Blair

Chapter 1

July, 2044

15 years later

As I leisurely stroll down a dark and foggy alleyway, my bleach blonde waist length hair cascades perfectly over my left shoulder in its usual fishtail braid. I let out a frustrated sigh before reaching my hands up to my chest and re-adjusting my tight black crop top.

I swear to God, this is the last time I skip laundry day and wear a short ass shirt like this one. I can't stand feeling like my breasts are constantly going to pop out the bottom of this idiotically constructed top. But hey, at least I have my signature black jeans and boots so that I am halfway comfortable. I instinctively follow the sound of heavy breathing and frantic footsteps running away from me while whistling the creepy old lullaby that Jennifer Brooks used to sing. Truth be told, I don't think it was ever a very effective method to pacify anyone since the pianic melody is so somber and creepy. At this point I can't even remember what the exact dialogue was that went with the berceuse, but I know it had something to do with closing your eyes, darkness and never straying from the path once you've fallen asleep.

Is the lullaby disturbing as hell now that I think about it? Absolutely. Oddly enough, I find myself whistling or humming it every time I go into the AP and it's painfully ironic when I look at my current profession as a freelance assassin in the astral world. I look left to right and groan with frustration as I emerge from the misty alleyway and onto an equally clouded street conveniently named Misty Court only to find my target not here.

Of course this asshole has to make my job even harder than it needs to be by attempting to hide from me.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, intently concentrating on my surroundings. As I focus on trying to discern any 'human noises', (such as breathing, walking, farting...and the list goes on), I finally ping exactly what I've been listening for and I grin from ear to ear. I can hear the ragged, labored breathing of a middle-aged male coming from a house about a hundred yards in front of me.

"Perfect," I whisper to myself with closed eyes and a smile. Now I can finally give my next target a proper greeting.

I'm ready to meet you in the spiritual flesh, Jack Jones.

I open my eyes and resume whistling my eerie tune as I skip up to the entry way of a white, French-style house and slowly push the door open. As soon as my left foot crosses the threshold of the archway, a loud creak emerges from beneath my shoe and the terrified wheezing of my target becomes more and more prominent. I can tell that he's on the second floor just by glancing up at the top of the stairwell and observing some sort of makeshift barricade that is composed of a flipped over bookshelf, a coffee table, and a rolling computer chair for good measure. Well, that and the fact that I can hear him muttering a long string of Hail Mary's from up there.

But let me get back to this impressive furniture wall. I mean holy crap, this has got to be a first. I sincerely don't think I've ever seen anyone attempt to bar me from reaching them by fortifying a stairwell with home decor. Although I applaud him for his valiant effort, it really won't help much. I trot over to the flight of stairs and quickly ascend the steps, approaching the "furniture dam", as I have now dubbed it. I analyze the stacked up array of furnishings and shrug before tossing the computer chair off the top of the pile and placing my palms against the center of the bookshelf. I brace my legs against the top step and slowly but surely begin to slide “furniture dam” out of the way. Once I've cleared enough space for my body to slip past on the right hand side, I cease my pushing and guide myself easily between the base of the bookshelf and top railing of the stairwell.

Alright, now where was I?

Ah yes, my next target.

I walk along the hallway while I casually reach down towards the side of my right thigh, drawing my favorite silver throwing knife out of its holster. I stare at it in all its glory, gingerly running my thumb over the intricate etching that spans the length of the blade. I let out a dreamy sigh and smile down at it in admiration. God I love this knife. It's so sleek...so perfect. The blade itself is about 6-inches long and pure silver with swirling inscriptions while the handle is a 4-inch, beautiful matte black with a large Emerald bonded to the base. This is definitely one of Denali's best creations and I always feel giddy holding such a masterpiece as I turn it thrice in hand. For some reason, visions of this knife always haunted my dreams, and Dani actually turned those dreams into a reality.

Before I know it, I have already reached the last door that stands at the end of the hallway. I carefully place the knife in between my teeth and raise my arms above my head, intertwining my fingers as I stand on my tippy-toes and stretch out. I let my arms fall loosely back to my sides and release a quick sigh, reaching my right hand upwards towards my face to grab the handle of the blade. I extend my left hand towards the door knob and quickly twist the handle, gently pushing it open. As the door begins to swing inward, my gaze is met by a short, terrified man with salt and peppered hair dressed in nothing but his blue striped boxers. I'd say that he's of average build, appears to be in his mid-40's and probably has a few kids. So yeah, he seems to be my typical client in a nutshell. Shockingly enough though, I wasn't hired by a disgruntled wife who wanted her husband gone, this was someone else.

I take a few steps towards him and he backs himself up against a dark antique wooden dresser while shakily muttering Psalms 23:4 under his breath. I snicker to myself when I realize he's one of those people who begins to beg a higher power to spare his life once they are faced with death. I've personally always felt that it is so absurd and trivial when people begin to pray for help once they find themselves staring eternal damnation in the face. What's even more ridiculous to me is the fact that most of them will never end up ascending to Aura anyways, so why beg? In my 25 years of existence on this planet, I haven't seen but a few people who were actually worthy enough to reach the Aura realm. The vast majority of the population ends up going directly to Tenebra or getting stuck in purgatory which is, well...here.

But, I digress.

I shift my weight from side to side as I instinctively fidget with my knife, slowly rolling it over in my hand while testing the tip of the blade with my index finger. At this point, I'm just taking a short hiatus before the inevitable ranting and raving begin. I usually wait for my targets to speak first since they've typically got a lot of begging and whining to do about not wanting to die, but today I feel like I am growing impatient. I shoot him a vexed glare as he breathes heavily, staring into my eyes with trepidation. His lips finally begin to part for him to speak, so I guess he took my glowering as a sign that it is time for him to begin vocalizing his plea deal.

"Pl...please don't do this! I...I can pay you double what they are," Jack stutters in fear. Like clockwork, cue the pathetic petitioning for his life. I roll my eyes before letting a long, drawn out sigh exit my lips.

"I seriously doubt that. Plus, it seems that someone in this world wants you dead, Jack," I casually inform him.

"I was just doing what I was told, I swear,” he exclaims as his bottom lip begins to quiver.

"Look, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you. I don't know what you did, nor do I care. I'm just here to do my job," I shrug my shoulders with total indifference while I shuffle my left foot back and forth. As if his sudden realization of fleeting mortality slapped him in the face, flowing into the room with such penance that he sounds like a sinner confessing to his priest in the church.

"It...it wasn't supposed to involve anyone else! Smith told me that I would get paid if I did my job like he said. I never intended to…” he quickly retorts but I cut him short when I extend my hand out in front of my body.

"Did you seriously not hear a word I just said?" I narrow my eyes at him.

"Well ye...yes, I did...but I thought that..." he stammers while fidgeting with his fingers.

"You just thought what? That I'd suddenly have a change of heart after hearing your pathetic sob story? I don't know how I ever arrive in one of these situations where I've got to explain myself, but somehow it still happens a few times per year. You'd think my peachy demeanor is enough of an explanation for most, but apparently not in every case. So, let me go ahead and break this down to make it very simple for you, Jack. I don’t give a flying f**k what you did or didn't do. You aren't the one paying my commission, so please spare me all of the unnecessary bullshit okay?" I utter with irritation as I shoot him a death glare.

"But I...I don't want to die," he sobs loudly as I watch tears begin to flow down his cheeks. I refer to this as a cringe worthy display of weakness.

"Jesus, are you seriously crying right now? You need to get a grip and stop begging me for your life. Show a little pride and dignity. Die like a man," I sarcastically smirk. I lift my arm and aim my blade directly at his pointed nose, one eye closed for a little better accuracy. Apparently even the simple motion of me leveling my knife with his face from across the room makes him panic even more and soon he is hysterically blubbering, snot dripping from his nose. My mouth hangs slightly agape as I painfully watch this grown man having a full-on mental breakdown.

"Please...don't...do this..." he barely manages to mutter through his ragged sobs. I shoot him an irritated scowl before groaning in protest, pressing my left palm against my forehead. I sincerely don't know how much more of this whining I can stomach from him. Watching any adult male above the age of 18 cry is one of the most obnoxious things on this earth to me. I am not an emotional person by any stretch of the means and I don't cry often. So, when I witness anyone besides Dani openly weeping I am put off by it. Maybe it's due to consistently bouncing from home to home while growing up, or maybe it's just in my genetic code to be so emotionally distant. Either way, I hate crying so any reasoning doesn't really matter.

"Dios mio," I grumble with annoyance before locking eyes with him. "Do you honestly think I care about your desires? Do you have any idea who I am?"

Jack immediately ceases his crying and stares at me with a look of sheer terror in his eyes.

"You...you're the Reaper and," he whispers slowly before I cut him off mid-sentence.

"Yeah, I'll go ahead and stop that little brain fart right there. You know exactly who I am and why I'm here. So on that note, we can either do this the easy way, or the hard way. Regardless of which route you choose, you're going to die and there's no avoiding it," I reply as a casual grin creeps across my face.

"Ma...maybe if you just let me explain the situation we can work out a deal. Smith is a lying son of a b***h and..." Jack stammers nervously. I sigh and begin tuning him out for the time being because I'm not even remotely interested in listening to what he's got to say.

I think the man might literally be insane. I'm pretty sure that all of this repetition is the definition of insanity. He's reciting the same things over and over again while expecting a different result. He knows my reputation and that I'm not one to barter in these situations. I don't care how or why a client wants someone dead, I only care about making my money.

At this point, his heart rate is so uneven and erratic that I can hear it from clear across the room so he must sense that the end is near for him. I smirk as I begin picturing my knife finally impaling his whiny ass in the sternum.

"Okay, I'm over this. Goodbye Jack, and may Tenebra have mercy on your soul...huh, that's kind of an oxymoron, isn't it?" I casually state while rolling my right arm around in its socket.

"Wait, please - " his eyes suddenly widen and he begins to hyperventilate. Before Jack can finish his sentence, I elevate my throwing arm above my head and quickly snap it forward. In one fluid motion, the blade swiftly flies across the room and impales him in the center of the chest, puncturing his heart with little resistance. He gasps for air as his saline-logged eyes travel downward towards his torso where blood is flowing in a steady stream onto the floor. His hands clutch around the handle of the knife, but before he can attempt to yank it out of his chest cavity, his eyelids begin to flutter and he drops to the floor. When I finally hear him exhale his last breath, I smile with satisfaction, knowing that my job is done. This is certainly one of the easiest kills that I've ever had. It just took one perfect hit and then boom, he was down for the count. My aim with throwing knives is pretty much flawless.

Whenever I kill someone in the good old Astral Plane (or the AP as I commonly refer to it), only one thing will happen: their physical body will die in the world of the living and their spiritual body will cease to exist anywhere. This is a fact that I've experienced countless times so I know it's true. If an autopsy is performed after their death, it will appear as nothing more than a brain aneurysm, ruptured artery or heart attack as the cause of death because no physical wounds are left behind. I'm not exactly sure why this is the case, but I've got no qualms with it since this anomaly is how I am able to operate as an anonymous assassin without leaving a single scrap of evidence behind. I can literally enter the AP, take out my target, obtain my kill confirmation and then resume living my life without the worry of authorities tracing their death back to me. I leave nothing behind and no one to identify me.

I kneel down on the floor next to Jack's lifeless body before reaching over and wrenching the knife out of his crimson stained torso. I instinctively wipe the blood off on my pants leg and lace my fingers through his hair, yanking his head upward. I drag the blade of my knife back and forth a few times, cutting off a tendril of his long peppered mane. I drop his head back to the floor with a thud as I reach into my right pocket and produce a small, etched glass vial. I pop the cork off of the top and stuff the lock of hair inside, resealing it quickly. Once the vial has been placed back inside my pocket, I insert my knife safely into its holster and stand up.

Now that this poor bastard is dead, I can finally get paid.

I nonchalantly stride out of the bedroom and bound down the stairs, humming as I go. As I exit through the front door, I pause for a moment to scan the area and observe my surroundings, watching and listening for any signs that I am no longer alone. Once I'm sure that the coast is clear, I stuff my hands into my pockets and hang a left onto Misty Court, making my way back in the direction that I came from. At the steady pace that I’m walking, it shouldn't take me very long to reach my physical body as I can already feel myself being naturally drawn towards it. I let out a deep sigh as I reach the end of the road and take a right onto Baker Street, quickly stepping over the curb and up onto the sidewalk. I'm only about five minutes out from the L'auberge Hotel at this point, so I can feel my tension beginning to ease up; I am finally starting to loosen up a bit. I casually twirl the glass vial around in my pocket and run my thumb nail over the etching. I briefly close my eyes with relief at the thought of completing another successful mission that was void of any run-ins with Orias the boogeyman.

Soon enough, I observe a tall, tan, rectangular building that is the L'auberge Hotel. I cross to the right hand side of the street and quickly stroll up to its entrance. With the cracking stucco and chipped beige paint, it isn't exactly the nicest or newest hotel in Marseille, France, but it is definitely the closest to my target. For that reason, Denali and I have had to make do with this shithole for about a week now. I grasp onto the chrome door handle and swiftly yank the heavy glass door open, strolling past the concierge desk and towards the spiraling stairwell that stands before me. My combat boots quietly click across the faded cream tiles as I approach the bottom flight and ascend to the third floor at two steps per stride. Once I've reached the top of the staircase, I hang a right towards Room 308 as I shuffle across the maroon, antique rug spanning the length of the hallway.

I stop directly in front of a forest green door with rusted numbers reading "308" nailed to the top. I shift my gaze towards the brass door handle and quickly turn it over while my left hand lightly brushes long tendrils of my ivory hair away from my lips. As I pull the handle downwards, I firmly nudge the door with my hip in an effort to get it open but it doesn't even budge. I take a step back and groan in frustration as I stare at the ceiling, massaging my fingertips against my temples.

Every single time I've tried to open this door, either in the AP or the world of the living, it is stuck. I seriously hate this hotel and I can't wait to get out of here after spending the past seven days running a recon on Jack Jones, the whiniest man that's ever walked the planet. Being holed up in this God-forsaken room that constantly smells like stale cigarettes and cheap wine is starting to make me feel like I'm even more bat-s**t crazy than I already am. I loosely drop my hands back to my sides and exhale sharply as I face the door once more, rolling my neck from side to side before turning into my round-house kicking stance. Since we are finally leaving this hotel tomorrow morning, I guess there really isn't any use in keeping the door fully functional in the AP anymore. In one fluid motion, I drive my foot into the space right beneath the handle with force. Once I hear the screws pop out and drop to the floor with a clink, I throw my hands in the air and spin around in a circle, doing a little victory dance as the door swings open.

"Oh thank Christ, I'm officially free of this infernal door," I exclaim as I motion my hands towards the sky. I brush myself off and step into the hotel room, kicking the screws to the right with my boot. As I stride past the pastel yellow bathroom on my left, I finally reach the bedside and sigh with relief as I stare down at my physical body lying atop a terribly worn crimson comforter. Everything is as it should be and no one has been in the room since I've been gone, I am sure of it. Dani paints inscriptions on the door of our hotel rooms in the realm of the living as a precautionary measure every time I go into the AP. It bars any negative entities from coming through the threshold to harm my body while I am on a mission.

With one more successful kill in the books and another $250,000 soon to be in the bank, I feel like I am on cloud 9 and I'm desperately ready to get back to the real world to celebrate with Denali. We typically commemorate each triumphant mission by finding a local bar or club, getting black-out drunk and possibly giving some random stranger the best s*x of his life. Granted, I'm usually much more aggressive than Dani when it comes to locating a temporary male companion for the night so I get laid far more frequently than she does, but she'll branch out a few times per month if time permits. Overall, it is a total win-win situation for me no matter what because I either get inebriated, laid or both.

With a victorious smile plastered to my face, I gently climb onto the mattress and lower myself down onto my body, closing my eyes as the world around me goes black.