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Some content may be too graphic for younger readers.
Lethal Desire
Cautiously, Quinten picked his way through the rubble and remanents of his latest victim, careful to avoid the ash and smouldering planks of wood and metal so as to not leave any footprints.
After several minutes, he found what he was searching for- a small, and slightly charred, ring. The one thing that would provide his client with proof that he had carried out his task to a pristine standard.
As usual.
"Good riddance," he murmured, making one final leap across a pile of scorched bricks, smoke rising high into the air and disappearing into oblivion.
==============================================
"What do you call this?" Morgan demanded, shooting a glare at Quinten and sending shivers of pure ice shooting down his spine. He reverted his attention back to the small ring that had been presented to him, scowling at it.
"You asked for her ring, so I grabbed it after the fire." Quinten shrugged a little, standing against the wall with his hands firmly behind him. He possessed deep respect for Morgan, matched only by the subtle hint of fear behind it.
Morgan was tall and muscular, the scars camoflaging his body a trophy of a lifetime's training, a story of numerous battles- but he was most notorious for his ruthless assains.
If you did the job to his standards, you'd be rewarded greatly. However, failure to adhere could have lethal consequences.
Quinten's head snapped up as Morgan let out a low snarl, at his side in less than five seconds. Reaching into his pocket, he brung out a small pocket knife, pressing the deadly tip into the top of Quinten's throat.
The tip that Quinten knew all too well.
"You were meant to be subtle, not set the damned place alight." Morgan whispered, pressing the tip of the blade further against his assassin- enough to draw blood, but not enough to leave any lasting damage.
Quinten replied evenly, meeting Morgan's intent and chilling gaze, but knowing better than to flinch away. "I wasn't caught, I never have been. You know that."
After a minute's stand-off, Morgan took a step away, not deinging to look at Quinten any more. "Your ignorance and arrogance will be your downfall, Tessel. Mark my words," he muttered, his hand resting atop the carved brass handle on the door. "Your next assignment is waiting for you in your sleeping quarters. Burn it when you have seen it."
*****
Upon dismissal, Quinten ambled back to his room, not in a rush to discover who his next victim would be. Doing a quick double-take over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed, he slipped through his door, into the room beyond- and another person's inevitable fate.
Silently picking the envelope up, Quinten pried Morgan's seal from the flap, tearing the letter out of it with dying patience. It slid out easily after that.
Tentatively, he reached for the letter, flipping it over in his hands to reveal Morgan's scrawled, left-slanted handwriting, showing only two words: a first name and a surname.
"Charlie Lindén."
*********
The weeks following the revelation of Quinten's next victim were filled with steady research and planning for the task, including the method of death. 'Subtle but elaborate,' Morgan had demanded, and his previous payment had been enough to invest in new weapons, training, research, and then some! Quinten planned to put these to the test as soon as possible.
"It's nice to see you planning, for once."
Like a dog disturbed from sleep, Quinten jumped with a start. "Morgan!" He exclaimed, his head snapping to the left where Morgan stood, an amused smirk playing on his lips. He crossed his arms, shaking his head in mild disapproval. "Quinten, you are an assassin... a pretty decent one at that-" Morgan started, and Quinten felt pride stir within him. This was one of the highest compliments he had gotten from Morgan for a long time. "-and you shouldn't be so easily surprised by my - or anyone's - sudden presence. I'd like to think I trained you better than that."
Sighing, Quinten turned his head back to the notepad, where he had jotted his research down. "What do you want?"
"Firstly," began Morgan, a disinterested expression crossing his face, "for you not to be so snide." Quinten rolled his eyes at that. "Secondly, I was going to tell you that Peters and Kennedy went out on a mission and the armorsmith will not be available for just over a week."
With suspicion, Quinten placed his pen on the desk and studied his master. "Is this a 'mission' like the one Kye went on and never came back from, or one like mine?" When Morgan didn't reply for a few seconds, Quinten raised his gaze. Cautiously -ready for a fight to break out any moment- he asked again. "Morgan?"
A feral smile appeared on Morgan's lips, revealing the deadly glint of his teeth. Morgan had developed a taste for blood, both figuratively and literally. "You should know not to ask such questions," he chided, still grinning, "they are strictly confidential between the assassin, the client and myself." Changing the subject, he asked, "So, what have you found out about your target?"
Quinten had been waiting for that question, and handed Morgan his notepad. "I have a sketch of his house and the surrounding area," he replied. "Better to start with a potential escape, just in case."
Morgan merely nodded, motioning for Quinten to go on.
"I managed to find his guards' positioning, as well. Four on the roof, two out the front, and two inside. He has one trailing him, too."
Morgan's finger tapped on the notepad. "It says here that he has a private house in the midst of the woods. No guards?"
Quinten shook his head. "None. Since it is in a secluded area, he didn't see the point." He replied, and picked up his dagger, flipping it over in his hand. He was about to explain how that would be beneficial when he was interrupted by a hasty knock at the door. Yelling that it was open, a hurried message-porter stepped in. The porter was short, his metallic-copper hair cropped just above his ears, his glasses hanging low on his nose.
"What is it, Travis?" Morgan snapped, his foot shifting irritably on the ornate red rug, lining the wall.
Travis didn't meet Morgan's chilling glare, and flinched when he growled at him again. Quinten, used to Travis' jumpiness, wasn't surpirsed but rolled his eyes all the same. "We're busy here, boy, spit it out."
Turning his attention back to Morgan, Travis pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and held out a letter. "M-message for Tessel, Sir," he stuttered, his hand falling back to his side as Morgan took the letter, tossing it to Quinten, "and Shaye wants to see you in her study as soon as possible."
Morgan rolled his eyes, grumbling to himself. "Ugh," he snorted, like a child seeing broccoli, "what does she want this time? I am not trekking over there, up four flights of stairs, to read over her contracts again." He turned his attention back to Travis, having forgotten he was there. "Thank you, Travis. Dismissed. Oh, and shut the door behind you."
Shoulders sagging in relief, Travis scurried out of the room, the door gently swinging shut with a steady click of the handle.
Curiously, Morgan reverted his attention back to Quinten, who was studying the letter in his hands. "What do you think Shaye wa-?"
He stared at Quinten's desk, his mouth hanging open slightly, as he paused mid-sentence. Walking over to the desk, he slammed his hand down on a book near his elbow. "What the hell is this?!" He demanded, staring at his assassin. His attention was split between him and the book.
"Shakespeare." Quinten replied evenly, without looking up. He was still sudying the letter, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"Goddamnit, Quinten! Why are you wasting your time on this crap?"
Rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh, Quinten looked up at Morgan. "It's just something to hide paper and notes in, in case someone ransacks this place."
Grumbling, Morgan turned around, heading for the door. "Whatever," he retorted, "I should go and see what Shaye wants."
With that, he opened the door and disappeared
Some content may be too graphic for younger readers.
Lethal Desire
Cautiously, Quinten picked his way through the rubble and remanents of his latest victim, careful to avoid the ash and smouldering planks of wood and metal so as to not leave any footprints.
After several minutes, he found what he was searching for- a small, and slightly charred, ring. The one thing that would provide his client with proof that he had carried out his task to a pristine standard.
As usual.
"Good riddance," he murmured, making one final leap across a pile of scorched bricks, smoke rising high into the air and disappearing into oblivion.
==============================================
"What do you call this?" Morgan demanded, shooting a glare at Quinten and sending shivers of pure ice shooting down his spine. He reverted his attention back to the small ring that had been presented to him, scowling at it.
"You asked for her ring, so I grabbed it after the fire." Quinten shrugged a little, standing against the wall with his hands firmly behind him. He possessed deep respect for Morgan, matched only by the subtle hint of fear behind it.
Morgan was tall and muscular, the scars camoflaging his body a trophy of a lifetime's training, a story of numerous battles- but he was most notorious for his ruthless assains.
If you did the job to his standards, you'd be rewarded greatly. However, failure to adhere could have lethal consequences.
Quinten's head snapped up as Morgan let out a low snarl, at his side in less than five seconds. Reaching into his pocket, he brung out a small pocket knife, pressing the deadly tip into the top of Quinten's throat.
The tip that Quinten knew all too well.
"You were meant to be subtle, not set the damned place alight." Morgan whispered, pressing the tip of the blade further against his assassin- enough to draw blood, but not enough to leave any lasting damage.
Quinten replied evenly, meeting Morgan's intent and chilling gaze, but knowing better than to flinch away. "I wasn't caught, I never have been. You know that."
After a minute's stand-off, Morgan took a step away, not deinging to look at Quinten any more. "Your ignorance and arrogance will be your downfall, Tessel. Mark my words," he muttered, his hand resting atop the carved brass handle on the door. "Your next assignment is waiting for you in your sleeping quarters. Burn it when you have seen it."
*****
Upon dismissal, Quinten ambled back to his room, not in a rush to discover who his next victim would be. Doing a quick double-take over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed, he slipped through his door, into the room beyond- and another person's inevitable fate.
Silently picking the envelope up, Quinten pried Morgan's seal from the flap, tearing the letter out of it with dying patience. It slid out easily after that.
Tentatively, he reached for the letter, flipping it over in his hands to reveal Morgan's scrawled, left-slanted handwriting, showing only two words: a first name and a surname.
"Charlie Lindén."
*********
The weeks following the revelation of Quinten's next victim were filled with steady research and planning for the task, including the method of death. 'Subtle but elaborate,' Morgan had demanded, and his previous payment had been enough to invest in new weapons, training, research, and then some! Quinten planned to put these to the test as soon as possible.
"It's nice to see you planning, for once."
Like a dog disturbed from sleep, Quinten jumped with a start. "Morgan!" He exclaimed, his head snapping to the left where Morgan stood, an amused smirk playing on his lips. He crossed his arms, shaking his head in mild disapproval. "Quinten, you are an assassin... a pretty decent one at that-" Morgan started, and Quinten felt pride stir within him. This was one of the highest compliments he had gotten from Morgan for a long time. "-and you shouldn't be so easily surprised by my - or anyone's - sudden presence. I'd like to think I trained you better than that."
Sighing, Quinten turned his head back to the notepad, where he had jotted his research down. "What do you want?"
"Firstly," began Morgan, a disinterested expression crossing his face, "for you not to be so snide." Quinten rolled his eyes at that. "Secondly, I was going to tell you that Peters and Kennedy went out on a mission and the armorsmith will not be available for just over a week."
With suspicion, Quinten placed his pen on the desk and studied his master. "Is this a 'mission' like the one Kye went on and never came back from, or one like mine?" When Morgan didn't reply for a few seconds, Quinten raised his gaze. Cautiously -ready for a fight to break out any moment- he asked again. "Morgan?"
A feral smile appeared on Morgan's lips, revealing the deadly glint of his teeth. Morgan had developed a taste for blood, both figuratively and literally. "You should know not to ask such questions," he chided, still grinning, "they are strictly confidential between the assassin, the client and myself." Changing the subject, he asked, "So, what have you found out about your target?"
Quinten had been waiting for that question, and handed Morgan his notepad. "I have a sketch of his house and the surrounding area," he replied. "Better to start with a potential escape, just in case."
Morgan merely nodded, motioning for Quinten to go on.
"I managed to find his guards' positioning, as well. Four on the roof, two out the front, and two inside. He has one trailing him, too."
Morgan's finger tapped on the notepad. "It says here that he has a private house in the midst of the woods. No guards?"
Quinten shook his head. "None. Since it is in a secluded area, he didn't see the point." He replied, and picked up his dagger, flipping it over in his hand. He was about to explain how that would be beneficial when he was interrupted by a hasty knock at the door. Yelling that it was open, a hurried message-porter stepped in. The porter was short, his metallic-copper hair cropped just above his ears, his glasses hanging low on his nose.
"What is it, Travis?" Morgan snapped, his foot shifting irritably on the ornate red rug, lining the wall.
Travis didn't meet Morgan's chilling glare, and flinched when he growled at him again. Quinten, used to Travis' jumpiness, wasn't surpirsed but rolled his eyes all the same. "We're busy here, boy, spit it out."
Turning his attention back to Morgan, Travis pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and held out a letter. "M-message for Tessel, Sir," he stuttered, his hand falling back to his side as Morgan took the letter, tossing it to Quinten, "and Shaye wants to see you in her study as soon as possible."
Morgan rolled his eyes, grumbling to himself. "Ugh," he snorted, like a child seeing broccoli, "what does she want this time? I am not trekking over there, up four flights of stairs, to read over her contracts again." He turned his attention back to Travis, having forgotten he was there. "Thank you, Travis. Dismissed. Oh, and shut the door behind you."
Shoulders sagging in relief, Travis scurried out of the room, the door gently swinging shut with a steady click of the handle.
Curiously, Morgan reverted his attention back to Quinten, who was studying the letter in his hands. "What do you think Shaye wa-?"
He stared at Quinten's desk, his mouth hanging open slightly, as he paused mid-sentence. Walking over to the desk, he slammed his hand down on a book near his elbow. "What the hell is this?!" He demanded, staring at his assassin. His attention was split between him and the book.
"Shakespeare." Quinten replied evenly, without looking up. He was still sudying the letter, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"Goddamnit, Quinten! Why are you wasting your time on this crap?"
Rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh, Quinten looked up at Morgan. "It's just something to hide paper and notes in, in case someone ransacks this place."
Grumbling, Morgan turned around, heading for the door. "Whatever," he retorted, "I should go and see what Shaye wants."
With that, he opened the door and disappeared
