Page 7 of Tethered Souls
“What?” I ask grumpily. “I don’t get why assassins are looked down on if we put up our own hits. I mean, we get paid for killing people. The time we spend killing our own people is time we could get paid better for killing someone else’s people. It’s just good business sense.”
He shakes his head as we enter the hall. The door clicks firmly behind us, locking shut. “That’s not what’s funny. It’s the fact that you think there is a numberyour dadwould be willing to accept to try to kill Varius for, and I amreallystressing the try.”
“Well, if he dies, it’ll be a win either way,” I mumble as I cover us in a magical shield that hides us from human eyes. The hall is empty, everyone minding their own business, as you do when you hear gunshots next door, but there are cameras near the elevator and stairs.
“Not going to happen. Marrying Lou off to the Shadows will bring in more revenue than what you have in your bank account, especially since you spend so much of it on porn.”
“Okay, one, romance novels aren’t porn. That’s erotica. And two, I’ve not had any dick in –” I hold up my fingers to count all the time I’ve been alive. Yanking open the door to the stairwell, I say, “Twenty-seven years. I need to get off somehow.”
He snorts. “I’d tell you you could try not scaring all the men who are into you, but there’re no men who are in to you.”
I look at him dryly. “Thanks for the reminder, bestie.”
He grins. “You’ll have more fun with yourself anyway. Most men are really shit at it.”
“Speaking from personal experience?”
“From the men I fuck. Not me, obviously.”
“Uh huh.”
As we step outside, my humor fades. A little girl with her teddy bear has been left screaming inside the slide. There’s no one in sight, and the rage I feel for whoever abandoned her makes my blood boil.
But I can’t kill everyone.
I can’t protect everyone either.
The world is simply too fucking cruel.
So I ignore her, knowing that the threat is over, that she’s safe despite her fear, and instead, I make my way over to our target.
Dayne places the duffel bag down on the ground beside the boy’s body, then unzips it. I grab the healing wand out of its outside compartment as he lifts out the last item in the bag we’ve yet to use: the corpse of a six-year-old child who died in a school shooting three days ago. Our client will push for no autopsy, wanting to put this behind her as quickly as possible, and Dayne’s magic has kept his body fresh.
He has the same fragile build as our target. The same hair. A similar gunshot wound to the head, though not quite exact. I shot our target through his right lobe and missed his brainstem, giving him a chance to survive. But the corpse in Dayne’s arms… No healing magic could’ve saved him. Nor any of the seven others who died in his school because some asshole parent let their son get access to their assault rifles.
Placing the wand at our target’s temple, I reduce the swelling in his brain and close the wound. The bullet will be removed later by an actual healer as a wand isn’t powerful enough to replace surgery.
After stabilizing him, we swap their clothes, then bundle him into the duffel bag. We carry him between us, away from the park just as the sirens sound.
“You good with sorting this?” I ask Dayne as we make it to our cars. He knows what I’m asking. Stay with the kid. Make sure he’s okay. Get him a new family, a new identity. Transfer half our payment into a bank account for him to access when he’s eighteen.
“Yeah,” Dayne says as he takes the bag completely, then slides it onto the backseat of his Ford Transit. “You go and save your sis.”
My lips tight, I nod at him. “Thanks. I owe you one,” I say as I open the door of my own car.
“You owe me six, but who’s counting?”
A small smile fluttering at my mouth, I shove my key into the ignition and take off. As I race towards home, all the horror stories I’ve heard about Varius, though, bang in my skull, and that smile’s soon gone. My foot grows heavier on the gas.
Whatever it takes, I won’t let my little sister marry that monster.
Three
HER
My adrenaline pumping hard, I enter the pompous two-story mansion I grew up in, its decoration screaming shady politician rather than infamous assassin. Father likes to host parties here, likes to pretend he’s Bruce Wayne because who would ever accuse Bruce of killing a bus full of children just so it isn’t obvious Robin was the target? Granted, all those extra kids cost, but being greedy is the least of his sins.
“Stefaan!” I yell as I make my way to the grand double stairs – crisp white marble with deep-red mahogany rails. His study is on the second floor, and he’s most likely in it.
