dark side, a time bomb inside their heads waiting to be set and explode. When it finally explodes you realize we are all monsters, and the horrors you can't stand to watch in TV are exactly what your blood seeks. Don't let anyone fool you. You are a monster, you are waiting to wake up and when you do it, you will be stronger than anything you imagined.

The monster inside of me took pleasure out of killing Ortega. I will not sugarcoat this. I killed him with the iron mass of my kusarigama. I hit his face with it, taking him by surprise. The fucker whimpered once, but he didn't protest when I hit him again, until his nose fractured in a thousand of pieces and blood covered the walls. He died of asphyxia, drowned in his own blood. I smiled when he gargled, trying to fill his lungs with air while he slowly died watching me with unfocused eyes. When his heart stop beating I carved it out of his chest with my bare hands and cut it into slices all over the floor. I butchered him like a butcher would dismember a pig. First his head, then his arms and legs, and lastly his dick. There was a moment of haze in which I was no longer in control of my actions. I did more, much, much more to him but I can't remember what I felt or how I did it. I only stopped when there wasn't any piece left of his skin to cut or slice. The images were fragmented and the sounds watery, as if I was listening underwater. It wasn't until later when I realized I was bathed in blood and my eyes and ears were covered by Ortega's dried blood. The rainbows on the walls were no longer visible. I've painted everything in red, from the walls, to the carpet, to the barbie dolls on the floor. I turned to leave, still not completely under control. Visions and sounds were confusing, as if I was observing everything from afar. I've walked a couple of steps when a small hand closed around my slippery, bloody hand. I froze, looking down.

There, looking up at me as if I was a heaven-sent angel was a little girl. Hazel eyes and long brown hair. Her rounded cheeks were still full and pink, her expression innocent and caring even after everything she had suffered that night. She squeezed my hand so tight that I could feel stings and needles all over it. I shook my hand, looking away from her and moving ahead, but she didn't let me. The girl hugged herself to my legs and wouldn't let go. It cut me wide open. I've never felt something like it. I believed I was experimenting her gratitude, but there was more, a human kind of affection that I couldn't name or catalogue. She bit her lips, staring at me with so much gratitude in her big, hazel eyes.

"Take me with you, please, please I beg you," she whispered her begs, almost as if she knew that something bad will happen if I got caught by the same people that protected her and her house. In her own innocent way, she was trying to protect me. She was smart, way too smart for her young age. I shook my head. It was impossible what she was asking from me. I was an assassin. My world and her world should never mix together.

"No," I told her, taking her by her tiny shoulders and pushing the girl away from me. She rolled on the floor awkwardly. Her white sleeping dress turned red, covered by her father's blood. The father I've killed. How much damage that pig had inflicted to that little girl for her to beg me to take her away? I shook my head and walked forward...only to be stopped by a clumsy little body that kneeled in front of me. The little girl looked up, her infant cheeks covered in blood marks. Her brown hair was messy and stained in blood. Everything was stained in blood, even the roof and the exit window.

"Please, please, please. If you take me I will be yours, forever. I will do whatever you ask, I will never fight you, I will be your slave, but please take me from here. Please, please, please..."

"No."

"I'm smart, I learn fast. I talk a lot, but I can be quiet if you say so. I can't stay here, the things they will make me do...please, take me away..." she begged me with her eyes and my heart, or that minuscule piece of muscle inside of my chest hurt. I had no idea why it hurt, I just know it did. The more I looked at her the more I saw myself in her. I knew what kind of horrors a little girl could experience when her family was as twisted as mine. If I let her in this place a new boss will take control over the compound and his first order will be to kill Ortega's entire family or maybe even worse. As I've said before, there were worse things than death out there. But what else could I do? My world was even worse than this world. If I took her with me she will be subjugated to my enemies and my duties. I was an assassin. My family wanted me dead. The King of assassins wanted me for reasons I couldn't even admit in the privacy of my own mind. She would be in constant danger if I took her. She could end dead.

She will have you to protect her, said that little voice inside of my head and I frowned again, thinking way too much into this dilemma. I had enough problems on my own. Taking a child was a mistake I shouldn't even consider. I was still pondering pros and cons when the sound of the alarm alerted everyone in the camp there was an intruder. Once again, the circumstances dictated my path that night. It felt as if everything that happened had been planned for me beforehand. As if this was some kind of joke to test me beyond my limits. I looked down to the little girl and felt a strange reckoning. She had been put in my way and I had no other choice but to take her with me. For better or for worse, I've made my decision to save her by killing her father and now she was my responsibility. I kneeled and motioned for her to get closer. She did it right away, breathing hard, as if she had run miles instead of taking three little steps. I moved, given her my back and taking her by her arms. I crossed her stick thin arms around my neck and stood. The girl weight nothing. She felt like a ghost at my back, a companion to death and danger. In silence I run to the window, moving in the shadows and taking a peek of the situation around us. Guards were running everywhere around the compound, they were coming our way. I counted three bulky men opening the doors of the mansion's first floor. We couldn't escape if we touched the ground, I could run, but the girl will slow me down and her white dress was too pale to pass inadvertently. Taking a long breath, I twisted my body out of the window and start climbing the walls as softly and silently as I could. The girl didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't make a sound. I gained the roof in a couple of seconds, just to freeze when two guards pointed their guns at me.

"Stop! Puta de mierda!" screamed one of the guards at me. Now, I didn't know Spanish that well, but I knew the universal tone of an insult. And I was woman enough to admit I didn't like being called names. I rolled my eyes to the sky and kept walking, while slowly unsheathing two daggers from my belt. One of the guards went as far as pulling the trigger of his Colt, but I moved faster, throwing the dagger to his forehead with one hand while I threw the other weapon to the other guard's throat. That will teach him not to say ugly things ever again. I smirked and then I morphed into the darkness, running from roof to roof while the little girl silently cried on my shoulder. It might have been my imagination, but while I run I caught sight of her face for just a second and found her expression to be one of sincere happiness. The little girl was crying tears of joy.

I smiled at that while we escaped together.