Page 7 of Black Castle

“He’s kind of pretty.” She shrugs as they push through the door. “Like a doll.”

Zev can’t help scoffing. Being called a doll is a measured insult. He is no doll. He is the big bad wolf. He is anarchy. He is war…he is death. His pale and fragile appearance just happens to be a durable mask, one he nurtures with devotion.

Through the transparent door, he watches her go, every gentle step of her echoing her softness and fragility. And he can’t help it when an unfamiliar hunger pulses in his veins, a torment in his mind.

His fingers itch, his body trembling with the raw starvation, the need to bleed, to break, to destroy.

But this isn’t what he came to America for. His purpose here is not to hunt for a new game. He came to tighten loose ends. And he will be gone in an hour.

He settles back into his chair and takes another sip of his coffee. The unskilled assassin is still patiently waiting for perfect timing. A sinister smile graces Zev’s lips. He better save this man’s time and get it done with.

He glances around the room and finds that the counter is currently deserted, and the rest of the patrons are engrossed in whatever they are doing on their phones, some reading a book.

How perfect the timing is. No one will see him enter the restroom. And hopefully, no one will see him come out, too.

He runs his fingers through his frosty hair, then stands, pushing the chair backward.

He veers for the restroom, his steps slow and unhurried. Though nearly soundless, Zev feels it, the assassin’s boot against the hardwood floor almost immediately.

He scoffs at the killer’s predictability. For a hired man, he really lacks skills. If he isn’t bound to die today, Zev would have taught him a few tricks to this game.

As Zev reaches the restroom, the door swings shut behind him.

His hand hovers over his belt’s buckle, fingers grazing the cold metal. Then he hears it—footsteps and a door creaking.

Zev waits for him to use the poor skill that probably took him years to hone. And indeed, the man believes himself to be in the lead. But Zev didn’t spend years in this game just to be killed by a sloppy assassin with a stupid gun. So he moves before the assassin can.

All it takes is a brutal elbow to the ribs, the sound of bones cracking, and air being knocked out of the lungs.

The assassin staggers backward, but a lithe step is more than enough as Zev is crossing the room, on him, twisting his wrist, forcing his gun against his throat.

A clear struggle, a two-minute choked sound, then a quick, efficient neck snap.

The gun hit the floor with a clatter. A loud thump followed the body’s impact.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Zev crouches before the man, his head slightly tilted.

This is not enough for him, though. You see, that redhead from earlier already ignited the hunger he thought he had chained before coming down here. So, slipping a hand into his pocket, his switchblade whispers free, gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights, ready to carve into a skin.

By the time he is done, the man isn’t recognizable anymore. Blood pulls across the tiles, thick and black under the dull glow.

A satisfactory sigh escapes his lips as he watches his perfect craft; gaping throat, torn tendon, splintered fingers, and broken fibula. And he can’t seem to get down from the high he got from the mere sound of blade tearing through the flesh, the warm splatter of blood against his pale skin, the smell of death. He can never really get enough when it comes to destruction.

Rising to his feet, he walks to the sink to wash off his blade and hands. And every single aspect of the action is performed with such poise, as if he didn’t just take someone’s life in the restroom of a tiny coffee shop.

Done, he fixes his cuff, then runs a hand down the waves of icy hair which is braided halfway on one side, left to spill free on the other side.

Glancing one more time at his masterpiece, he exits, returning to his table like a man that just simply went to relief himself.

The counter is still missing the bartender.

Zev scans the room. A couple have departed, leaving those absorbed in books or screens. No one even hears his footsteps. No one realizes he left a while ago. No one knows what he has done. And even if it turns out that someone knows, he has a way of making people and things disappear. With a snap of his fingers, this coffee shop and the people inside it can easily become a forgotten memory.

Sitting back gently on his chair, he lifts his cup to his hand. It feels cold, but he takes a sip, anyway. Ready to go, his hand slips into his pocket, fishing out a white handkerchief. He wipes the body of the ceramic cup, erasing traces of his presence.

He returns the handkerchief to his pocket and pulls out his wallet. A door creaks, slicing through the quiet room as the barista finally exits from the backroom.

Zev’s fingers brush over crisp notes, and without counting, he pulls out more than enough for even a hundred cups of coffee, placing them gently on the table. His action causes the barista to raise a shocked brow, but the smart kid doesn’t utter a word.

---