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 ofhisfamily. 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 fuckingsilentwhen 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.
