James Wordsworth took the surname of a poet mainly because he already had one: Coleridge. Andrew Joyce kept the same theme only his surname was simpler: Jones. I had no idea what their story was or why they had gone to numerous lengths to get in here.
Until I’m outside the castle where they’ve gone for a smoke, the fumes as drawing as they’re toxic.
The shadows hold me, like they’ve done since I was twelve and my aunt deemed me old enough to enjoy the pleasures which she undertook.
I learned stealth and how to hide in plain sight, needing to find a reprieve from hands that wandered rather than asked or cared or loved. I learned how to build a box inside my head and store all the things there that could’ve created a monster.
I should’ve been the things that nightmares were made of. The stuff shrinks analysed and wrote theses on.
I was none of that.
“What do you think?” Joyce is restless. His hands twitch. “No one’s questioned it. Her drink or her room?”
His friend shakes his head, inhales something that has more than tobacco in it. “We can’t get her in her room. And fucking her would leave a trace. I know we’ve done that before but this is too high profile, man.”
I wait. Every muscle is now tense, ready to spring.
“We’re being picked up at three am. We’ll be on some island a few hours after that. No one will ever know what we do. Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about it here though. This fucking place probably has ghosts that report back.”
I scale the wall silently. The mic I’m wearing will have told Murray everything he needs to know about the three am pick up. Now I have just one job.
I use the ledge above them to move to the other side, knowing they’ll turn right back into the castle and back to the banqueting hall that will be for tonight without speeches or music or dance.
“I think we should fuck her.” Joyce puts out his cigarette.
“I don’t see how we’ll get that close. But we can get to her food or drink. No one suspects.”
They don’t suspect me either. I drop quickly, my hands automatically going around Joyce’s neck, the snap of his spine a comforting noise. He drops to the ground like a stone, one that doesn’t make a noise. Never have I wanted to extend pain for my gratification. Never have I wanted to cause suffering. Always have I wanted to do my job.
This is my job.
No one will touch Blair unless she wants them to.
His mate stands frozen and reaches into his pocket, probably for his weapon. I don’t think, I just react and grab his head, pushing my thumbs into his eye sockets and hear him scream. It’s high pitched and far too loud.
I push him against the wall, my hands around his throat. I don’t have the right angle to be able to snap his neck but I have big hands, one of which grasps his neck. Tightly. Against the wall.
He flounders, trying to make another grasp for his gun, but it’s too late. I feel the life leave him, the fight go as he chokes and splutters, his lungs clutching for oxygen.
He doesn’t find it.
If the lighting was better, I’d see him turn blue, his body losing the fight, but it’s dark and the only resolution comes when all that’s holding him up is my hand.
“Good job.” Micky breaths behind me. “We’ll clean up.”
I let him fall. I know nothing about him or his family or where he’s come from and I don’t fucking care.
I do my job.
And no one messes with mine.
Chapter Three
“Ithought I should sit down with you in person and see what I could do to help at this difficult time.”
I keep my eyes on the road, watching some dickhead drive like he’s on a suicide mission and try to ignore the dickhead in the car.
“It’s appreciated.”
