The guy in front of me was dancing.

He shimmied a little to the left, to get a strike in there, but he failed miserably.

Yup. He was definitely dancing.

I told him so, while slicing his shoulder open with my knife, and his face twisted up into an ugly sneer and he spat at me, slapping a hand over his shoulder angrily. He dashed forward to strike me, but I darted away, light as a butterfly, and he stumbled, just a little bit.

But, as the saying goes, a little bit can turn into a lot.

(I don't know- is that a real saying? It was now.)

I slipped to his side, and kicked him, sending him clumping heavily to the ground, leaking blood everywhere. He groaned as I knelt next to him, putting my face right up to his, even though his breath smelled like a dead animal. "Thank you, sir. For being so easy, I mean."

He spat in my face again, or tried to, and I pulled back just in time. I lifted my leg up and placed my foot directly on his chest, almost ceremoniously. He glared and glared and eventually I just rolled my eyes and sliced his throat in a long, thin line like a sick sort of second smile.

And then I stepped off him, cleaned my knife on my shirt, and continued on my way, not even bothering to do anything about the body. The city police will probably find it and throw it in the river, ignoring it like they do all of my kills. That's what happens when the city takes an interest in a seasoned assassin and he comes in the night and kills every member of the city's government silently and quickly, so that in the morning there's no one left to run the city. The new leaders knew better now. They ignored me, and I didn't mess with them.

It was simple, really.

But, anyway. About the last kill? It wasn't even my mission. He was just in my way, and so after completing my mission, I went back and let off some steam in an actual fight. I rarely ever got to fight anymore; it was always just come in and kill without waiting for the victim to get over their initial surprise. It was a nice relief to finally put my fighting skills to use, even though I hung back a little, to make it last longer.

The actual mission, however, was this guy named Larry Morton. He'd been inspecting the recent murders in the neighboring city, and he had to be disposed of immediately, obviously. I took him while he was in the shower; just a quick grab and slice. Same old, same old.

Contrary to popular belief, I am not a cold-blooded murder. I'm just an easy-going guy with a disturbing occupation. I'm actually pretty nice, on my off days.

Hah. That was a joke, by the way. Assassins don't get off days.

I walked at a leisurely pace down the street, wiping my hands on my black shirt. The street was mostly empty save for a few stragglers, but I ignored them, because they didn't matter. None of them did, and neither did I. We were all just pawns, pawns in Aristor's dark game, and I was his knight, slaughtering whomever he desired.

The house was rising up over the darkening horizon, an inkblot against the navy blue of the sky. The house looked like a castle, almost, with its jagged edges and Victorian design, created specifically for the owner. The front lawn was intimidating in the daytime, ominous at night, which warded off any curious investigators from the house, but its reputation did the rest. Everyone within a twelve mile radius of Stonier, from Alecross to Askren, knew that that house was owned by Aristor Shyring, and that meant that it was the home of the most ruthless killer in history.

And he had been, once. But then he stopped, for a reason he never told anyone, not even me, and then he found a heir to his endless fortune and to his ruthlessness, and he trained him to be a cold-blooded murder, a dark, villainous assassin, without a conscience, without a heart.

That person was me.

The way he tells it, he saved me. He said I was living in a home with an abusive father, and he scooped me up one day when I was three years old, the day my father almost killed me, and would have, if it wasn't for him, and he took me to his house and raised me as his son, and as his student.

I stepped onto the front porch. The lights were off in the house, meaning Aristor was out somewhere, probably in someone else's house, because Aristor never went to sleep for the night until I was back from my assignment. I unlocked the door and slipped quietly inside, as to not disturb the beautiful silence.

The living room looked like something from a cheesy horror film, with its dark luxurious design and wicked elegance. I'm pretty sure Aristor designed it with that thought in mind. I sighed and dropped into one of the (many) sofas, kicking my feet up onto the crystal glass coffee table. I didn't bother turning on the lights; Aristor had trained me to love the darkness, or at least feel comfortable in it.

The way he trained me, though, wasn't very moralistic, if I do say so myself.

When I was ten, Aristor found out how terrified I was of the dark. Usually I slept with the lights on in my room, but Aristor came one night after I had fallen asleep and turned it off, thinking I must've left it on accidentally. I woke up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, and I woke up to darkness, to pitch black, filled with the monsters and ghosts my mind conjured up. I had started screaming and crying, begging Aristor to bring back the light, and he had, running up the stairs and flicking on the light, but he was furious. He had slapped me, and grabbed me by the hair and locked me in the basement with the light off and my wrists bound so I wouldn't be able to turn it back on. I wouldn't have been able to whether he bound me or not; I was too paralyzed with terror.

I don't remember much about what happened down there, but Aristor did the same thing every night, until one night I was able to untie my wrists and pick the lock on the door, all in total darkness. I remember not turning the light on, not even after I had untied my wrists, because I wanted to show him I was fine in the darkness, that I had finally overcome my fear.

And I had, I guess. I was comfortable in the darkness now, even though there were some times that I was struck with this unexplainable fear, deep inside of me, like when I was alone in a dark house. Like right now.

There was a large thud, coming outside. I stiffened and got to my feet, my eyes locked on the window looking out over the expansive front lawn. I quietly slipped forward and eased open the door, my knives already out, my fingers gripping the hilts with a practiced ease.

I stepped onto the porch.

My eyes took in the dark sky, the deep green lawn, the rising black gate on the other side. And, a crumpled, dark figure at the very center, its face turned away.

I approached it cautiously, angling my body to the side as I stepped forward, knives raised. My hunter's instinct was already out, replacing the easy-going, charming Sebastian. I stood over the figure, waiting.

It was shaking, very subtly, so subtle I barely noticed it. It was covered in a thin black blanket, made out of some kind of swathy material, and I pushed it away, revealing its body.

It was naked and very obviously male, pale and slender and wiry. It did not seem all the way human, though it had a human body, and I could see its backside, a ravaged mess of dark red wetness and torn flesh.

A Fallen.

I'd heard about them before; winged people living in the sky who committed a horrible crime and were stripped of their wings and tossed out of the sky to be stranded on the ground like a human. But this one didn't look like a criminal. He looked like a vulnerable, beaten boy, bleeding all over my lawn.

"Hey." I poked his shoulder and he let out a strangled wail, turning to face me.

I froze.

He was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. His hair, matted and dirty as it was, was dark red and fell languidly into his gorgeous seafoam green eyes. His nose was narrow and pointed, his mouth a thin red slash across his white face, and he looked up at me with fear and pain and hopelessness.

I swallowed. "Hey."

I had to help him. There was no way he would survive if I didn't. He looked like he was seventeen or so, like me, just a boy, and he needed my help. I would die before I left him alone out here, helpless and dying.

I put away my knives and knelt down, holding out my arms to carry him. He flinched and tried to move away, but he stopped, trembling with pain and fear. I scooped his slender, broken body into my arms and lifted him easily, wincing at his cry of pain. He whimpered, struggling in vain to escape my arms, warning growls coming from deep in his throat.

Blood stained my shirt as I carried him inside, but I ignored it, taking him up the stairs into my room. I set him on my bed, turning him so that he was on his belly, and went to get bandages and healing stuff.

When I came back, he was crying, his eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking down his face. I flicked the light on, and brought a chair up to his side, dropping all the medical stuff there.

"Hey," I said, starting on his back, which looked worse in the light. I could see the torn, bloody flesh where they sliced off his wings and I swallowed hard. "What's your name, Fallen?"

He didn't answer for a long moment, and then he whispered, his voice wavering, "Kace."

"Well, Kace," I said, my own voice as calm and collected as I could manage. "You're going to be fine. So you can stop getting my pillow all wet and dirty with your crying."

Kace glared furiously at me.

When I finished bandaging his entire back, I gently eased him into a sitting position so that I could adjust the bandaging wrapped around his chest and back. He watched with those seafoam eyes of his, his expression guarded, as my hands lightly brushed the bare skin of his chest, tightening the white bandages. He winced.

When I was done, I guided him back onto his stomach so his wounds wouldn't be touched, and covered his exposed body with a blanket, ignoring his ashamed, furious face.

I had just turned off the light and was backing out of the room, when he made a sound, like a tiny cry, and I turned back. His eyes met mine, almost glowing in the moonlight slanting across him from the window. He shifted onto his side and laid his head on my pillow.

"Why did you help me?" he said through gritted teeth.

Why did I help him? I knew I had to help him; if I hadn't I would've been out of my mind with guilt and self-hatred, but why? Why would I feel like that?

I had no idea, but I think I would, soon.

***

~written by reapersaretheangels~

Okay, that was really fun to write.  Everything should be coming together in a few chapters of so, like with everyone meeting and stuff. That'll be fun. PurpleGirl847 and I will probably write those crossover chapters together, maybe.

Anyway, thanks for reading; I know this chapter was pretty long. Hope you liked it, though! :)