Page 2 of The Sinner and the Scholar
Only three types of people would look at him the way I am—fools, psychopaths, or someone more dangerous than both.
He gives a negligent wave of pudgy fingers, and his two henchmen skirt the booth and come at me—one from either side.
Game on. My hands whip out and grab a handful of henchman testicles. Thumping music drowns out their cries of agony as I squeeze, wrench, and damn near castrate.
They double over, conveniently bringing their chests within range.Don’t mind if I do.Removing their weapons is like taking candy from a baby. Once I have their guns, I push the magazine release on each, remove the live rounds, then toss the empty hunks of metal.
I do all this with my eyes glued to the kingpin.
“Psycho bitch.” He jumps up, but his fat belly knocks his table, sending cocaine flying. He’s too big, half-cut, and concerned with cigar ash now smoldering on his shirt.
I climb on the table and push the lit cigar past his gaping lips. Then I hold my hand over his mouth to keep that burning fucker inside until smoke puffs from his nose. Finally, his survival instincts knock out his shock, and he reaches for me. It’s no use. I’ve already drawn his pistol and have it pointed at his head. This one, I leave fully loaded.
“You’re in my seat,” I repeat.
The girls scramble out, allowing me space to sit next to the man and let go of his mouth. He coughs, spits out the smoldering, soggy cigar, and it lands in one of the empty shot glasses. His cheeks tremble with rage as he turns toward me.
A slow sigh releases from my lips. Now it’s going to get messy. The moment his hand leaves that table and heads my way, I smash the butt of his gun into his nose. Blood spurts.
“You had to keep pushing, didn’t you?” I grumble.
He covers his face and whimpers.
“Fucking bitch,” he spits at me. “Whore.”
I grin wildly. “Say it again. I dare you.”
His eyes widen. “You’re insane.”
“Close, but no”—I glance at the brown stub in the shot glass—“cigar.”
“What?”
“I’m impatient, asshole. That’s what I am. Now get out.”
He scrambles his sweaty, awkward, and blood-stained body out of the booth. I set his gun on the table and sweep the club with my gaze. As expected, eyes dart away. Whether security is afraid, ignorant, or biding their time, I don’t care. My real target will be here any minute.
The kingpin blabbers something about me paying for what I’ve done.
“Blah, blah. I’m going to hell.” I shoo him away. Just in time, too, because the man I’m after walks into the club.
Tall, dark, and possibly demon-possessed. Outwardly, he looks like your everyday Wall Street wanker. Inwardly, he’s swarming with evil and sin. I glance at a picture on my cell phone and confirm he matches my mark. He has the same appearance, give or take the dark circles under his eyes.
Last week the Hildegard Sisterhood received a complaint from a wife concerned about her husband’s change in behavior. Her local church ignored her, the local diocese ignored her, so she found us.
Only because we wanted to be found. Our supernatural ghost-hunting team ad in the paper is a front for our secret, centuries-old organization. We get a few nut jobs calling in, but occasionally, we get something worthwhile. They don’t need to know we’ve only just discovered demons are real.
With the pistol on the table and my bag next to it, I nab the hundred-dollar bill and stuff it into my bra. Then I stretch my arms lengthwise along the back of the booth and study my mark. I need to work out if he’s genuinely possessed or if this is a false alarm so I can return to my regular assassin’s schedule.
He goes to the bar and orders a drink he doesn’t touch. It’s not long before he notices everyone in the club is looking at me. Dark eyes take me in, see me in my skimpy and lonesome glory, and then he makes tracks my way.
Some poor fool tries to warn him about me, but he ignores them and snakes through the dance floor. The dancers don’t part. For a moment, he’s lost in the teeming, writhing bodies. It’s exactly what I imagine hell would look like—when I eventually end up there. If I squint, it’s easy to pretend they’re not smiling but screaming. That’s not desire in their eyes but agony. They climb over each other to escape but go nowhere, doomed to suffer an eternity in this cesspit.
I shake off the notion just as my mark resurfaces on my side of the sunken dance floor. Something is wrong. He moves jerkily as though unfamiliar with his body. His shirt buttons are mismatched, his tie is stained, and sweat darkens his collar.
If he’s what I think he is, the pistol will be useless, so I leave it behind, pick up my clutch and meet him before my stolen throne.
“Let’s take this outside.” I force a come-hither smile and drag my fingers down his chest. A sour and sickly scent wafts into the air.
