thick linen parchment paper from an
inside suit pocket. “The Boss pays rent, keeps the fridge stocked, and you
don’t burn in the eternal fires of Hell. Instead you get his efficiency condo
in the borderlands. Not exactly heaven, but a lot better than the alternative,
am I right?”
“I’ve seen the movies, though,” Lancer said suspiciously.
“There’s always a catch, right? So what is it?”
“No catch this time,” Wilhelm actually seemed to feel
no surprise at this question. “No offense, but we have bigger fish to fry. Besides,
the Boss likes to do the charity thing once in a while. Still trying to look
good to Papa, even after all these years. Just in case attitudes upstairs
change, you know?”
Lancer took her time looking over the document,
turning it over and over in her hands. Trying to find some loophole that
Wilhelm could exploit. It was straightforward though. Seemingly no catches. She
signed the dotted line. He put the contract back into his pocket. They shook
hands.
“Out the door and off you go!” Wilhelm exclaimed, too
many teeth showing in a predatory grin. “Happy hunting.”
The apartment disappeared around them, taking Lancer’s
visitor with it. She now stood in a large bedroom dominated by a massive four poster
canopy bed. Three sleeping figures huddled under a thick duvet, one snoring
softly. A small dog lay on a blanket covered hope chest situated at the
foot of the bed.
It was possibly the most elegant room she’d ever been
it, but the antiques and plush carpet didn’t cover up the musky odor of
fornication, a reek all too familiar to her. Lancer wrinkled her nose in
disgust. It was a smell she’d never liked, something she’d hoped to never
experience again.
The dog sat up suddenly, starting awake with a soft
bark. It stared at the spot where Lancer stood, upper lip pulling back in a
snarl. She did not hesitate, grabbing it by the nape of its neck and twisting
it sharply in both hands. The snap of the vertebrae was louder than any noise
the animal made in dying.
Her strength was a surprise. Even more surprising was
the slight joy felt at killing the dog. It was a little shit owned by big
shits. She wondered how it would feel to slay the people in the bed. First, she
needed to make sure these were the right ones, though.
Evidence was abundant. The trio’s robes hung neatly on
a corner rack, along with three matching pentagram medallions. Their daggers
sat on a dressing table. The handles gleamed in the moonlight. Next to them
stood a fat round container of disinfectant wipes.
Fresh anger exploded inside her. Lancer’s fingers sunk
deep into the dog’s warm corpse, drawing blood as they plowed through the
animal’s thin skin to the knuckle. She quickly walked to one side of the bed.
Contempt filled her eyes at the fat, bald old man sleeping, mouth hanging open,
drool dripping onto a thick pillow. It was disgusting. The snore was the cherry
on this sickening sundae. She wanted to make it stop.
One hand grabbed the fat man’s jaw while her other
began jamming the dog’s corpse, ass first, into his open mouth. He woke,
attempting to pull away from the death grip on his face. It did no good.
Lancer’s newfound power forced the dead animal down, dislocating the old man’s
jaw in the process to accommodate the small body. He tried to scream, tried to
flail about to release the hold, but the fuzzy toy poodle was blocking his
airway. The old man died with the taste of blood and dog shampoo on his tongue.
The young man in the middle sat up slowly. “Grey?
Grey, what’s wrong?”
Lancer snatched a handful of the boy’s shoulder length
blonde hair. She twisted her fist in it, yanking him out from under the covers
and slamming his slender body ribs first into one of the hard oak bedposts. It
cracked loudly with the impact, breaking off the top portion to leave a jagged
stump.
Still grasping his hair, Lancer pulled the little
maggot to his feet. Blood was running from his
inside suit pocket. “The Boss pays rent, keeps the fridge stocked, and you
don’t burn in the eternal fires of Hell. Instead you get his efficiency condo
in the borderlands. Not exactly heaven, but a lot better than the alternative,
am I right?”
“I’ve seen the movies, though,” Lancer said suspiciously.
“There’s always a catch, right? So what is it?”
“No catch this time,” Wilhelm actually seemed to feel
no surprise at this question. “No offense, but we have bigger fish to fry. Besides,
the Boss likes to do the charity thing once in a while. Still trying to look
good to Papa, even after all these years. Just in case attitudes upstairs
change, you know?”
Lancer took her time looking over the document,
turning it over and over in her hands. Trying to find some loophole that
Wilhelm could exploit. It was straightforward though. Seemingly no catches. She
signed the dotted line. He put the contract back into his pocket. They shook
hands.
“Out the door and off you go!” Wilhelm exclaimed, too
many teeth showing in a predatory grin. “Happy hunting.”
The apartment disappeared around them, taking Lancer’s
visitor with it. She now stood in a large bedroom dominated by a massive four poster
canopy bed. Three sleeping figures huddled under a thick duvet, one snoring
softly. A small dog lay on a blanket covered hope chest situated at the
foot of the bed.
It was possibly the most elegant room she’d ever been
it, but the antiques and plush carpet didn’t cover up the musky odor of
fornication, a reek all too familiar to her. Lancer wrinkled her nose in
disgust. It was a smell she’d never liked, something she’d hoped to never
experience again.
The dog sat up suddenly, starting awake with a soft
bark. It stared at the spot where Lancer stood, upper lip pulling back in a
snarl. She did not hesitate, grabbing it by the nape of its neck and twisting
it sharply in both hands. The snap of the vertebrae was louder than any noise
the animal made in dying.
Her strength was a surprise. Even more surprising was
the slight joy felt at killing the dog. It was a little shit owned by big
shits. She wondered how it would feel to slay the people in the bed. First, she
needed to make sure these were the right ones, though.
Evidence was abundant. The trio’s robes hung neatly on
a corner rack, along with three matching pentagram medallions. Their daggers
sat on a dressing table. The handles gleamed in the moonlight. Next to them
stood a fat round container of disinfectant wipes.
Fresh anger exploded inside her. Lancer’s fingers sunk
deep into the dog’s warm corpse, drawing blood as they plowed through the
animal’s thin skin to the knuckle. She quickly walked to one side of the bed.
Contempt filled her eyes at the fat, bald old man sleeping, mouth hanging open,
drool dripping onto a thick pillow. It was disgusting. The snore was the cherry
on this sickening sundae. She wanted to make it stop.
One hand grabbed the fat man’s jaw while her other
began jamming the dog’s corpse, ass first, into his open mouth. He woke,
attempting to pull away from the death grip on his face. It did no good.
Lancer’s newfound power forced the dead animal down, dislocating the old man’s
jaw in the process to accommodate the small body. He tried to scream, tried to
flail about to release the hold, but the fuzzy toy poodle was blocking his
airway. The old man died with the taste of blood and dog shampoo on his tongue.
The young man in the middle sat up slowly. “Grey?
Grey, what’s wrong?”
Lancer snatched a handful of the boy’s shoulder length
blonde hair. She twisted her fist in it, yanking him out from under the covers
and slamming his slender body ribs first into one of the hard oak bedposts. It
cracked loudly with the impact, breaking off the top portion to leave a jagged
stump.
Still grasping his hair, Lancer pulled the little
maggot to his feet. Blood was running from his
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