Someone clears their throat behind me, and I rip the knife from the dead guy’s throat.
A tall man, with ruddy cheeks, dark hair, and puffing on a cigar, stares down at me. Dressed in a worn leather jacket and scuffed boots, he doesn’t look intimidating. I can certainly take him—but I see his eyes. They halt me from reacting further.
I recognize a glint in those dark eyes. A gleam of madness, a spark of insanity that will come out and strike if pushed too far. It’s the look of a predator who hasn’t been tested yet, but will kill if given the chance. I see the same look in my eyes in my reflection. The mark of a killer.
“Put it down,” he says, gesturing to the knife. A thick Irish accent flavors his words, and I swallow. Flicking away ash, he puts the tip back into his mouth. “You won’t need it with me.”
“Doubtful.”
He comes to my side, nodding once as he looks at the bodies. “Messy. You’ll have to learn to clean up your technique if you want to stay out of jail.”
I gulp, ready to attack. “Jail?” I’m not fucking going to jail. I’m never going to be locked up again.
“I’m not with the cops, boy.” He shakes his head, puffing on the end. The red light flares in the dark. “But I could use someone with your talents.”
I snort. Talents? What talents? “Killing hardly seems like a skill someone would want.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
With a hand on my shoulder, he steers me further away, hiding our footsteps as he goes. I didn’t think about that. I only saw red—and heard the screams. Then, I disassociated. Anyone could’ve found me. He might’ve just saved my life.
A running car waits by the entrance, the warmth of the lush leather seats seeping into the cold night. He inclines his head. “This is what I’m offering. You come home with me, and I’ll give you a bed, clean clothes, and food. And a purpose.”
Rolling my eyes, I step away. “No thanks. You’re not my type.”
The man laughs, a loud, boisterous sound that rings out around us. “No, no, boy. I’d want to employ you. Be my reaper. I need someone like you in my clan.”
Clan?
My mind spins, trying to figure out where I’ve heard that before. It’s familiar, a niggling in the back of my head, like an old memory. Maybe something from my time back home, but I can’t place it.
But I agree. If he’s offering a bed and food, I can easily take advantage and run out in the morning.
The car ride is long, and the heat lulls me into safety. The man introduces himself as Ferguson O’Brien, and he talks about himself, the world he lives in, and where he sees me fitting in. It’s a grand plan—an assassin for hire, loyal only to him.
All I want is a meal.
Entering his home, I’m assaulted by the smell of whiskey, old oak, and stability. It doesn’t smell sterile like the hospital, or of sewage like the camp, or cold and terrifying like my old home. This is a kind of comfort I’ve never experienced before, and Iexhale, shoulders dropping as something unwinds in my gut for the first time in my life.
“Who areyou?” a feminine voice asks to my right, and I have to look down to see her. Dressed in an old jacket, worn jeans, and dirty sneakers, she’s a tiny thing with dark hair, an elfin chin, and big green eyes—too big for such a small face.
“Maeve,” Ferguson reprimands, the brogue in his voice turning on thick. She barely reacts. “Meet Killian. Our new guest.”
She raises an eyebrow, and I fight back the urge to laugh. She doesn’t like that.
“Help him get settled.”
Now her eyes narrow. Twin flames flicker in those deep emeralds, and I grin, amused. She’s going to be fun.
Turning on her heel without another word, she leads me through the mansion. Old, like a fairytale castle, it’s decorated with suits of armor, old coats of arms, and large. elegant canvases of detailed paintings. My eyes catch on those, taking in the details, drinking in the colors and brushstrokes. I’ve always been drawn to art, but never given the chance to practice, so this is like my amusement park.
We stop at a door in the far back, down the hall from the kitchen. I’m sure it was meant to be a maid’s room, but it’s larger than the closet I used to sleep in. With a four-poster bed, soft, creamy linens, and a small fireplace, it’s grand.Clean. Homely.
“Here.”
“Thanks.” I walk past her, and she wrinkles her nose.
“You need to shower.”
