7. Killian
KILLIAN
TWELVE YEARS AGO
“Take this,” Ferguson says, handing me a black velvet bag. The clink of metal piques my interest, and I tear it away, revealing dual, black, curved knives. The gunmetal reflects the street lamp behind me, and the edges are wicked. Pressing my thumb to the end, I don’t feel it slice through my skin.
Licking the blood, I grin up at my mentor. “What’s this for?”
“Your birthday is next week,” he mumbles around the cigar at the corner of his mouth. “Technically, I’m supposed to wait until you’re twenty-one, but I figured nineteen was good enough.”
My heart thuds painfully in my chest. “A decree?”
He nods solemnly. “You’ve been invaluable to me, Killian. A real asset. I want to make you permanently part of the clan.”
Finally. I’ve spent years with him, learning from him, and trying my damnedest to outsmart his daughter. When he took me in as a kid five years ago, I never thought I’d become so involved in the organization. I stayed out of spite—to piss off Maeve and get a free meal.
But Ferguson saw something in me. He understood the urges, the need to kill, and the lack of guilt at doing so. He honed it, gave it a purpose, and now, he wants me to join his family.
A family. I could be part of his family. For real. No longer a shadow on the outskirts, an outsider looking in. A child abandoned by a man who would kill him if he saw me.
But an O’Brien.
I’d do anything to belong here.
“What’s the decree?”
Ferguson nods, puffing on his cigar. The red light flares in the darkness, his eyes scanning our surroundings. He taught me that the first time he took me out on the town for a meet.
“To join the clan, a blood debt must be paid.” He shoves his hands into his pants. I may be taller, but Ferguson is larger than life. “You’re going to get a mark. You’re to kill him and report back to me before sunrise with proof of the kill. If you do it, you’re in.”
Easy enough. I’ve been assassinating for Ferguson for two years.
“Details?” I slip the knives into the back of my jeans, digging out a cigarette from my jacket.
He shakes his head. “No details. Just a picture.” He flips his phone screen around, showing me a grainy picture of a man. Nondescript, white, tall. Nothing special about him.
Shit, this is too easy.
“And where do I find him?”
Ferguson smiles. “He takes this route every night. Once you see him, it starts.”
Cryptic and fun. I like it.
“Better have that expensive Irish whiskey ready for me, old man,” I taunt, turning on my heel. “I’ll want a celebratory drink for when I join the family.”
My mentor laughs, thick and heavy. “I have no doubt.” Grabbing my shoulder, he squeezes once. “Proof, Killian. Without it, the decree is forfeited. You’ll never be allowed to join again.”
Succeed and be in the clan, or fail and never get another chance.
I’m not going to fail.
We split up at the alley’s mouth. Walking the length of the block, I scan all the doors and windows.
No one moves; the street is desolate. Taking a spot with the best advantage of sight, I hunker against the lamppost as the late fall air whips through me.
Decaying leaves and saltwater surround me, and I inhale. It smells like home.
Ferguson didn’t say when the mark would show, so I settle in. Tugging my jacket down, I hunt for another cigarette, the freshly inked tattoos on my hands blending into the shadows.
A car passes. A few people hurry by, picking up the dangerous vibes I put out. No one wants to be near the kind of man they see me as—they have self-preservation skills. A couple argues in the old apartment overhead, throwing curses at each other. A few are hilarious. But no mark.
Whatever. Patience is my thing. I can wait someone out longer than most, and standing here in the cold isn’t a hardship. In fact, I welcome the quietness. Looking at the blue-black sky, I mentally mix the colors.
The shade is deep, not necessarily dark.
It would look good on the canvas I’m sketching in my room.
Perhaps a slash of violet, a few rings of red to brighten it up.
I mostly paint abstract or nature scenes, using the color to tell the story.
Let my stripes, my brushstrokes, tell my thoughts without a single written word.
I don’t do people. Faces are difficult. Faces have soft lips, big eyes, and wicked thoughts that I can never get just right. And it pisses me off.
“What are you doing?”
I don’t react, though my heart escapes my chest. She’s always so fucking silent when she walks.
Inhaling another breath of smoke, I flick the spent butt into the road. “Waiting.”
Maeve glides around, her dirty sneakers sprayed red. It looks like a dye job from an alt-artsy teenager, and it goes with her general look—black clothes, dark jeans, pale face—but we both know it’s blood.
The bruise on her cheek and split lip shine under the light. Something burns in my gut to see her injured. It’s nothing new when it comes to Maeve. I’ve healed more cuts than I can count. Stitched up a few deep wounds, too. But I hate it all the same.
She’s a pain in my ass, but only one person should be marking her. Me.
“Rough night?”
She gives me a flat look. “No. Why?”
I flick her nose, and she slaps my hand away. “Someone got a few hits in.”
Gingerly, she prods her lips. It’s still wet with blood, so whatever happened wasn’t long ago.
“Going to tell me about it?”
She rolls her eyes and looks away. I didn’t expect her to answer. She never tells me where the marks come from—I assume from missions. Or fights. Maeve has a nasty temper and is known to pick one late at night to work out aggression.
But I always ask. Always hope she’ll confide in me and stop hiding.
I shouldn’t care—we’re not friends. Fuck, we’ve never said a nice thing to each other in the five years I’ve been in her life. But there’s a flicker of hope that one day she’ll see the same darkness she carries is in me, and she’ll let me help.
Scoffing under my breath, I turn away from her. Stupid, really. Maeve doesn’t need help. She never has. Yet, I feel pulled to her, the moon and the sun, stuck in this orbit that won’t end.
My mark walks down the street a few moments later, huddled into his coat with the collar covering his ears. The wind blows again, and he curses, hurrying to the corner grocer.
“He gave you a mark,” she murmurs, following my gaze. Glaring down at the smaller girl, I swat her hair into her face.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” I look around. “You weren’t supposed to be on a meet tonight.”
“I’m always out,” she drawls. Another breeze steals our breath, and she turns, burying her head into my shoulder to hide from the cold.
Her scent—violet, orchids, and juniper—wraps around me like a damn noose.
I shake her off. “Where’s your prince? Isn’t he always following you around?”
The burn of jealousy is a bitch, but I shove it back down. I’m not jealous of that fucking kid—Bruno’s illegitimate son who looks too damn much like the woman I helped die—but maybe I’m jealous of their bond. Of the way he gets to see pieces she hides from me.
I’ve been here longer than him. I’ve known Maeve longer. I’ve healed those wounds that magically appear late at night. If anyone should see those pieces, it should be me.
This ridiculous itch of wanting more from her is starting to really fucking annoy me.
“He’s home,” she answers, crossing her arms. “Who is he?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’d he do?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is he with a rival family?”
“Don’t. Know.”
His eyes glint like uncut emeralds. “Do you know anything?”
“Nope,” I say, popping the p. “Just the end goal.”
She stills, squinting up at me. I’m a good foot or so taller than her, but that doesn’t matter to Maeve. She sizes me up as if we’re equal height. Fucking admirable considering most grown men avoid me like the plague.
“It’s a decree,” she breathes. “He’s giving you a decree.”
Swallowing, I avoid her eyes. Why am I nervous? This doesn’t concern her. She may be the heir to the clan, but I follow the captain’s orders. If he’s giving me the chance to belong, I’m going to take it.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Problem, Princess?”
Her jaw bounces as she wrestles with her thoughts. “Let me guess: if you kill him, you’re in. Into the clan, one big happy family.”
“You sound jealous,” I taunt. I don’t add the proof part. Not her business. “Don’t like Daddy having another favorite?”
“You mean jealous of you being his little bitch?” She snorts. “Hardly.”
A tingle of irritation ignites in my chest. She’s in rare form tonight. I turn back to the store and grab another cigarette. “What’s wrong, Maeve? Date stand you up? Have to come take it out on me?”
“My dates don’t stand me up,” she denies, and I growl under my breath. Not something I needed to fucking hear tonight. Would it be weird to stalk her next boyfriend and slit his throat? Purely out of concern.
The bell rings as my mark exits, and another breeze swirls around us. Maeve gasps, turning toward my body heat, and I stand stiffly, ignoring how her closeness burns me.
Throwing the cigarette, I shove her away. “Go home, Maeve. This isn’t a place for a little girl.”
A little girl, right. She’s eighteen and probably the most beautiful—and deadly—woman I’ve ever known.
“Fuck you,” she snarls, but I’m already jogging across the street. A car zooms behind me, and I dart down the alley my mark left.
It’s better if she stays behind. I don’t need to be distracted by her.
He walks a block and turns left. Another two blocks, and he shifts, turning right. I keep at a safe distance, slowing down when he seems to check his surroundings. I take out my phone and play on it when he glances back at me to blend into the background.
After about twenty minutes, he makes me. It’s fine. It was bound to happen.
Besides, the faster I kill him, the faster I can get back into the warmth and have that whisky Ferguson never lets anyone drink.