Chapter 19

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His gaze swept lazily across the room, his eyes taking note of the finery that surrounded him. Lazily, he drew one of the knives from his belt and began cleaning his fingernails. Flicking dried dirt, no… dried blood, definitely blood, from them. The man sitting behind the mahogany desk narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He knew better.

He paused the cleaning of his nails long enough to hold the gaze of the richly dressed man. He smiled at him, sweetly, and cocked his head to the side. It was just him and the man in the room. It’d be so easy to kill him. So simple. Life was so, so, so fragile, after all.

The man behind the desk cleared his throat, his fingers interlaced atop his desk and straightened his back. It was clear he was trying not to let his nerves show. They were all like that, when it came to dealing with him. But it was only fair. After all, fear was the appropriate response when dealing with a demon.

“I’m sure you’ve an idea of why you’ve been summoned here, Mr. Thompson.”

The man cocked his head at the name. Oh, right, that was his name. James Thompson. His parents had given him the name. No, perhaps not parents? Because what type of parents would throw an eight-year-old out on the streets? What parents would abandon their child the moment something was strange? He growled and shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. His mind was too clear. He’d fix that the moment this was done.

“You’ve someone you need killed,” Mr. Thompson said, his tone bored. “And it’s a big enough threat to you that you need my services.”

He only got called in when they were truly in trouble. He didn’t care though. They paid extremely well. And money was all he cared about. After all, he needed money to buy the knives he loved. He needed money to buy the clothes he loved. And he needed money, to buy the only thing that could give him solace in this world. Opium, after all, was not cheap. Speaking of… he pulled his flask from his coat pocket and took a quick swig. The laudanum, a mixture of alcohol and opium rushed down his throat, not even pausing to leave a taste on his tongue. He preferred the sweet smoke, which was much more effective, but the man before him had a tendency to ramble, and he figured he might as well prepare himself. The quick fix also helped his bloodlust subside. He was, as always, so very hungry…

“Indeed. It has come to my attention that a bit of trouble out West threatens my plans. And as you know, my plans, are important to the plans of… others.” The man was of course alluding to the Golden Circle. But they never felt like actually saying that fact out loud. Their secrecy didn’t bother him though. After all, he knew full well who they were. The Golden Circle was his family. His true family. They’d taken him in, given him a purpose, and gave him the means to be useful. All while ensuring he had plenty of jobs and money to enjoy life as best someone like him could.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“And who, exactly, is it I need to kill?” Mr. Thomspon asked lazily. He was back to cleaning out his nails. His last target had been some rich politician. Before that, what was it, an innkeeper? A lawman? They all blurred together. All he ever remembered was the final look on their faces, as he drove his knife into their heart, and the taste of their mana, as it fled their bodies into his. A sweeter intoxication than even opium, the final dredges of mana fleeing a dying body were true euphoria.

“A former,” the man stressed the words, and Mr. Thompson laughed, “employee of mine. One who’s usefulness has dried up, and who’s tongue I can only imagine will wag the wrong way when under pressure.”

“And where, pray tell, is he currently?” Mr. Thompson’s tone was bored now. That wasn’t exciting. But, a job was a job.

“He’s being taken to a Marshall safehouse,” the man before him said, and the words caused his attention to flicker back to the present. A Marshall safehouse? Those always proved… delicious.

“Tell me more,” Mr. Thompson said, his knife quickly back in its sheath, his full focus turned now towards the speaker. “Tell me exactly what you know, Mr. Watts, and I’ll see to it your former employee is dead before the end of the week.”

The man behind the desk relaxed at the statement and smiled. He unlaced his fingers, and grabbed the crystalline decanter atop his desk, and poured himself a drink.

“As always,” Mr. Watts said as he put the stopper back on his decanter, and he held his drink up towards his lips, “your professionalism, skills, and services, are greatly appreciated.” He took a long sip, his eyes closing as he let out a content sigh. Once he placed it back down, his face reflected the bloodlust that Mr. Thompson felt growing within. “I figured, once you’d heard that particular detail, that you’d be more than happy to take this job. After all,” he chuckled, “I know about your… love of the Marshall’s.”

Mr. Thompson returned the smile. He loved Marshall’s all right. When it came down to it, US Marshalls were, without a doubt, his favorite prey to hunt. But killing them was often seen as too much of a risk, and he was often forbidden from doing so. Whatever it was this man had on Mr. Watts, it was damning enough that that particular restriction was being lifted. Meaning, Mr. Thompson thought, he’d have to personally thank the target, for drawing the wrath of the Golden Circle, before he killed him. It was, after all, the least he could do.

He licked his lips, and took an involuntary step forward, his excitement getting the best of him. Almost immediately, Mr. Watt’s flinched, and Mr. Thompson tasted a whiff of the man’s mana. It was rich and dense, befitting a man of Mr. Watt’s station. He stepped back, before he could consume too much, putting himself just far enough away from the man so as to not make him uncomfortable. After all, the sooner he heard the details of this job, the sooner, he could hunt.

“Apologies,” Mr. Thompson said, his apology more to himself, for delaying the process, than to Mr. Watts, who was working hard to regain his nerve. For someone with as bloody a reputation as him, being so close to someone such as Mr. Thompson, who could kill him without a single thought, put him on edge. The powerful, after all, didn’t like being reminded of their mortality, or of being made to feel weak.

“No no,” Mr. Watts shook his head, and cleared his throat, as color returned to his face. “It’s quite all right. Now then,” he cleared his throat once more, his voice deepening as he tried to regain an aura of power, “here’s everything I know.”