Page 2 of Curse of the Bride Assassin

When we get to the door, Dad doesn’t bother to knock. He kicks it in, in true dramatic vampire fashion, and shouts, “We’re here to murder Keith Winton-Dumbass.”

The moron is high as fuck, his eyes glasses over as he gets his dick sucked by one of his lady friends while the other does a line of coke off his glass coffee table. She’s cutting it with a credit card—how stereotypical.

“It’s Winton-Daley,” he scoffs. “Get the fuck out of here. I’m occupied.”

My Dad sighs, then focuses on the girls, manipulating them telepathically to exit the scene without making a fuss. We aren’t about killing innocents. As they walk out of the apartment, I get a view of his wet dick… It’s small. Like micro-small. It’s a shame, really. That poor woman must have felt like she was sucking on a Ring Pop.

He finally realizes that he’s about to die, and jumps up from the couch, stumbling as he pulls a gun from the holster under his jacket. He fires it at Dad, who doesn’t even flinch when the bullet rips through his chest. Dad digs it out, then wipes it on his pant leg and pockets it. His chest slowly starts to repair itself as his laughter rings through the room.

“I’m keeping that one for the collection,” he quips to me. “I don’t think I have this type of bullet yet.”

As I previously said, my mom was crazy-town, and like attracts like. So Dad is just as insane and has no filter just like her. He really does have a collection of bullets people shot at him. And he shows them to anyone who wants to see.

“There’s no need for your gun, because regular bullets can’t kill us.” I roundhouse kick the gun out of his hand, and his face blanches.

Just accept that you’re going to die so the clean up is easier,I telepathically coax him. Mental manipulation is my favorite power. My second is my banshee scream. I telepathically tell dad to put his ear plugs in, and let it rip.

“Fuck you, cunts!” Daley screams. He tries to punch me, but it’s a half ass move. He eventually drops to his knees, holding his head as his eyes and nose bleed. The panic in his eyes is beautiful, and he has no clue what’s happening. I tackle him to the ground wrenching his arm into a submission hold.

“Come on, Keith. Settle down and accept death,” I calmly croon. “We know all about your con. Marrying rich women and then becoming a serial widower… That’s so uncool.”

He struggles, trying his hardest to shift into his dragon form. I’m assuming he can’t because he’s on a shift-blocker. Dragon’s tempers make controlling their shift difficult. It’s doubtful he took the risk of all the human widows he married accidentally finding out they married a dragon shifter.

His skin slightly heats, but he’s still rattled from my wail.

You’re going to stop fighting me, and accept your death,I telepathically manipulate him.

“I’ll give you triple what you’re being paid!” he cries.

“Nope,” Dad boringly draws. “I was going to be generous and let you pick your death, even though you’re a scumbag, but then you called us cunts. That’s a derogatory, toxic term. You’re part of the problem, bro.”

Keith sobs like a fucking baby.Ew.

“I say we slit his throat with our Damascus steel dagger, make it look like a murder, and then raid his dragon hoard,” I tease to get a rise out of him.

Dragons are possessive over their treasure hoards. Even though I manipulated him into being immobilized, his eyes still flicker with a dim fire.

Dad pretends to think about it. Slitting throats is his preferred way to kill his targets. “Anything for the best daughter ever.”

He kneels next to me and with a precise sweep across Keith’s neck, he’s dead.

“Another hit in the books,” Dad sing-songs as he gets up, like he does after every successful job.

“Families that slay together stay together,” I reply.

Mom used to say that line, but now I do. At least until she comes home…

“Come on, let’s watch our show,” he excitedly blurts on our way out. “I have some A negative blood in the fridge for us. You know how hard that is to find.”

I give him credit. I won’t be able to ever feel excitement again, not authentically, until I find Mom.

2

DELILAH

We walk through the front door of our brownstone, and I can smell his presence before he even emerges from the shadows. Male human, not powerful, about forty to forty five years old with a O positive blood type. A smoker with high blood pressure, and someone who eats a lot of fast food. His blood smells gross, like overused french fry oil.

“Dad, someone is here,” I warn him. He has a better sense of smell than I do, especially because he’s over 500 years old, but I can’t help myself once I get into predator mode.

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