Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ELLIOT
Three Months Later
Hearing the light chirps of a few bluejays, the corners of my lips turn upward as I slip onto the balcony to my target’s bedroom.
Getting up here was a bitch and a half, but the thrill of the kill outweighs the burn in my shoulders from hoisting my 220 pound body up here. Having muscles has never felt so fucking heavy.
My target left the doors cracked open, enough for the nice breeze to air out the room.
For someone with as many enemies as him it was stupid to leave any door casually unlocked. Maybe he thought he was so high up he’d be safe, or maybe he didn’t think at all. It’s people’s greatest weakness: not thinking things through. Not planning enough. It works to my advantage.
The boy’s father truly made this too easy for us. It truly makes me wonder why he bothered hiring one of us instead of doing the kill himself.
Maybe he doesn’t have the balls to kill his own son? I guess it doesn’t really matter, I’ll get the job done regardless, but I can’t lie and say it doesn’t pique my own interest.
Mother put me on this assignment, and I know exactly why. She thinks since I killed my own foster father, familial ties don’t bother me. It’s ironic, really.
Cause she couldn’t be further from the truth.
Familial ties are the only reason I haven’t slit her damn throat.
It doesn’t matter if she’s wrong or not. It doesn’t matter what I feel or shouldn’t feel. Whatever Mother says, I do. She says to kill the son of a man with more money than most tech giants could ever dream of, I do it. If she wants me to do it at lunch, in broad daylight, that’s what I do.
It’s been like this since she found me. It’s been twelve years since Mother took me in as one of her personal Strays. Not once have I disobeyed her order or stepped out of line, despite the absolute hell she’s put me through.
In twelve years, I’ve made twenty-two kills, and with being part of the Society of organized hired killers, I’m sure my stats will reach the hundreds before I age out of the game.
Age is no feat for Mother; she’s still going strong in the game of killing with forty-nine kills. I’ve got almost half her kills in nearly half the time, but I doubt she’s training any of us to be stronger than her.
I listen for footsteps as the bird chirps become quieter, hearing the flap of their wings flying away.
He’s coming. My target is the only other person in this house from the times of twelve to two today.
The staff was treated to an impromptu lunch surprise by Mr. Marks, my target’s dad, and of course, the brat didn’t want to go.
Fucking dumbass. Lunch could’ve given him one more day to live.
I listen to his loud ramblings about a poker game he must have played recently, and my favorite wire burns in my back pocket. He’s here.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hear the obnoxious brat yell as he pops into his room to do gods know what. He looks like a rich man’s son. Brown short hair, fake tanned skin, slim, but not strong whatsoever. White shirt, swim shorts. This is too easy. No sense of awareness, survival, nothing.
I smile, leaning against the doorframe of the open balcony door.
“Your daddy sent me,” I say. The simple reveal of relation allows me to move more freely. Like the staff of guards and staff suddenly disappearing hasn’t raised the boy’s survival alarms already.
“Oh, well, guards stand discreetly, not so—so—I don’t know, just don’t leave your fucking post again,” he says, waving his hand, trying to dismiss me.
A moment, a moment is all I have to decide. A kill isn’t as thoughtless as people may think. Not for me. Not for serial killers. People who kill not just for the thrill, or protection, or liabilities, but because of the urge. The need, the craving of blood spilled or lifeless bodies.
Everyone justifies their kills in different ways. I paint myself to be some sort of vigilante. I kill people I deem worse than me. As bad as me. At face value this kid isn’t as evil as me.
He sells dope. I kill people.
I kill people, not just for myself, but because I’m told to. I follow her commands like a fucking dog.
I shouldn’t kill Kal Marks.
“I’m not a guard, Kal,” I say, stalking up to him. He gives me an incredulous look before he spits at me. I smile as I wipe the spit off my face. He fed drugs to little kids under twelve. Kids. Deep down, he’s as bad as me.
We don’t deserve to live.
Too bad no one is strong enough to kill me.
“I’m here to kill you, Kal,” I say. His eyes widen before he breaks out in a laugh.
“No, you’re not.” He laughs again. The damn twerp walks past me. Swiping away on his tablet.
I sigh as he walks past me. His brown hair ends at the base of his head, leaving his neck wide and clear for me. Like a present. I grab the wire from my pocket. A two strand wire, meant to cut through bone, attached to two wooden blocks used as handles.
“Indeed I am,” I say and wrap my wire against his neck.
Tight enough to make thin lines of blood drop from his neck but not enough to kill him instantly.
Just because this is a job doesn't mean I don’t get to enjoy it.
I force his body to walk forward as we move in front of the dresser with the huge mirror attached to it.
Dying is one thing, but seeing yourself being killed. Wow, that’s another level of terror. My actions have the desired effect, I can feel as he pisses himself almost instantly. Cutting up his throat as he fights my hold, making his situation worse and mine easier.
Piss on my damn shoes wasn’t part of the plan, but I guess hitmen can’t be picky.
“Daddy’s little failure needed to be tucked away before he got caught selling dope to children. When his little failure couldn’t stop selling, no matter how much money and opportunities Daddy threw at him, he gave up hope for his little failure could be redeemed. So, he called me.”
“Fucking let me go,” he roars. His hands come up to the wire to try to relieve the pressure from the cut of his skin, only for it to sear his hands, and he drops them.
Being taller than him isn’t to my advantage.
Forcing him to bend back would’ve sweetened the deal, but seeing his neck drenched in blood satisfies a deep hunger only this fool could fix.
“Do you know how much your life is worth, Kal?” I ask as he spits, saliva and blood mixing in a glob that lands on the dresser.
“One-hundred million. Daddy paid me one-hundred mill to kill you.” That one-hundred mill also goes toward killing Kal’s associates, and a personal part of my cut will be sending those kids to a recovery program.
The rest goes right back into the Society.
This is the most expensive job we’ve had; probably another reason Mother put me on this job.
It needed to be done right. Flawlessly.
Kal’s blood and sweat soak my black t-shirt.
His feet scramble under himself. He practically does all the work.
I wanna say this is my last time taking a rich, spoiled boy assignment, it’s far too easy, but I know that won’t be the case.
The moment the complaint is uttered from my mouth, spoiled rich boys are all I will be assigned to for months.
I squeeze the wire tight, halting his terrified screams to silence. A perfect silence that cures something in my brain. All I hear is the rip of his skin, feel the sag of his head as he dies in my wire, between my hands.
As I loosen the wire, his body hits the ground, splashing in the pools of blood beneath us.
Fuck. That was nice.
His life slipping from my hands is one of the best feelings in the world. That sense of power can’t be replicated in any other way.
I pull out my phone, dialing the number for the Society’s H&H, hits for hire. Corny ass oldies. “Get the cleaning crew here.”
I step over Kal Marks’ body. His head is barely attached to his body, blood spreading everywhere on the cream carpet.
Slipping off my shoes, as not to track blood, I walk in sock covered feet back to my car.
I put the camera on a loop about fifteen minutes before I got here, allowing me to park right in the front.
Glancing at the clock on my dashboard, I watch as noon hits. This is Mother’s shopping hour.
Which means I have an hour free to meet with The Morrígan Society.
The spring heat means that Michigan birds are back, making this my favorite time of the year. My dress pants crease as I lean back in the white frilly metal chair, and my book on wild birds slides in my lap while birds sing and fly around in the trees nearby.
The metal tables are tarnished with rust, since Michigan experiences all four seasons, but I don’t mind. I’d take the random bits of orange rust on my clothes than sit inside where everyone else is.
Mallory’s Coffee Shop is tucked away on a corner street, which makes it the perfect spot for people who want a space away from the bustle of downtown. Being a college town makes it the perfect mix of busy, but not too busy. Enough people to get lost in, but not too many to get drowned.
This shop is too “low profile” for Mother to enjoy, which is why I chose to be here.
I also set this as the place to meet with The Morrígan Society today.
I got the call this morning that they, also known as the Society, wanted to meet with me.
For what, I’m not entirely sure, but what I know is, when they call, you answer.
It could be for something simple they wanted to discuss with me. I’m this year’s chosen host for the Society’s annual ball, so all in all, it could be to discuss the role.
Hosting is out of my realm, and I have no idea why they asked me instead of someone more devoted to the Society—someone like Mother—but I don’t question them. I’ve found it quite… fun. Sue me.
Plus Mother is pissed about the Society choosing me to host instead of her, and I bathe in that anger every fucking day.
Though, we’ve connected over the ball details electronically, so I’m not confident that’s why they called an in-person meeting with me.
Looking down at my book, I flip through the pages as I wait. The moments I get while drinking my coffee is the one time I get to truly relax.
The killer in me disappears while I’m here.
Here, I can be the bird guy. The lonely guy. The guy who’s drinking his coffee and enjoying the weather.
I can be normal.
I flip to the current bird I’m reading about.
My current obsession is the crane. A crane is a white bird, with a long neck and long legs.
Strong and beautiful. They represent good fortune and peace.
Something I’ve never had. Not when I was in the foster system and damn sure not since I met Mother or joined the Society.
I need some good fortune. I need some fucking peace. Maybe that’s why this creature piqued my interest. A bird not so known, a bird impossible to hide. A bird I wish I was more like.
“Elliot Jay,” a man says as he sits at the same table as I.
His features are unrecognizable, but the ring on his left hand is distinct—a simple silver band with a skull on it.
Only members of the Society have them. It’s how we track and recognize ourselves in the wild.
I wear mine on my right hand. “I’m glad we could meet. ”
“Of course,” I say, nodding in respect. The man doesn’t waste time with a name or identity, just jumps straight to the point.
“We want you to kill Maria Jay.” What?
I don’t let my face show what I’m thinking.
I enter a staring contest with the man across from me, a man who I do not know, but a man I have to trust. All I have to go off of is a ring on his finger and I’m supposed to listen to every word he gives me.
The trust I have for the Society, a place that both saved and ruined me battles with the request. Raising an eyebrow, I watch the man’s face with unmovable force.
“You want me to kill Maria Jay,” I repeat to make sure I heard the man correctly. He wants me to kill Mother. Mother, as in Mrs. Jay. Mother, as in the one person I’ve refrained from killing for the past three years?
“Yes. We aren't good people by any means, but we have lines and she’s crossed them.” I stare at the man, who nods one time and promptly leaves my table. I peer around to find not a soul around us, and my heart races as his words filter into my mind.
He didn’t even let me ask why they want me to kill her, what lines she crossed.
Though I might have an idea. Even so, why did they ask me to kill her instead of one of their guards.
The Guards are a division of people who enforce the rules, this is something they would do so that bids the question, why me?
I sit with my book in my lap as I blankly stare at the spot where the man once sat.
I can’t kill Mother. Surely they know that. Surely they know that, if I could kill her, I would’ve already?
But how would they know that? Fuck. I run a hand through my hair as I try to appear normal, but too many possibilities run through my head.
I can’t kill Mother.
But I also can’t tell the Society… no.
Hmm. Well. I’m fucked.