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Chapter Two

Writer's picture: Paige ReganPaige Regan

The stench of alcohol hit her as soon as she stepped into Crow's office. Ashe wrinkled her nose, sidestepping a cluster of empty bottles that had rolled across the room. An outdated TV droned on in the corner, flickering images of black and white with a high-pitched peel Ashe had never grown accustomed to. How could Crow tolerate it? The only other light came from the standing lamp behind the desk, its shade dusty and splotched with dark stains no one bothered to clean. The office was not large, but the trash on the floor coupled with the bulky furniture left Ashe to wonder if this wasn't a storage closet that Crow had been left to rot away in.


"It's too early for this shit," he grumbled from his desk. 


"It's almost dinnertime," Ashe replied.


Crow harrumphed but did not meet her gaze. The middle-aged man had practically morphed into his office chair. Back bent and feet kicked up on his desk, the old brown leather sagged underneath his weight, torn and cracked where his body frequently creased the hide. A red mark colored his wrinkled face where he'd rested it against his arms the night before. That paired with the upset state of his black hair told Ashe that he hadn't left that spot since last night: asleep, or he had been, until she came pounding at his door.


"I'm busy," Crow said. He flippantly browsed a stack of papers on his desk. A few were creased where he'd passed out on them.


"What are those? Contracts?" Ashe peered over his shoulder with interest. Names, requests, hits, collateral; her eyes lit up as she greedily took in every scrap of information. Ashe plucked the pile of papers from his desk, tossing them onto the floor with the others as she flipped through them.


Crow snatched the rest of the pile from her hands and rubbed his eyes, though it did little to help him focus. Ashe had a feeling this was the first time he'd bothered to look at any of them. Typical. "They're piling up. There's not an assassin in this place that can knock these out like Rath used to."


"It's not like you're handing them out like you used to, either." Crow turned his chair so she couldn't get a good look at the reports. Miffed, Ashe climbed onto his desk instead and sat with her legs crossed, like a child demanding their father's attention. "What's with that, Crow? Can't handle being in charge?"


"You talk a lot of shit for someone that doesn't do anything."


"Whose fault is that?"


He ignored her and flipped to another page. "I'd trade a thousand and one of you for one Jason Rath if I could. At least he could get work done, unlike these idiots."


Ashe stiffened. "I know how much money I bring in – and how much you take from me." Anger seeped into her voice. "I'm the hottest thing in the Gate right now. Everybody wants me. So, where's the kraks? Did you drink it all away?"


Crow tapped his fingers impatiently against the desk and regarded her evenly. Ashe wondered what he saw; the sultry advertisement he printed on business cards or the little girl he forced into this business? "What do you want, Ashe?"


Her fingers clenched into fists against the desk. What didn't she want? The question was a loaded gun to her head. She kept her voice low, both for her own sake and because she couldn't speak past the lump in her throat. "It's hard to work. He watches everything I do."


Ashe didn't need to specify who he was. Crow's fingers steepled together, their tentative peace disturbed by his presence yet again–Crow's brother, the co-leader of No. X and the finest assassin in the Gate: Charien. 


"Forget meeting clients or johns," Ashe continued in a whispered rush, as if she could speak fast enough to stop the tears before they came. "He pours over every contract you give me. He gets angry if he thinks a job requires me to sleep with a guy. I can't work like this–I can't live like this! He won't let me go. He won't–" Her voice cracked. She scrubbed the moisture from her eyes before it could become anything more.


Crow did not look at her for a long time. He stared at the wall behind her, his icy blue eyes cast off in a faraway gaze. She knew what his answer would be before he said it.


"And what do you want me to do? Are you here for help? You know better." There was a steeliness to his voice, a sharp edge that–no matter how often she came here–managed to leave her stung and bleeding. It was times like these he fancied playing leader, but he was nothing more than a rusty knife carving her up for the slaughter. "Keep your head down, do whatever jobs you can, and shut up. You're mouthy and it gets you in trouble."


She'd heard this speech before. Several times. Be a good girl and you won't get hurt, was the gist of it. But good girls don't get hurt–they get fucked over.


Whatever vulnerability Ashe had shone vanished just as quickly it came, sharpened like a blade. She glared down at Crow with contempt. "You let him kill Jason."


"And here we go again!" Crow threw his hands up into the air, exasperated. "Where were you, huh?"


"I was covered in his blood," Ashe seethed. She could still feel the sticky fluid against her skin wreaking of iron and gore. It was impossible to wash away. "I watched him die while you sat back like a coward. You let him do whatever he wants." She leaned forward into his hungover face, making no attempt to hide the disgust as his sour breath hit her nostrils. "Are you that afraid of him?"


Crow was silent. She'd pushed too far again. Ashe could see him closing off, pulling away and folding in on himself like a stack of cards.


"Ashe." He spoke her name carefully but with warning. "Shut up. You shouldn't talk about that shit anymore. It's time to let it go."


There was no point in arguing against him, Ashe knew. She'd lost this fight. Again.


She climbed off of the desk but could not quell the tremble in her hands. There was a storm brewing inside of her chest. Her heart beat to the sound of wardrums in her ears as her blood pounded in her veins, screaming for escape. Screaming for justice.


"Give me a job," Ashe said flatly. She could barely hear her own words over the maelstrom in her chest. "Give me a contract: a guy, a kill, I don't care. He doesn't have to know. Don't you remember how much money I could make?"


"Yeah, you were a real hit at the docks. I was swimming in kraks." The sarcasm that punctuated each word felt like a punch to the face. Her cheeks burned with the faint memories of Crow slapping her. It felt like ages since then, but the recollection was clear in her mind. Charien wasn't the only one who thought she was too mouthy.


"I miss Jason." She wasn't even sure she said it aloud. The heat in her chest seemed to simmer down, evaporating until there was nothing left but a tired husk.


"He's all you talk about anymore."


What else was there to talk about? Her life was fucked. Ashe knew what they wanted from her–the constant expectations that ripped her of any identity at all–but that was not who she was. Why couldn't they see that?


"I loved him. Nobody's ever loved me like that." Something within her skull pulsed, painful and sharp. Her breath quickened. Ashe gripped the wall to keep her steady, but she wasn't seeing the office anymore; she was seeing blood. So much of it, all over the walls, the floor, her arms– Ashe pressed a hand against her mouth to stop herself from vomiting. "I can't forget him; what he looked like that night. I can't stop thinking about it. He reached for me and then Charien–"


"Enough!"


Crow slammed his hands against his desk. Glass bottles rattled and fell, disappearing into the mess on the floor.


Ashe snapped out of it. For a dehydrated drunk, Crow rose from his chair with surprising ease. Up close, she could see just how parched his skin was. When was the last time this man had a glass of water?


She had outgrown the impulse to flinch long ago; instead, Ashe braced herself for what was to come. Her spine stiffened and she lifted her chin to meet his gaze head-on. If he wanted to hit her, the least he could do was look her in the eye as he did it.


This time he did not touch her. "It's time you moved on. You shouldn't have fallen for him and you damn well know it. For fuck's sake, Ashe, why can't you accept what you have? Nobody here goddamn fights like you do! It doesn't matter what I give you; you want more!" He ran a frustrated hand through his greasy hair. "How about I kill you if you're so unhappy? How about I end it all for you?"


It was not the direction Ashe had anticipated their argument going, but it was not the first time he'd made such promises. It was a game, this age-old argument; Ashe could almost predict his every reaction. She felt like an actor on stage, reading her lines for an invisible audience.


She laughed, purposefully cocking her head to the side so that her red eye was hidden behind a curtain of blonde bangs. Her blue eye stared back at him tauntingly. "You wouldn't do that. I look too much like her."


The word had its intended effect. Crow collapsed back into his office chair, the energy siphoned out of him. 


Ashe knew about her all too well. She had never met her–the woman was long dead–but Ashe could never shake off her ghost. The beautiful and elegant Alice: her memory clung to Ashe like a curse. Ashe's resemblance to her was never far from the mind of the men around her. She caught Crow staring at her sometimes, a sad and wistful look in his eyes, until she opened up her mouth and shattered the illusion. 


Ashe took a special pleasure in doing this to Crow, but Charien was not so easy. He spoke of Alice with reverence; a woman to which no other could compare. He would enumerate Alice's virtues as he violated her, insisting that she model herself after what he deemed the bastion of perfect femininity. She could never measure up–nor did she want to.


At the mention of Alice, Crow never failed to crumble back into the pathetic shell of a man that he was. After all, Alice had been his wife. 


"Get out," Crow said. His voice had lost all of its bluster. "I'm busy. It's hard enough without Rath around."


Ashe's smile was sharp and unforgiving as she regarded her deplorable boss. There was no fight left in him, especially not against her. "Are you actually going to do anything about it this time, or are you going to drink yourself stupid again?"


Crow said nothing. He slumped forward on the desk, his eyes looking at the contracts but unseeing. Ashe felt a pang of pity for him but it left just as quickly as she abandoned his office.


+++


The hallway was no better in terms of its rankness. To call it a hallway would be generous; the tunnels that made up No. X's headquarters snaked through the west side of Hells Gate, winding and twisting back to false sewer grates and sketchy basements to establishments they'd built up over the years. A night club was aboveground from them this very minute, the music pounding up and down the block and enticing drunken customers to step inside and let loose of their morals and spare kraks. Ashe couldn't hear a lick of it through the thick cement walls.


No. X had been cared for once. Supposedly. All Ashe knew of the place was the rot that permeated its walls and the miserable draft that came through every winter.


Like a cockroach that never died, Savannah appeared beside Crow's office door, her gaze flickering to the clouded window as if it would give her answers. She was a small girl for being fifteen–not even tall enough to reach Ashe's shoulder–with her father's hard blue eyes and red hair that she'd not-so-expertly chopped herself when it got past her chest. The attempt was so poor that Sav kept most of it bundled in a ponytail, just like the rest of her body; layers upon layers of black clothes she insisted on keeping because it was "always freezing" in the tunnels. 

The two of them together made quite a pair. Ashe herself was tall and thin, having finally grown into the willowy limbs she'd inherited, and long blonde hair that she only had professionally trimmed when it became unmanageable. Aside from the small defect of her heterochromia–one eye blue, the other red and cursed with Arothian blood–that Charien preferred for her to hide behind contacts, Ashe did everything in her power to stray away from his sense of a proper lady: clothes that fit too tight, hair unmade, and the speech of a drunken sailor when she could get away with it. Such behavior made her popular–usually with the wrong crowds.


Despite their differences, Ashe remembered a time when she and Sav had been close. They would stay up late into the night, talking and giggling, playing video games on a console Sav had received on her birthday; a rare gift that the two cherished. Back then, they had shared a room, and, being close in age, it was only natural that the two girls would become friends.


That was before Jason Rath died. Time seemed to sort itself into two categories; before Jason's death and after. Nothing was the same in the after.


Sav kept her arms crossed, her posture hunched and uninviting. These days, she only spoke as much as she needed to. Nothing more. It was surprising for Ashe to see her at all; aside from a few chance encounters in the cafeteria, Ashe never saw her unless Sav wanted her to.


There was a deep quiet that seemed to follow Sav wherever she went. Ashe had not been the only witness to Jason Rath's death, but they did not speak of it. Not to each other. This was the line that neither dared to cross,  a mutual if tentative understanding; they did not speak of Jason Rath or what Charien had done to him.


"Well, is he awake?” Sav asked, breaking the silence.


Ashe forced a smile on her face, all teeth and no joy. Once again she was a performer on the stage. "Oh no, Sav, your dad's passed out. He'll probably be like that for hours. Maybe days. Anyway, the door's unlocked, so you can just go in and see for yourself."


"What's the point?" Sav muttered, more to herself than to anyone in particular. The small girl's fists clenched under her sleeves–it was a subtle gesture, but Ashe knew it well.  Their conversation lapsed into silence. Sensing that was the end of it, Ashe turned to leave, but Sav's voice caught her by surprise. "I knocked on his door earlier. I thought if I caught him before he started drinking, he would be awake. He didn't even answer for me–but he always opens the door for you."


There was a bitterness in Sav's glare. Ashe scoffed, catching the implication. "It's just business. I'm the only reason he can drink like he does. Let's be honest, Crow barely works. I've seen the books–his money comes from me, alright?" That didn't seem to satisfy Sav. Ashe couldn't blame her for thinking that way, yet it still hurt. "Look, you're his daughter. You don't think that means something to him?"


Sav seemed to consider it for a moment. "No, I don't think it means shit. I haven't seen him in weeks. As far as I know, he might as well be dead."


"Don't be dramatic. He's alive in all the ways that matter; dead inside, but who isn't?" Ashe tried to lift the mood and, once, she was certain this would have elicited a laugh from Sav. The girl stared forward instead, as if Ashe hadn't even spoken.


There wasn't time for another jab. Sav's attention snapped behind Ashe, the color drained from her face. Ashe went rigid as a hand fell gently on her shoulder.


Neither of them had heard him coming, but they rarely did. He did not earn the title of Executioner for something as simple as murder.


"Alice," Charien's voice sent chills down Ashe's spine. Her heart raced as nausea roiled in her stomach. "I've been looking everywhere for you."


Sav took a step back from them, although it was pointless; Charien wanted nothing to do with her, not when he had a toy right in front of him. 


"I was right here." Ashe barely got the words out. She searched for ways he could twist them, turn them into something she never meant and would never say. He had a gift for it, finding new reasons to be upset with her. "I visited Crow, but I've been here all day."


"I know, Alice," Charien reassured her. "I have some business with you in my office. Do you have a moment to spare?"


He hid his demand behind a question, as he often did. There was no option for her to turn him down and Ashe was too high-strung to think of a reason anyway. She nodded mutely, willing herself to ignore his hand resting on her back as he directed her to leave.


Ashe caught a glimpse of Sav before she left and, for a brief moment, wondered if she imagined the pity in her eyes.


+++


Charien's office was gaudy. Ashe could think of no other word to describe it. Despite the lack of windows, thick velvet curtains draped over the walls, wrapping the room in regal patterns of gold brocade. Bookshelves of dark walnut lined one of the walls with an impressive display of books that had been left to gather dust. They were not meant to be touched, but left behind as a memorial for a woman who was never his.


How many times had he rattled on about Alice and her books? Charien's recitation of memories of Alice made Ashe nauseous. Everything she learned about the woman had been against her will; Alice loved to read. It was rare to find her without a novel in hand, and she could go on for hours gushing about her stories when asked. This room used to be a small library that Crow had set up for her as a wedding present, but when she died, Charien had rearranged it into his office against his brother's will. It was a privilege for Ashe to see these books–Crow himself had not laid eyes on them for many years.


Ashe settled herself on the chaise lounge closest by the desk, her posture stiff. He would not allow her to stand across the room or linger by the door for too long. She had learned this the hard way. Instead, she remained positioned close by: a pretty doll arranged for display.


Much like the rest of No. X's headquarters, Charien's office had accumulated water damage on the ceiling. It was an expected consequence of living underground; no matter how nice Charien tried to make it look, the stains spoke for themselves. Sometimes she would imagine the water reaching the stupid chandelier that dangled over his head and collapsing. Would he die from blunt force trauma or electrocution first?


As it was, the artificial gems collected droplets of water, adding to the collecting mold of the room.


Charien seated himself at his desk like a king ascending his throne. His satin vest shifted in hues of purple and blue under the dim light, out of fashion for centuries as far as Ashe was concerned. He pressed his gloved hands against the desk's surface, regarding his protege with a thin-lipped smile. He made  her skin crawl. 


"Do you know a trick of yours that I haven't seen for a while, my dear?"


Ashe curled her lips, the closest to a placating smile she could manage near him. She had years of practice by now, making herself appear meek and mild-mannered for his satisfaction. "I'm not sure. Don't I already do everything you want?"

Charien gestured to a dart board across the room. Pinned to the bullseye was a photograph of King Jack that had been torn nearly to shreds.


"I don't have my knives," Ashe said, rising from the chaise slowly so as not to alert him to her eagerness. She could claim she searched for hours to find them, refusing to come back to the office until he'd managed to track her down once again. "I'll go get them."


"No need." Charien held up a hand, preemptively putting a halt to her schemes. "You may use mine."


Disappointment settled heavy in her chest, but Ashe did not protest as Charien pulled out a worn leather roll from a locked drawer in his desk. Several small throwing knives glinted off of the overhead light as he revealed them one by one.


"These are my finest," Charien explained. He picked one of them up and twisted it under the light. His eyes shone like a child admiring a treasured toy. "It is about time that I've introduced you. I've killed a fair number of men with these. They're wonderful weapons for someone lithe and flexible like myself–and now it's your privilege to show me what you can do with them."


Ashe stood and stared at the knives. She could see herself picking them up and throwing them at him instead, each one sinking deeper until he was nothing but a heap of flesh pinned to the chair. It would be poetic, almost, to kill him with the very weapons he'd used to end so many other lives–but this was another test. Charien still held a single blade between his fingers, his green eyes dancing with challenge as if to say, this knife in my hand is more deadly than offering you an entire arsenal of weapons. Choose wisely.


She picked up one of the blades from its pouch and threw it at the dart board. The knife thunked hard directly between King Jack's brows, embedding itself deep into the wood underneath. Charien clapped politely from behind her.


"How delightful," he praised. "What a fine killer you've become."


Ashe stepped forward and yanked the blade from the board. King Jack's serious expression appeared even more severe with the new mark, almost concerned. Charien wrapped his arms around her from behind. Ashe's eyes watered at the thick stench of floral perfume that clung to his person–somehow, it was worse than the mold–but stayed still as his lips reached her ear.


"I've trained you well."


Ashe allowed her mind to wander as he led her to the chaise. He did not seem to notice the vacant expression in her eyes nor the limp way her body moved. It did not matter how well she could kill–it always came down to this. Another play, another stage, another role to fill. 


When he was finished, Charien held her stiff body close, burying his face in her hair. Ashe stared at the knife laying across the floor. She hadn't realized she dropped it. Would it have even mattered if she hadn't?


"I need to leave," Ashe murmured when she found her voice. Charien froze behind her. "Please. I need to work again, Charien."


He was slow to answer. "What is there in a job that you cannot find here with me? I can give you anything you want."


Liar. Liar, liar, liar! She wanted to scream but could not. If Ashe wanted an ounce of freedom, she had to make him want to give it to her. 


"I'm going crazy in here. Please. I promise, I'll do whatever you want. I won't even fight you on it." Her voice cracked and shame burned her cheeks. Ashe loathed begging, especially to him–but what choice did she have? "You trained me to be a killer, so let me do it. Let me kill." She twisted to get a good look at his face. It was always risky. Discussions like these either ended in his submission or his ire. Lucky for her, Charien seemed to be considering it. "You told me I could be an even better assassin than Jason–" She worked hard not to choke on the name. "--and that I could get into places even he couldn't. I'm–I'm ‘subtle yet effective’. That's what you said, but you won't even let me prove it."


Charien looked at her for a long time. Ashe could feel more words bubbling in her throat–pleading, threatening, anything that would get her some leverage–but eventually he sighed and pressed a kiss to her forehead.


"Very well," he resigned. "I suppose it is time for you to show the world what my protege can accomplish."


She hadn't expected it to work. "Tha–"


He held up a hand, immediately silencing her. "But, if I am to let my protege out into the world, you must do a few things for me. Some ground rules, if you will."


"What kind of rules?" Ashe hedged. She should've known that there would be a catch. There usually was with him.


"First, kill without mercy." He held up his fingers as he counted. "Second, you must always come home to me. You know that I will wait for you every night, my dear. Do not wander from me. You know what happened last time."


Ashe swallowed hard but nodded. She did not need to be reminded. The rules weren't that far from what she had expected from him, anyway. 


"Third," he began.


"Third?"


"Third," Charien continued. He pulled her hands into his, squeezing them too tightly. "You will never say his name again."


Ashe's breath caught. He was serious. She could feel it in the way he hovered over her, the threat in his smile clear.


It angered her. It infuriated her. After everything he did to her, everything he did to Jason, he wanted her to pretend that nothing had happened. That Jason had never even existed.


He might have set the rules, but Ashe was determined to write them in blood.


Ashe's voice shook with rage, but she kept her tone as innocent as possible when she asked, "You mean Jason? Jason Rath?"


She yelped as Charien's fingers dug violently into her wrists. 


"Do not make me repeat myself," he said calmly, emphasizing each word. It was only when she nodded that he let go, ignoring the bruises that bloomed on her skin.

 

There was nothing else to be said between them. Ashe twisted to stare back at the knife, running through her memories of Jason fresh in her mind. That, at least, he could not take away.

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