A/N: I will try to make this as historically accurate as I can, but there might be some flaws. If you find some painfully obvious ones, please point them out to me. Though this is fiction, it is based around a certain time. Please do not steal this story and claim it as your own, because it is mine. Thank you and enjoy.

Publish Date: 4/24/03

Chapter 1: So It Begins

Twilight bathed the city as it did any other night in 1893. The June afternoon blending into night with a simplicity that went highly unnoticed as those in the streets of New York hurried home. The suns magnificent rays died in a final shimmering splendor before the cold stars began to peek out their icy, silver rays upon the earth. Each and every pinprick of light making a wonderful glittering in the skies above. The new moon providing no light as it hid its face from the earth below.

The population overlooked the wonders of nature, as they went home, those in the worse parts of town especially. Night was a dangerous time to be about. There was a completely different crowd that emerged with the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon. A crowd of the night seemed almost to be a completely different breed of those that functioned under the warm light of the sun. However in this city, anyone caught at the wrong time in the wrong place at the wrong time could very well endanger their lives as the dealings of underground gambling rings began to operate.

Though the ban on public gambling wasn’t strictly enforced, it was still prominent enough to provide very well paying establishments for those willing to risk the organization of such a group. Bookies would work in a freelance fashion, reporting back with their records and wagers to whoever was their leader. Some of the more developed groups were ones to be reckoned with, but no one ever dared.

The ban on public gambling had made several average men rise to positions of rivaled power. The horse races on Coney Island brought large crowds who didn’t mind a friendly wager here and there. Others were into more serious gambling. Some could pay their debts of loss, others couldn’t, and it was those that couldn’t that needed to fear. The leaders of such groups frowned upon the debts of their customers. If one kept up such a record, it wasn’t uncommon for the heads of such groups to have someone help them ‘solve’ their problem.

A scene such as this was unfolding on one of the lone docks of Brooklyn, New York.

"I don’t have the money," a man insisted, his eyes wild. "Just give me more time, I will get the money," he begged shamelessly in the shadows, the panic clear in his voice.

"You’ve been claiming this for quite some time now, Mr. Jacobs, and the boss isn’t happy," a cruel female voice could be heard along with the click of a hammer on a gun being drawn back. "He wants his money," her voice was as hard as the expression on her beautiful face. The cold starlight filtered down from below, turning her dark brown locks into a strange sort of silver hue. Her pale skin looked as smooth as glass, her features resembling that of a porcelain doll.

"Please," Mr. Jacob’s middle aged face paled at the sight of the metallic instrument. "I’m begging you," He backed away, though there was little space he could move on the end of the pier. "I just need more time," he pleaded as the young woman held the gun in both of her small, ivory hands.

"Give me the money," she demanded and Mr. Jacobs dug deeply into his trouser pockets withdrawing a crumpled wad of bills.

"Here – here – take it all!" he started to move toward her but she pointed the gun menacingly, and nodded with her head to her assistant in the shadows. A burly young man, also brandishing a pistol stepped forward, extending his hand and grasping the bills before withdrawing and counting the money. He was a large boy, brawny and tall, his muscles clearly defined underneath the thin cotton shirt. He was as large and bulky, as the girl beside him was small and petite.

"Its all here," he said dully as he shoved the cash into one of his pockets and cocked his own gun, raising much like his female accomplice. This was simply routine to him "But the boss isn’t happy with you," he put his finger on the trigger and looked at the beautiful young girl beside him before refocusing on Mr. Jacobs.

"We’ve been sent to inform you that you won’t be gambling anymore," the malice in the girls voice sent a shiver down her companions spine, but he could see that her hands were shaking and a thin sheen of sweat shone on her forehead in the dim lamp light. She was scared. This trained assassin was scared of a trembling defenseless man. Maybe not scared so much of him as she was of the deed she was about to commit.

"You aren’t going to…" the man’s voice faded off as he stared into the cold intensity of the girl’s eyes, the darted to the harder stare of the boy. He looked very much like a feral animal cornered on that dark dock, hidden behind various ship riggings and empty cargo boxes. Obviously groveling wasn’t below him because he dropped to his knees before them. "Please," he rasped his voice hoarse with emotion and fear. "I paid my debt, please, let me go!" He rationalized. "And I swear I- I’ll never bet again, ever," he clasped his hand in pledge as the sniveling man begged shamelessly on bent knee. "Please!" He pleaded, and the girl could have sworn she saw tears glistening in his eyes.

The girl’s stony mask faltered as she looked to her partner, then back at the man. The sweat on her palms was making the mahogany handle on the gun slick as she re-gripped the tool of death. Swiveling her head back to the man, she looked into his wide frightened eyes and swallowed heavily. It was too late for her to turn back now; she had already sealed this man’s fate. Mercy wouldn’t bode well for the reputation of her employer’s establishment, and in turn, for hers. A paid and train assassin didn’t show mercy. So with a face set with stone, and eyes glittering as cold as the stars above, she pulled the trigger.

A resounding bang rang in their ears as the man slumped back. The gruesome sight before her of the bullet lodging itself in the man’s head was nothing new to the trained assassin, but she still felt a chill enter her innermost marrow. Even in the dark she could see the betrayal, the pain, the suffering, and then the stillness of shock enter the man’s dying expression. Still, as the man’s eyes glazed in the pretence of death, she re-cocked her gun and fired the second bullet from her double-barreled pistol. The body, though the spirit was gone, lurched and quivered in the throes of death. The deathly seizures occurred as the nervous system shut down for a final time. She lowered the gun and watched his twitching with an inhumanly detached demeanor as she jerked her head, motioning for her companion to complete his job.

At her beckoning, he moved forward, handing her his weapon and lifting the body in his arms before dumping over the edge of the docks. Obviously his position was simply for this and the further protection of the girl against other predators of the night. She was the one with the deadly aim, the steely cool purpose, and the ability to kill on command. She was the assassin, the murderer, and the cold-blooded one. He was the muscle and she was the brain. After the final splash of the corpse hitting the black water below them, she peered over the edge. The lifeless body bobbed limply in the liquid, and she took in a deep shuddering breath. Her job was completed for now.

"Let’s get out of here," her male companion hissed, as he watched her chest heaving as she looked at the man bob lifelessly in the blackness below them.

Turning to him, she handed him his gun and he tucked it away safely as she did the same. With one final look over the edge at the corpse, she set her jaw and picked up her skirts in her hand, running from the scene of the crime. The images of her latest kill still flashing over and over again in her head. Her burly companion kept pace with her easily as her short legs carried her swiftly into the city, through the weaving alleyways that she knew so well. They needed to get to The Ocean Parkway that took them back over to Coney Island where they would stay for the night.

As they ran, she looked down at the blood that had sprayed onto her clothes and hands after the shots. The crimson color turning a sickly brown in the dark as the specks on her skin seemed to burn. The splattering a sickening branding of the crimes she had committed. However the blood would wash away easily enough, the memory would blend into the dozens of others she had committed. Each one as impersonal as the next one, but each one completely different, not matter how much she justified them in her mind, she knew her crimes were terrible. As her run turned to a jog, then a walk, she murmured the Lord’s prayer under her breath again and again, hoping that she might be able to somehow purge herself of her damnable acts.

For no one is born without a conscious.

As they passed into one of the shadowed alleyway, her partner stopped suddenly and grabbed her roughly. She didn’t even try to struggle as she was all too familiar with this position and knew exactly how to extract herself from it. Though she was still shocked by the abruptness, it wasn’t the first time he had attempted advances upon her and it would be the last. As his lips moved over hers, she returned the kiss with a halfhearted attempt. She had used her body to get out of situation and she was aware that she was pretty, this kiss didn’t effect her in the least, but she allowed him to become seduced by the sweet spell of her lips. When she was certain that the embrace intoxicated him enough, she moved quickly and grasped the knife from his belt and pulled away harshly.

The silver of the blade glinted with the same cold ice that her eyes shone as she brought his own knife up to his throat. He dropped his arms as she pressed the tip right over his Adam’s apple. Her expression told him that she wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, but he knew that she knew better than that. Killing him would be her death sentence.

"No," she said simply, locking her gaze with his, and he smiled broadly, infuriating her.

"When you realize that you want me, I’ll be waiting," he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and her nostrils flared before she dropped the knife the ground and stormed away.

The laughter from behind her grated her nerves as she pounded her small feet across the gravel path of the Ocean Parkway over to Coney Island. It brought him pleasure to humiliate her like that; the steel nerved female could be unwired by that, and her lust for the kill rose. Though she wouldn’t flinch if she killed him, she knew that she couldn’t lay a finger on him. He was one of her boss’ favored handy men and he knew it and held it over her. Never once did she remind him that she was his prized assassin, the only female with enough gall to commit repetitive and senseless acts of violence. Being a female raised her above most suspicion from the authorities.

The kiss had simply added insult to injury. She was just a toy to him, and it irritated and infuriated her. All of her career, she had to fight for the respect of her male comrades, and associates. It had always been an uphill battle and her diminutive stature hadn’t helped her in the fight. Her life amounted to nothing more than killing, as much as any other assassins did, but she had to complete it ruthlessly and mechanically. The murders were always accompliced by a male, and she had to prove herself again and again. Though she was one of the most deadly, she was also a female, which subjected her to many abuses.

Some had proposed that she quit killing, that she go off and attempt to live a normal life like any self respecting female should. Find a man, start a family, and move somewhere away from New York. That had been the advice of some, but she knew that she could never do it. She knew that this would be her lot in life. Murder was in her veins. It was a part of her; it was part of her instinct. Her small hands felt more natural to be holding a weapon than to be without, her conscious was practically shot as she had trained it to be silent. She knew that she could never give it up and attempt to live a normal life. Because once you had tasted that thrill of taking someone’s life, no matter how bitter, you couldn’t outrun it. She was addicted to the kill.

The rain drizzled outside her window as she shivered against the unusually cool air of June. Her long chocolate brown hair was hanging free, curling and waving down past her small waist. It was still damp from being outside in the bad weather. Thankfully, her cloak had kept her dress dry for the most part, but she was just damp enough for a chill to set in on her body. Even though she knew that she was in danger of catching a cold, she didn’t bother to change. Her mind was far too preoccupied as to why she had been out in the weather.

It had been another kill. Taking her death toll up past a good seventy-five. Tonight it had been a double job and her body ached from weariness. These weren’t repetitive debtors like many of her jobs were, these were agents for another ring. It seemed that the majority of her assignments had been of the latter. Though she was familiar with slaying the enemy, as far as she knew, these attacks were unprovoked. A possibly dangerous move for the establishment, but she did as she was told. It wasn’t her job to ask questions, she was just a killing machine without feeling.

Numb would be the best word to describe her regards to emotion. If one killed as often as she did, one would have to become numb. Feeling was dangerous and could easily compromise her job. Her emotions had died along with her previous way of life. Dead, just like everything else, just like everything she was dealing with. Death wasn’t anything new to her, even at her young age of seventeen. It surrounded her, it was part of her, she, in a sense, was death.

The small ivory hands ran over the mahogany handle and up to the metallic barrel, the smooth cloth polishing off the last of the blood from the kill. The double-barreled instrument deceptively beautiful in her lap as she cleaned it. It was a man’s weapon in the hands of a woman, for appearing so fragile, she was strong to even be able to lift and hold it steadily. The pitter-patter of rain on her window made her sigh in the silence of her private quarters. The room she was in was small to say the least, with a bed, a washstand, a chair and table, and a solitary trunk against the wall. All of her earthly possessions were in that tiny room. For all of her years, this is all she had to show, but it was better than most.

It was a boarding house where she stayed. The majority of the gambling ring she was affiliated with stayed there. The owner was a member, making it much easier to return at all hours of the night, splattered with blood, and not having any questions asked. She was the only female boarder in the entire building, thus subjecting her to the conversation of several less desirable characters. If she weren’t so deadly with a knife and gun, she wouldn’t be there at all. Even more so, if her brother weren’t one of those in command, she wouldn’t be there either.

Her brother, he had been the one that taught her how to shoot, and how to throw a knife. They had been but children then and she had barely been able to lift the gun to fire it. Soon, however, her skill had surpassed his own as they practiced in the alleys and side streets of New York. Their mother had been a prostitute and their father had been nowhere to report. Working long hours in the factories had made her decide that she wouldn’t be there forever. No matter what it took, she wouldn’t spend her life in there.

She made good on that promise as she leapt at the opportunity offered to her by her brother to join gang shortly after their mother died. So at the youthful age of fourteen, she had begun killing for her profession. At first, the jobs hadn’t been frequent as the older boys and men were sent on them mainly. Sometimes she would accompany them, but every once in awhile, she would get to go. As the other assassins were either killed, caught, or disappeared, her services were in more need. By the time she was sixteen, she was the head assassin for the group.

Anyone who had witnessed that much death or caused that much death at such a tender age would have to learn how to become callused, and she had. Her expression was blank as she finished cleaning her beloved tool, fingering it gentle. It was strange to think that it had taken so many lives, and she could remember each one. Though all of their deaths had ended the same way, she could see every pair of eyes pleading for her to show them mercy. Every night they came back to haunt her, and every night she would repeat the Lord’s Prayer until she went to sleep. Maybe she would be able to balance herself with the atonement of the repetitive chant.

An unexpected rap came at her door and she jumped slightly, her hand automatically holding the gun, her finger finding the trigger instantly. It was late, well past midnight. It was so late it was almost to be called early. Who would be knocking on her door at such a time.

"Who’s there?" she called, never letting her guard down for an instant, her skirts moving as a whisper against the floor. The gun she held aimed steadily at the door, just waiting for whomever it was to enter.

"Lynch," the deep reply came, and she relaxed slightly. Even with the unusual name, she knew her brother’s voice.

"Come in," She lowered the gun and brushed back her rich brown hair with her other hand. The door opened and in stepped her brother, with the same dark brown hair. His face was grimly set as he looked at her, instantly he absorbed the scene. The gun, the girl, the dark circles beginning to form under her eyes, she looked tired. But he had come on business, not pleasure, so with a deep breath, he plunged forward.

"He has another job for you," he started without the normal formalities, and she arched her eyebrow. Even when it came to business, there was usually at least a greeting. Though when he was Lynch, he wasn’t her brother, he was the gang’s, and the gang came first. She should have known by his introduction.

"So soon?" her cupid bow lips quirked into an ironic smile, for not even death was without a sense of humor. "Apparently some people need to learn how to pay their debts, Lynch," she used the code name instead of her brother’s actual name. Everyone in the establishment had a name as such so if ever it would be dangerous for their true names to be exposed, they could rely on the alternate title. Even though they were at no danger of recognition, it brought her amusement, and precious little did that.

"It’s different this time, Angel," he returned with her code name. "Much different," the seriousness in his tone doused the mirth in her expression and drew forth a more serious mask.

"Different?" she covered her discomfort with dry humor. "What could possibly be different than killing someone?" Her brother didn’t even offer her a token smile.

"Just come with me, he wants to talk to you," the stress put on the word ‘he’ made it clear that her leader had summoned her. Though this wasn’t a new event, there was a certain apprehension that filled her every time she was summoned.

"Will I need my cloak?" she asked, settling down to business as well.

"No, he is here," Lynch replied smoothly and she paused. Her leader was there, the head of the establishment had lowered himself so as to assign a mission to her himself and she need not go to him? Perhaps, Lynch was right, perhaps this was different.

Setting down the gun on the chair, she silently followed her brother. Down the flight of stairs to the main level of the building, they went down one more to the base level. Darkness consumed them as they plunged down the stairwell to the cellar. Though the dark was Angel’s friend, she couldn’t help but feel slightly oppressed by the whole blackness of the surroundings. Hearing her bother’s footsteps stop, she froze as well, they must have reached the bottom. A knock sounded and she knew that Lynch must have been asking for entrance into the private area that the boarding house owner called his home.

"Come in," the voice summoned from behind the door and Lynch turned the rusty knob to the base rooms of the boarding house. The lighting was dim, but it was clear that the area was sparsely furnished and dirty. For having so much money, this leader certainly didn’t waste it on his apartments. A lamp sat on a single wooden table, and another was mounted on the wall. The low light cast shadows over the eerie room and Angel felt a chill run up her spine. She hid it however with a well practiced mask of stone.

Two others were down there with Lynch and her, and she knew one was a co-leader and the other was the leader. The co-leader nodded to her in acknowledgment and her eyes went past him to the man sitting with his back to her in a wooden straight back chair. The co-leader stood in front of him, obviously they had been conversing. The click of the door behind her ushered in a strange finality into the situation, even if she had wanted to leave, she was trapped.

"Here she is, Sir," Lynch’s voice came from behind her and her hackles rose like they did whenever she knew someone was directly behind her.

"Ah yes," the man spoke from the chair, his voice strangely cultured and refined. "My little Angel of Death," his voice held a kind of perverted amusement at the play of her name. Inwardly, Angel blanched. Though she held fierce loyalties to him, she despised him for reasons of which she wasn’t sure.

"You rang?" her voice as smooth as silk, holding the pretence of false familiarity.

"I did," he returned, standing slowly, his motions almost seeming pained as he turned to see her. He was an older man, and not particularly handsome, but he was deadly. "I have a job for you," he reached over to the lamp on the wall and raised the wick so that it burned brighter than before, banishing a few looming shadows. Even in the better light, he was still menacing. In his younger years, Angel imagined him to be quite a brute.

"What kind of job?" She played dumb when she knew all too well there was no other kind of job for her. He offered her a strange twisted smile.

"You have spitfire," he informed. "And you have gall," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar and match. "You’ll need that for this job," he expertly lit the match with his thumb and lit the cigar. He took a few deep inhales before continuing. "Do you know the name - Peter Anderson?" he asked, pausing for effect, and Angel’s eyes flashed fire.

Everyone in this boarding house knew that name, it was their biggest competitor in the betting and prostitution rings. Ever since she had entered the group, it had been ingrained in her that he was the enemy. Above all things, she was to hate him and anyone associated with him, he was practically the devil himself. The name itself sent a chill down her spine and brought a dark light to her eyes. She had never even seen the man, but she already had him pictured in her mind as a weak fragile tramp.

"Yes sir," she answered responsibly, her tone still smooth, but the malice was in her voice. After a few more puffs off of his cigar, he walked closer to her. Though it was her initial reaction to shrink away from him, she stood her ground and met his gaze coolly.

"I want you to kill him," her leader instructed plainly and Angel’s mouth gaped before she could stop it. Kill Peter Anderson? That was a suicide mission! How in the world was she going to get close enough to Peter Anderson to kill him without being seen or being killed? Knocking off a few of his underlings here and there was nothing too big, but to kill to leader… that was unheard of.

"Sir?" she choked, hoping she had heard him incorrectly.

"You heard me!" He barked, his tone suddenly hard. "I want you to kill him!" he ordered harshly, wagging his smoking stogie at her menacingly. "I don’t care how you do it," he waved his hand in the air. "Just get it done!" He ordered, turning his back to her and Angel knew that her time with him was over.

"Yes sir," she replied obediently, respectfully, knowing that even as she said those words, she was possibly digging her own grave

A/N: Continue, or not continue? That is the question of the hour. Review welcome, constructive criticism encouraged. ^_^