Before the Prowlers boarded The Express, Sara gave watches to Nathan and Timothy outside the train station. She explained, “These watches are called Gigs. On the side of them, there are buttons. The red one is a signal for help. It will beep at the rest of our Gigs, and we will come to find you. We can find your location on them since it’s like a GPS tracker, wherever you are.”
“The rest of the buttons aren’t important; one gives you a timer, another lets you set the time, and the other buttons let you track your heart rate and such.” The youngest Prowler stared at her Gig at the little mechanisms and finished, “I guess the green button lets you see if we are alive or not, but a distress beep will go off if one of our heartbeats starts accelerating rapidly before we die.”
The Nephilim looked at her in disbelief. With a light scoff, he joked, “Is there a pill compartment like in movies? I need to take one if someone tortures me for classified information."
Glaring dead eyes at him and not finding his joke amusing at all, Sara stated bluntly, “Don’t get captured; it should be a simple task. If you are struggling in anyway, press the red button.” She twirled around in her fashionable combat boots, her long black hair smacking Nathan’s face as a warning.
When the teenagers headed to the train, they agreed to separate so catching the wizards and witches would be easier.
Now Sara gazed out of the window in amazement. The train ride was bumper than she expected, but a glee of delight shone on her countenance. One of the reasons she loved going on missions was to see the world outside the Celestial Realm.
The train was heading out from San Francisco into Las Vegas and further, but the Prowlers were expected to finish the operation when they arrived in Las Vegas, with plenty of amble time. Once finished, they were to be transported back to the Realm immediately.
As she watched the landscape zoom by cities from the countryside, Sara tugged her cloak, choking her throat slightly from where she was sitting. If the cloak had been tugged any harder, the clasp on it would release for protection.
Unlike her friends, who blended in the crowd with their plain wardrobes and did not stand out, Sara had worn her Gothic outfit to be at ease in public places since she could have social anxiety. She already wondered if the boys and Kate were doing alright, her hands clenched on her miniskirt apprehensively about this mission.
The assassin was always prepared for the worst, her weapons hidden but ready to be used at any given moment.
Even as she tried to relax and enjoy the view, hearing about the illegal smuggling opened her mind and caused her worry. She thought the supernatural was a dignified race and wanted to stray away from humans. Her father told her that the potions were advanced drugs—supposedly from mundane standpoints—healthier and worked better than their regular medicine.
However, these drugs weren’t only to repair broken bones or a dying liver; they could have someone become younger or give them a dream-like state where someone’s wishes become almost reality as they are passed out on the floor. These elixirs were disapproved by the Choirs because, unfortunately, most Galas who sold these remedies were more drug dealers than healers.
People went to these wizards and witches for help, but instead, they were better off going to their mundane medical practices than the magical potions and liars. Sara couldn’t believe how stupid humans could be sometimes, but she tried to understand that some were willing to pay any price to get out of their hopelessness and be happy once again.
Thinking in reverse of why the Galas offered such dangerous medicine, she knew far too well that few cared to help and most wanted to be paid abundantly. Magic couldn’t solve everything, like conquering money out of nowhere. Most supernatural creatures had to manage to support themselves; however, Sara thought that was no excuse for smuggling drugs that harmed humans.
Galas aren’t so different from the normality of everyone else…
“Do you have your ticket?” an attendant asked politely, snapping the girl out of her deep trance.
With a tired nod, Sara handed her ticket but gazed with suspicion at whether this woman was a witch. Not sensing any frisson from her, she leaned back in her blue fabric seat. Adrenaline rushed through her veins from what her father ordered her to do—kill these witches and wizards.
When she watched the video of them killing humans, her reaction was shocked and angered, ready to slaughter them for their selfishness. Yet as the assassin sat alone and pondered these Galas’ choices, she wondered if they had to sell these drugs as an easy way to help their loved ones.
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Tightening her jaw, Sara pushed her thoughts away and forced herself to do the task at hand. She dug her nails into her thighs, remembering that these wizards and witches had murdered innocent lives to protect themselves.
Do I have to kill them for their actions?
She shook her head to shove that idea away. The Prowler was taught to slay anyone who brought pain to the world.
Could they learn from their actions without the punishment of death? No, the question is—can the Harmonies learn to find mercy?
From the unnerving inquiries her brain refused to neglect, Sara chewed her nails. Goosebumps prickled along her skin as she sensed frisson in the air. This mission seemed mighty lucky because she didn’t have to feel who had the magical presence.
A witch was seated next to her, ignoring the Prowler as if she didn’t exist, a mere ghost coexisting between life and death—although she could’ve looked like one due to her pale skin.
Sara recognized the woman from the footage, disgust, and pity igniting within her, yet she masked her expression. To the human eye, the witch seemed to be wearing a regular jacket, but it had pockets filled with endless dimensions where she stored drugs and potions.
Although this kind of jacket was noticeable to Galas, who studied magical outfits, anyone wearing it would look like they were carrying an invisible extra thirty pounds. These attires were expensive and rare to buy, so she was surprised to see one on the witch. Usually, powerful statues like the High-warlock would be known to wear trench coats with endless dimensions pockets.
Since she was a child, Sara had been wanting one, but even her father hadn’t been able to find that certain type of clothing. She wouldn’t dare wear the jacket from a murder and decided for Kate to burn it with heavenly fire once she got her hands on it.
Before the witch could catch her looking, the assassin glanced out the window. Sara had to come up with an excuse to get the woman away from the passengers so she could discreetly kill her. Raising her hand to the bra clip on her back, she pretended to be struggling to fix it. “Damn it, how did you get unloose?”
Her patience died off after a few minutes of faking her bra had been unclipped. She asked, trying to look and sound embarrassed. “Hey, I pulled a muscle lifting a suitcase for an old man, and my arm hurts to grab the hooks. Would you mind helping me?”
“Sure, take off your…cape?” The witch replied and put her backpack on top of the shelf above them.
Sara mumbled, “It’s a cloak, not a cape.” Purposely gazing around with wide eyes, she whispered, “Could we, umm…go to the bathroom? I don’t want to lift my shirt with everyone here."
“I’ll turn my back so no one will see,” said the witch with flat eyes.
Hunching her shoulder and thinking of that happening, Sara shuddered. “Can we go to the restroom instead? I don’t want perverts to be looking.”
“Alright,” the witch mumbled with a defeated sigh. They started to the restroom, the assassin grabbed her dagger underneath her skirt, hiding her hand behind her cloak, and was saddened by what she had to do.
While they walked between the rows of seats, the witch halted in her tracks and eyed the girl. “You look familiar.”
Sara’s heart dropped into her stomach, wondering why the heck this woman was being annoying. “I don’t think we have ever met.” At any rate, she hardly left the Celestial Realm; it would be highly unlikely the witch could recognize her.
“No, I’m pretty sure I know you,” acknowledged the witch. “Weren’t you there at the bank a few months ago? Wait, you were the one who led Dr. Pitch to prison. I remember your cape.” She accused, her gray eyes narrowing with hatred, “If Dr. Pitch hadn’t escaped again from your Harmonies’ incompetency, he would’ve died because of you!”
Taking a step back, the witch observed her and proclaimed, “You aren’t lifting your bra strips as if they weren’t falling off."
Sara was speechless, and her jaw slacked slightly in shock. Before she had time to say anything, the Gala darted away. With a gasp, the assassin raced after her and refused to let her get away, killing innocent people—and calling her cloak a cape instead. The passengers gawked at them.
The witch glared behind her, bolting to the next passenger train. Sara guessed, heading to get help from her other comrades. She couldn’t let that happen by any means. Exhaling softly and closing her eyes, the next compartment’s door locked with her magic. Only letting a little of her frisson out, she was quick to hide her powers, which no other Galas could sense.
With no succession of opening the door, the witch swirled around to see the Prowler close enough that she couldn’t threaten to kill the humans if she came any closer. Instead, she slid the door leading outside and climbed up the rails to the roof, running to get into another compartment.
Quick on her feet, Sara dashed to the door. The wind gushed to her body and the outside blurred, her heart pounding like a meat hammer in her chest.
She heard footsteps echo away, and Sara had to get to the witch before she warned the others. Gritting her teeth, Sara climbed onto the rails, grabbing the bars tightly as if her life depended on them. She flipped up in the air, arching all her weight to one side and landing on top of the train; the wind smacked her face and her hair whipped behind her.
Sara chased after the criminal, and her boots clunked on the train’s roof as she tried to catch her, who glanced behind her shoulder, staring horrified at the girl close to her heels. The woman picked up speed and faced forward.
From the speed of the train and her running towards it unnoticed, the witch’s body splattered against the bricked bridge archway.
Blood sprayed on the bricks, The Express’s roof, and the young assassin, but Sara had more things to worry about. Sara had to manage to get out of the way before she became the next victim of the bridge archway.