Page 10 of Soulless Deeds

Two pairs of footsteps shuffled at the entrance behind me. Without sparing a glance, I called out. “We’re closed.”

Ignoring my command, steps loomed nearer, and frustration rose at the blatant disrespect.

Turning, I came face to face with muscle men one and two. In all the mayhem, I’d completely forgotten about their existence.

“Where’s the ambassador?”

“Let me take you to him,” I said. And without another word, I led them to the balcony and pointed to the burning lump of flesh formerly known as Appleberry.

“What type of meat is that? Where is he?” muscle man two asked.

My gut lurched at his statement. The members of Ludus Maximus were prime fighters with elite physical prowess. Brains, on the other hand… Most of them didn’t have one.

I couldn’t believe I had to deal with that shit. I wanted to fall into bed—better yet, fall between a woman’s legs. My eye twitched from another thing that fucking girl ruined. Wrath festered through my nerves, over my limbs, until my frame was trembling in response.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, boys. This hereisAppleberry.” They staggered, eyes bouncing from me to the ashy hunk of meat at their feet. “Now, you have two options here. You can either leave and liveorstay and die.”

The last word triggered their defence mechanism, both dropping into a fighting stance. I huffed, lifting the bottle that remained in my hand. I guzzled a fair amount to give them time to reconsider. When they remained in their retrospective positions, I shrugged.

Muscle man one lunged and I easily dodged, booting his ass in the process. Brushing my shoulder off, I said, “These clothes are designer, gentlemen. Please refrain from touching the expensive merchandise.”

They ignored my comment and herded me against the rail. With one last chug, I smashed the glass bottle and held up a jagged shard as a makeshift weapon.

Their fighting expertise were evident as they attacked with cohesive coordination. Unfortunately, I loathed uniformity and general rigidness. Life was fluid, and you weren’t living if you didn’t have a little bit of unpredictability.

I swirled and danced around their bulkier forms, their rising aggression flowing into sloppier movements.And I am considered the drunk one?

“Last chance, boys,” I said as one got a hold of my singlet, ripping the material down the middle.

I bared my teeth. Play time was over. I attacked. The offensive strategy took them off guard and I was able to shove one over the barrier, sending him careening to his death far below.

I didn’t have time to register his scream before I was punched square in the jaw. Staggering back, I tripped over Appleberry’s corpse, his charred form staining my tailored pants.

Damn it! This one-hour meeting has turned into the day from fucking hell.

My Variant ignited as I yelled at the last remaining muscle man. His palms raised to cover his ears. I utilised the distraction to jump and plunge the broken fragment of glass into his thick neck. Bright ruby red spurted in all directions as he gurgled and choked on his own life force.

My tailored pants were layered in ash and blood, my eight-hundred-dollar fishnet singlet was destroyed and despite the copious amounts of alcohol, I was stone-cold sober. I knew exactly who to blame.

SPENCER

With a chef’s apron over my front and cooking flour layered on my cheeks, I raced down the street and burst through the back of the closed Dingy Inn.

The name was apt. It was early afternoon, and my siblings had commandeered the cheap, derelict tavern that lay on the outskirts of Serpents Row. Close enough if I called for help and far enough to escape if discovered.

Psycho and Tanner stood behind the bar, helping themselves to beer on tap, while Micah and Emerson sat on the opposite side of the counter in deep conversation.

Everyone stilled at my entrance, four sets of eyes roaming over my dishevelled state as I let my Variant filter from my system. Light brown tresses reverted to long auburn strands, falling around my mask as it stretched and moulded back into my own.

“What’s wrong with her face?” Psycho asked around the lit cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Tanner shrugged, his copper skin glowing in the dim light. “That’s her killer face.”

Psycho huffed, smoke rising amongst his words. “Sheesh, that’s a wicked gleam in her eye.”

“That’s not her kill face, that’s her sex face,” Emerson said.

Tanner tilted his head. “Hmm, you’re right, they always look similar. Who is it this time?” A wayward image of Echo passed in thought, and my lips lifted.

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