(2.1) A Date with an Assassin

Chapter 2, Part 1

Before I was hired by the Winter Queen, my apartment was a basement in the bowels of Vegas. Everything I owned at that point was either third hand or removed from its resting place in the city dump. The heat only worked half the time, and the air conditioning only worked when the heat didn’t.

Frankly, I choose not to care where she gets the money that makes its way into my bank account each month. The only thing that matters to me is that I now have enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life.

My apartment now could be a catalogue for IKEA. I’d furnished the living room in navy blue and maroon, a large sofa resided in the center of the room, facing a 37” flat panel television that I’d had mounted on my wall. There were two end-tables at each end of the couch, as well as a coffee table towards the front.

I was happy when I’d bought the set as they matched to color of the hardwood floor. I may be undead, and I may be evil, but damned if I don’t have style.

My favorite accessory to my living room, however, was the fully stocked corner bar that I’d had built custom for this apartment. I hung my sword on the wall nearest the door and made my way over to the bar, pouring myself a white russian. I plopped down on my couch, sipping my drink and weeping inwardly at the recent loss of my jacket when there was a knock at my door.

I raised an eyebrow in the general direction of the knock and simply sat there. If it was important they’d knock again. A moment later, they did.

I got up and made my way to the door, grabbing my sword and looking through the peephole. A young girl, seemingly no older than 16 was looking up and down the hallway, knocking once more on my door before looking at her watch.

She seemed harmless so I opened the door an asked what she wanted.

“James? James Damian?” she asked.

“The one and only, what can I do fo-“

That’s all I got out before a very large gun the size of something Robocop would use poked its way into my door and planted its barrel beneath my chin. The girl nudged open the door a little wider, exposing an ample amount of cleavage that I would generally pay a great deal more attention to had she not been holding me at gunpoint.

She was wearing, of all things, a schoolgirl outfit, a short skirt, skimpy white top covered by what barely passed as a jacket, thigh high stockings and a pair of tennis shoes that matched her skirt.

“I need to talk to you about your recent entanglement in the affairs of Mr. Andre Illiavanno. May I come in?” Her accent was foreign… British perhaps?

I cocked an eyebrow at her. Most people entering someone’s home by use of force don’t bother asking permission. Either she was a very polite hit man, err… hit woman, or she had some supernatural power.

Have you ever walked into a person’s house uninvited? That internal danger sense of “I really shouldn’t be here,” usually starts kicking in. Well, with supernatural beings such as myself, entering a home causes us to lose a majority of our power. Needless to say, it makes us a bit more vulnerable to attack. And trust me when I say, feeling like a part of you is being ripped out every time you walk across a threshold is a quick way of learning to ask first.

I didn’t give her request any form of acknowledgement besides turning my back to her and sliding the door open with my sword as I walked away. She sighed and entered the room as I took a seat, not showing any signs if she had broken my threshold. I grabbed my drink and started gulping it down, motioning to her with my sword to close the door.

She looked at me with a rather confused expression as she closed the door behind her. As I finished my drink I placed the empty glass and my sword on the coffee table and motioned her to sit on the opposite end of the couch.

“I’ll stand thank you.” She said, still brandishing her weapon.

“Well whatever floats your boat.” I replied, “Now, do you mind explaining to me why you find it necessary to hold me up? A simple, ‘Hey, can I ask you something?’ would’ve sufficed.”

“Well Mr. Damian,” She began, “It seems as if you’ve been murdering my associates.”

I quirked an eyebrow before responding, “Oh really? And what proof do you have of me killing these people?”

She smiled then, placing one hand on her hip and gesturing at me with the gun. “How many people do you know kill someone by setting someone on fire, electrocuting them, or simply cutting off their heads?”

I started counting on my fingers.

Then she shot me.

What a great day huh?