Swaying, cheering, and raucous shouting makes it hard to part the crowd. The man pushes his way through, heading directly for the bathroom. I slide into the gaps that form in the moving mass, like liquid seeking cracks to escape through.
The unfinished walls of the bathroom are little more than rickety wooden panels surrounding a deep hole in the ground for privacy. I don’t need privacy to do what has to be done tonight. Though, discretion when breaking the law is necessary.
Technically, this side of the wall has no rules, no law that any man who passes through should follow. If you live here though, you know the city follows another, more silent and deadly set of laws put in place by the many bands of criminals who litter the decaying streets. I am about to break the first law. It’s my job to skirt around that particularly bothersome law.
First, do not commit murder unless you are prepared to die or flee for your life. Which is exactly why I make a habit of never getting caught. I like to walk the line between secrecy and blatantly killing a man in public. A shiver of excitement travels down my spine at the thought. No one expects such a slight, unarmed girl to be killing.
Second, don’t poach business. That tends to piss off gangs and can cause very messy and bloody disputes. Between the Vampires that run business from the Pleasure-Seeking District, down to the Merchant Market and the Elves that trade in the Magic Corner, we had enough gang wars.
The last law is really my own personal rule. Trust no one. The Bend is riddled with liars, thieves, and con artists. Many of whom I pass before stepping behind the stall wall.
Shock in shades of crimson bloom on the stranger’s face as he grips his unbuckled trousers, fighting the way his body threatens to tip over. He remains squatted, pant-less and vulnerable. My favorite way to find a man.
“This is taken,” he says on a grumbled rough breath, “find another stall!”
“I have the right stall.” I nudge my cloak, letting my fingers skim the hilts of my daggers.
Some men cower before their deaths, begging for the chance to live. Some men promise me coin, protection, or other things I always refuse. A few other men meet their death with pride. They fight for their lives and accept death as it takes them over. Men like this, like the Orc with the wooden leg, they don’t even see their death coming.
The Orc makes a move for his pants, or a weapon, or even possibly his dick. I don’t care what he is reaching for. All I care about is the warmth of the hilt of both daggers in my palm as I guide their slender blades into the curve of his neck.
Blood bubbles from the man’s lips, the shockingly scarlet liquid gurgling deep in his throat. With both large wart-covered hands he reaches up to cover the gaping holes. His eyes look lost, searching for answers as his mouth moves with unidentifiable words.
“You deserve this,” I say through clenched teeth, sliding one of my blades back into its scabbard. “You deserve this.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
The leather covering my legs groans as I squat down low over the piss stained floor. My hands find his blood-soaked chin and I dig my nails into his thick skin, watching blood spill from the wound. “You. Deserve. This.”
Inhaling his fear, I breathe in his death as his body finally sags against the ground and the shoddy wooden boards hiding us. I try to tame my growing smile as I pick up the dead Orc’s hand and saw off his thumb. An ear, nose, finger, or any other small body part is usually enough for Genovese to give the legends he owes me. So I hum a pleasant tune as I pocket the meaty appendage. With great care, I make sure both daggers are hidden behind my waistband, knowing I will eat well for the next week thanks to this kill.
Stepping out from the latrine, I tug a cloak that rests on the back of a chair. It belongs to a customer so far drunk he is slurring his words at a painting on the wall. I use it to wipe the blood splatter from my boots.
The bar is as it was when I stepped away from it. Not a soul gives me a second glance as I melt into the crowd once more. I mean to march right up to Genovese’s office to collect my coin, my boots smacking the ground with determined steps, but the conversation between the bartender and the new Elf I’d seen earlier catches my ear.
“I’m late. Send Mr. Genovese my sincerest apologies. Hell, I’ll talk to him myself if you just let me through,” The airy male voice says.
Coming to a halt, with the toe of my boots balancing in the doorway to the stairwell, I cock my head to the side. The hood of my cloak keeps the new patron from my view, but I can hear the echo of my mistake in every word he exchanges with the bartender.
“Listen, I can’t do that,” The bartender says, setting a glass mug down against the counter with a loud thud.
“I’ll have the money for him soon. I promise.”
In all the years that I’ve been in this business, I’d never met a mistake. There have been mistakes that I’ve quickly amended, or hastily forgotten about, but never had the mistake been so blatantly obvious as this one.
So this has to be some sort of joke. Because if he’s late on his payment then he should be dead. If he’s so desperate to talk to Genovese, then he knows there’s a bounty on his head. But he’s alive, and I won’t
