Chapter 2 ZAGHAN
ZAGHAN
Forest eyes. Fire hair.
Nearly everyone perched on the worn wooden chairs had a novel in hand. They were all fucking reading, the steam from their coffee long vanished. Pathetic.
Places like this one were what Callan would call heaven. I could almost picture my twin brother walking into the room, a gust of wind following him in. He did love to make an entry, even though he hated the attention.
The shop had a moody atmosphere reminiscent of academia. And Callan was especially fond of books, particularly those featuring students stuck in a mysterious school practicing witchcraft or unravelling dark mysteries.
Maybe he had been here before…or a lot of times. Maybe that was what led me here. I passed over a hundred coffee shops. But somehow, I made a stop at this one.
Indeed, my brother and I weren’t so different after all. Perks of sharing the same womb, I supposed.
“Here’s your order, sir.” A lanky boy who was only a sliver of chance shy of albinism appeared with a tiny tray holding a steaming cup. The smell of roasted coffee invaded my nostrils, calming my tense nerves. Now, that was Perfect.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“You’re welcome, sir.” He disappeared from the table, and my fingers immediately curled around the handle of the mug.
But the rim of the China ware had barely touched my lips when the tiny bell above the door chimed, cutting sharply through the distant hiss of the espresso machine.
I didn’t acknowledge the person. And instead, brought the cup to my mouth, a slow sip, savoring the taste before this new addition would turn this gathering into a crowd. We were already ten in the room. Eleven was excessive.
I tried to ignore it, but the approaching person’s heavy boots and the creaking of the floorboards shifted the air around me.
Calculatedly, I set my cup down with the grace seeping coffee didn’t exactly require.
The man halted by the table near me, his hand lifting to push his baseball cap further down his forehead.
His gaze proceeded to sweep over the cafe, resting briefly only on me, then sharply shifting to the counter.
After getting the attention of the barista behind the counter, he finally pulled out a chair and sat with the harmless leisure of a regular man. But I had a feeling this man’s presence differed from a regular man needing a caffeine refill.
He was here to kill me…well, Callan.
Reasons such as this, was why I really hated that I had to wear my brother’s face. His enemies were always after me. I could just be strolling on my own, minding my damn business, and bullets would be flying.
However, a smirk lifted the corner of my lips, my fingers drumming against the body of the ceramic cup.
Someone sent someone to kill Callan. And it wasn’t something I found out-of-the-ordinary.
I was well aware that despite Callan’s oath to stay in the shadows even as the regent emperor of the Raskov Dynasty, some still managed to figure out the real identity of the current leader.
Because my brother was careless and naive and so fucking trusting. It was a big flaw.
Callan was as harmless as a dove, a man who just wanted to read his silly little books, draw on that stupid white book of his, and solve puzzles all day long.
He was a simple man. But hidden foes who could eagerly incite a million-dollar bounty on his head just for the sake of it lurked in the corners of Glenfallow, Torvane and Braemont.
Why would they want to kill this divine angel, you asked?
According to legend, the Raskovs fled Russia in 1918 after the fall of Tsar, bringing arts, gold, military, and political contacts.
Now, the country’s military tech and private security survived under Raskov’s protective wing, thanks to the Raskov Defence System.
They built houses and companies, railway stations, inflating the country’s GDP through Raskov Holdings.
Scotland was now leading in Whiskey production.
And that was made possible by none other than the Raskov Distilleries.
Thousands of people were taken off the streets and given a better life every year through The Raskov Foundation.
Nearly every corner you turned, there was Raskov embedded into the wall.
See where the rage was coming from? Foreigners were about to take over their land. They desperately needed to bring down their empire. And to do that, they needed to cut off its head…my brother’s head, literally.
Anyway, I wouldn’t be wasting my time wondering who among Callan’s growing enemies sent another killer. Because really, the foes were numerous and it could be anyone. So I was just going to kill this man and save myself the trouble.
With my master plan blooming in my mind, my smirk deepened enough to form a shadow on my face. Nothing stirred the rot in me quite like the promise of blood. Warm, bright and fucking terrified. The terrors I drew from the victim’s eyes always felt so…personal.
Indeed, a nice kill in this hidden corner of Braemont was a grand way to end my seven days of prancing around town freely in my brother’s body.
I was about to set this sweet plan of mine in motion when the bell chimed again. And a low grunt settled in my throat.
What a bloody annoying day I was having. Was a party being held here or what?
Lifting my gaze to the door, I saw the intruder; a girl. And right behind her was an Asian boy.
The fiery red hair of the girl seemed to have absorbed all the glow from the sun as the strands glinted under the dull beam of the light in the room.
The spot the strange girl and the boy were suddenly staring at though, began to puzzle me. Why were they looking at me? Pointing at me?
I couldn’t help but question their purpose when within a whisper of seconds, they were at my table indeed, invading my fucking privacy, forcing me to put my plan on hold.
The air though; something bubble-gummy and flowery consumed the air around me, choking the fuck out of me.
“I-um, sorry, hi.” She fumbled with her words, voice quite like silk, and her cheeks were immediately flamed red.
Standing so close to me, I began to see something; a strange, familiar quality that resided within her green eyes.
Forest eyes. Fire hair.
Where had I seen her before?
Then in a blink, like a switch was turned on in my head, the memories played like a film.
Six years ago at the Raskov Foundation Cultural Advancement. The girl who was awarded a scholarship for writing a poem that made adults cry. Some were sure she found it on the internet. There was no way a girl with such innocent eyes could harbour pain deep enough to bleed poetry.
I remembered how tiny and frangible she was then. The faintest of wind could have easily whisked her far away.
But she wasn’t tiny anymore. She was taller now, curves fuller, beauty sharpened. Though, there was still that fragile shimmer in her, like she may as well break apart if held too tight. And that sounded perfect to do. After all, pretty things were meant to be broken.
“Sorry, did you notice any book here when you came?” she asked softly.
Her eyes held fascination. But beneath that veil of sheer attraction, there was fear. She was smitten by me, yet afraid of me. Fear and awe twisted into something delicious. It would be perfect to have her for dinner–on her knees, tears in those fucking eyes, begging, bleeding…all for me.
“No.” I shook my head, my voice slightly strained as my finger curled around my cup, the porcelain cold against my skin.
“Let’s ask Chopper,” the blond boy I unintentionally pushed into the shadow said, his blue eyes regarding me with suspicion. Yes, pretty boy, I’m the goddamn devil. Run along, why don’t you?
“Okay,” the prey–sorry, the girl murmured, then sharply turned away and followed the boy.
I watched her go, that unsatisfied, frustrated feeling whenever a kill slipped through my fingers clawing at my chest.
I tried to force my eyes away, but they just wouldn’t budge. As if feeling observed, she glanced back, but turned away quickly the moment our eyes clashed.
She wasn’t mine to kill. I wasn’t here to hunt. I kept telling myself. Yet as they stood by the counter, speaking to the curly-haired barista, I drank her in with a captivation that I reserved only for beautiful tragedies.
The barista disappeared into the back room, only to reappear a few seconds later with a book. Her lips moved as she murmured a thank you, snatching the book from the barista’s hand.
Her friend and her turned away from the counter, ready to go.
It felt like a subconscious action, an old habit she couldn’t curb, when again, she glanced at me, this time, allowing her gaze to linger, cheeks flushed red, and the fear? Still there.
Fuck me.
”Here I thought you were into dark-haired men,” the boy murmured in a teasing tone as he gently nudged her toward the door.
“He’s kind of pretty.” She shrugged, pushing through the door. “Like a doll.”
I couldn’t help a twitch in my jaw at the measured insult. How dare she compare me to something so temporary and frangible, when kings would fall and empires would rot, but I would remain?
I was no doll. I was a deity.
I was a god.
This angelic face that simply deceived her wasn’t mine.
This skin, this appearance, this fucking voice.
None of them were mine. This was a borrowed body…
my brother’s body. Because I was a ghost who refused to stay buried.
In my truest form, I made the devil cower away in fear.
Yet she mistook me for something so weak when I carved death into people’s bones for a living.
Through the transparent door, I watched her go, every gentle step of hers echoing her softness and fragility. And I couldn’t help it still when the familiar hunger continued to pulse in my veins, a torment in my mind.
My fingers itched, my body trembling with the raw starvation, the need to bleed, to break, to destroy.
But this wasn’t what I came here for. My purpose was not to hunt for a new game. I came to tighten loose ends so Callan wouldn’t have to grumble for exceeding my time. A little piece offering for using his precious body to spill blood and drag people through mud….literally.
I settled back into my chair and took another sip of my coffee. The unskilled assassin was still patiently waiting for perfect timing. A sinister smile graced my lips.
I glanced around the room, my gaze drifting to the counter, watching the barista disappear into the backroom. A handwritten ‘Back in 10 minutes’ sign was perched on the counter.
I stole another glance at the rest of the patrons. They were still engrossed in whatever they were doing on their phones, some still reading a damn book.
How perfect the timing was. No one would see me enter the restroom. And hopefully, no one would see me come out, too.
I ran my fingers through the frosty hair on my head, then stood, pushing the chair backward. I veered for the restroom, my steps slow and unhurried. Though nearly soundless, I felt it, the assassin’s boots against the hardwood floor almost immediately.
I scoffed at the killer’s predictability. For a hired man, he really lacked skills. If he wasn’t bound to die today, I would have taught him a few tricks to this game.
As I reached the restroom, the door swung shut behind me.
My hand hovered over my belt’s buckle, fingers grazing the cold metal. Then I heard it; footsteps and a door creaking.
I moved before he could. A brutal elbow to the ribs, the sound of bones cracking, air being knocked out of the lungs, head spinning.
The assassin staggered backward, but a lithe step was more than enough as in a flicker of a moment, I was 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. Perfect.
The gun hit the floor with a clatter, and a loud thump followed the body’s impact.
Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, I crouched before him, my head slightly tilted.
This was not enough for me though. That redhead from earlier already ignited the hunger I thought I had chained before coming down here.
I slipped a hand into my pocket, my switchblade whispering free, gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights, ready to carve into a skin.
My cuts were sloppy and jagged because time wasn’t in my favour. Usually, I would take much longer for this, but I had to do it within minutes. I didn’t like the result, but the sound of flesh tearing calmed me a little.
When I was done, I stared at the blood that pulled across the tiles, thick and black under the dull glow. And a satisfactory sigh escaped my lips.
I walked to the sink and began to wash off my blade and hands. And every single aspect of the action was performed with such poise, as if I didn’t just take someone’s life in the restroom of a tiny coffee shop.
Done, I fixed my cuff, then ran a hand down the hair that was a bit dishevelled.
Glancing one more time at my masterpiece, I exited, returning to my table like a man that just simply went to relieve himself.
The counter was still missing the barista, almost as if the universe was working with me again, giving me a perfect alibi, wiping away every whisper of evidence, allowing me to walk away…a killer on the loose.
I scanned the room. A couple had departed, leaving those absorbed in books or screens.
No one even heard my footsteps. No one realised I left a while ago.
No one knew what I had done. And even if it turned out that someone knew, I had a way of making people and things disappear.
With a snap of a finger, this coffee shop and the people inside it could easily become a forgotten memory.
Sitting back gently on my chair, I lifted my cup to my hand. It felt cold, but I took a sip, anyway.
Ready to go, my hand slipped into my pocket, fishing out a white handkerchief. I wiped the body of the ceramic cup, erasing traces of my presence.
I returned the handkerchief to my pocket and pulled out my wallet. A door creaked, the sound slicing through the quiet room as the barista finally exited from the backroom.
My fingers brushed over crisp notes, and without counting, I pulled out more than enough, placing them gently on the table. My action caused the barista to raise a shocked brow. Smart lad. He didn’t utter a word, didn’t pretend to reject my generosity.
I rose to my feet, slung my jacket over my shoulder, and walked out, the smell of blood lingering in the air. But the people in the shop didn’t realise it yet. They didn’t know they were sitting in the same building with a mutilated body.