Chapter 2 #2
Martha narrowed her eyes and snatched the phone back, then downed her wine in one long, defiant gulp.
‘Calm down. Don’t get your Alan Whickers in a twist, treacle.
’ She patted my arm as I furrowed my brow.
‘I gotta get back to me old pot and pan. Catch ya later, treacle tart. Have a safe trip.’ I watched her weave her way out of the pub.
Talking to Martha was sometimes like trying to solve a riddle.
I sighed tiredly and sucked down the other half of my drink. Time to let the bourbon blur the edges.
* * *
Two drinks later, I was almost home, staring off into the trees along my street as I walked.
Deep shadows clung to the branches—evening gradually stealing the last of the light from the sky.
I’d picked up a New York-style meat-free sub at a street food stall and devoured it while my thoughts circled back to the gods.
Was this job somehow connected to them? Was the target a demigod, as Drakos suspected?
If the gods were involved, I would be up shit creek with a broken paddle.
The last thing I needed was divine wrath crashing down on me—I had enough problems. The whole thing reeked of Ixion…
but surely, Drakos wouldn’t be foolish enough to tangle himself with the insurgent group?
The war with the gods happened over twenty years ago, and, according to the history books, had been a walking nightmare.
I’d only been about four at the time, and Drakos had locked my mother and me away in his fortified Greek estate while the world burned, and my memories of that time were sketchy.
Now the gods ruled over everything: silent, remote, and untouchable.
People like Drakos carried on with their shady dealings—but, as I said, he’s a crafty cunt.
I cursed under my breath for not paying enough attention to the gods or their politics. It had never felt like my fight—until now.
After showering and stuffing the last of my things into my suitcase, I took a glass of red wine out into my tiny garden.
Twilight was swallowing the sky whole, smudging out the last streaks of daylight as the firepit crackled beside me.
Shadows danced across the patio, like restless companions, while I read through the file for what felt like the hundredth damn time.
When I’d memorised every detail, I held the document over the flames—then paused. I ran a finger across the photo of my target… Si Thalassa. It was only his face and neck in the image, but gods… he could definitely be a demigod.
His stormy gaze stared just off-camera, like a predator sensing danger.
It was a harsh stare with a turbulent, vicious glimmer…
his features were almost unreal. Pale-blond hair tied back in a casual knot, and his eyes, under high arching eyebrows, were the blue-green of the ocean, with tinges of grey and silver.
Eyes that looked deep enough to hold the universe.
Mountain peak cheekbones and a chiselled jaw made him the epitome of male beauty.
‘Who are you?’ I whispered as my eyes zeroed in on his soft, lush lips that softened his more rugged face to distractingly handsome. Oh, my—those lips were… Pretty sure I was drooling, I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth.
‘Sorry, Si,’ I breathed as my eyes consumed that beautiful face.
A mental slap brought me back to my senses.
This wasn’t some fantasy—this was a job; a contract, and I didn’t have the luxury of doubt or desire.
I dropped the file into the fire, watching the golden glow of the flames as the scent of scorched paper permeated the evening air.
Eventually, the golden flames devoured the only connection I had to the man I was meant to kill.
All that remained were ashes—and my pounding heartbeat.
I worried my teeth against my bottom lip… I needed to pull on my big girl panties.
I had a mission.
And I had to succeed.
* * *
Still running on fumes from scant few hours of sleep, I arrived at some no-name private airport at 3.
30 a.m. in Drakos’s sleek black limousine.
He’d handed me an Amex Gold with the oh-so-classy instruction to “buy yourself a sexy dress” in case I needed to seduce the target.
Alongside that, a thick envelope stuffed with emergency cash.
Naturally, I pocketed most of it.
The trip was all expenses paid, after all, and I needed to squirrel away every spare penny for my escape plan—one Drakos was blissfully unaware of. For now.
As for the dress—yeah, hard pass. I wasn’t about to rely on cleavage and perfume when I might be dealing with a demigod. Instead, I’d opted for the contents of the box.
Yes, I peeked. So sue me. Curiosity isn’t just a trait—it’s a survival skill.
Inside the box was a helmet. I’d tried it on—because obviously—and it did, indeed, render invisibility.
No shimmer, no sound, just straight-up vanishing.
A godly artefact, no doubt about it—the kind of thing that shouldn't be anywhere near mortal hands.
I ignored the sinking feeling in my gut…
a divine weapon and now an item of stealth?
Without question, these were the weapons of the gods.
Every instinct screamed back away slowly, but I stuffed the unease into a mental lockbox and turned the key.
I’m the best assassin in the world. I’ve survived worse than a demigod. At least… I hoped I had.
This mission had to work. Everything depended on it.
The chameleon effect? I had it in spades. My fighting leathers were perfect for some jobs, but certain social circles required a different kind of predator. So my fighting leathers stayed at home, while my mid-calf combat boots went in the suitcase.
I was able to adapt to changing circumstances, people, and environments. This time, I was a rich divorcee with a curated backstory and a healthy alimony cushion. I’d become her, wear her skin like it was made for me; the Black Dahlia: a colder, sharper version of myself, and far more dangerous.
I’d been kitted out with a brand-new wardrobe tailored for this role—pieces I’d probably never wear again.
I was a jeans-and-leather-jacket girl at heart.
But perks of the job? Two Louis Vuitton suitcases—one stuffed with designer clothing, the other, smaller one reserved for the helmet. Those were mine now.
For travel, I wore a Dior camel-coloured jumpsuit with matching heels. Understated elegance: I looked like money.
The limo eased to a stop beside the aircraft stairs, and I stepped out into the predawn hush, staring up at the jet. Sleek and gleaming in phantom grey with a champagne-toned undercarriage, it looked every inch the high-rollers’ chariot.
‘Time to buckle up,’ I muttered, smoothing a hand down my jumpsuit as the driver deposited my luggage on the tarmac, and I moved towards the steps with measured grace.