Chapter One

By Delicious Heathen 2.0

Desiree opened her eyes. And then she closed them very quickly.

And swore to never open them ever, ever again.

Light had invaded her room, flooding in from the erratic holes in her curtains, and swathing it in bright fire. Or, at least, she thought it was fire when it had seared the eyes she had just groggily opened. The hellish inferno had stabbed her corneas, loosing its stinging poison to lace through the veins of her eyes and then into her mind, like some sadistic ivy, rooting and branching through her and leaving needlepoint pain in its wake. All this happened in a few seconds, for that’s all it took for the metaphoric pain-inducing plant to reach the back of her skull and begin pounding the hell out of it.

Goddamn, did she have a hangover.

And then someone hit her in the ear. Once, twice, thrice. Three quick, sharp jabs to the side of her face made her grimace in pain, her brows furrowing. But the second succession of the pains hurt less and her half-retarded-with-sleep brain recognized it as knocking. Someone was at the door. Bastards.

Painfully slowly, Desiree pulled her twitching, tired body into a sitting position, twisting herself so that her aching back faced the evil sunlight. Her dark hair, already radiating from her at insane angles shifted with her dazed movement, quivering slightly and then falling like limp daggers in her face. She exhaled deeply and slowly, mixing the outgoing air with a low grunt, one spawned from the almost futile act of pulling herself out of drunken sleep, the state her body obviously preferred to stay in. Pushing a hand through the uncooperative mess of hair, she willed it to stay back, at least for the moment. It grudgingly obeyed.

Her face now clear of stubborn, messy obstructions, Desiree opened her eyes again. Well, eye. One eye opened on command, swimming in watery eye-liquid and trying to focus. And the other… well, it tried. Stuck together with gunk from having to be scrunched up in the vain effort of blocking out the accursed sunlight, it opened up about halfway, letting in grey-golden light and fuzzy images. Desiree gave an exasperated half-growl and wrenched the hampered eye wide open. Her eyes finished swimming moments later, the water induced by the brightness evaporating, and focused together to give her a clear view of her quarters.

Holy hell! Had she had a party in here last night?! There were ale mugs everywhere, not to mention the wine jugs and plates dirty with food bits, and the clothes stuffed into corners and hanging off of doorknobs, and… and… Wait. No.

No, it always looked like that.

The momentary panic and then slow recognition of something so familiar did well to finish waking up the half-dead part of her brain. And so she was lucid when the pattern of knocks, having paused politely in case the occupant inside needed time to collect herself (which she did), began again. She started slightly at the sound, and then glared at the door, willing her gaze to pierce through the wood and stab the knocker profusely. Still glowering, she barked out an angry, guttural noise at the source of the banging. It stopped. Most likely in surprise at the bestial sound, and then with the confusion that followed. It hadn’t been told that Desiree kept a wild boar in her room…

With slowly returning strength, Desiree swung her feet to the cluttered floor and pushed herself lethargically out of the bed. Her steps were first jerking and short, as she waded through the myriad array of alcoholic-beverage-containers, some empty, half-empty, partially empty, partially full and… what the hell? Did that one have a scone floating in it?!

It did. And raisin by the looks of it.

Good, that would do for breakfast. After she answered the door.

Desiree’s steps had become smooth and her gait flowing, now, and she didn’t even falter when she reached out an arm to pull her forked assassin’s blade from its scabbard, hanging from the peg on the wall. Feeling the leather grip as she pushed her skin against it and into the familiar position sent a literal shock up her arm and into her heart, its repetitive pattern suddenly fluttering with atavistic excitement. A hungry gleam came to her eyes, and she halfheartedly wished that whoever was at the door would try to attack her, just so she could use the viciously sharp implement in her hand.

That would wake her up.

Desiree stopped just as she got to the door. Something had caught her attention. Well, more like things, really. Her robe was hanging open and untied. That would not do to impress her visitor with. Not in the way she wanted, anyway. Hastily, she pulled the belt across and tied it in a loose knot, still leaving much of her in easy view. As she did so, the pommel of her dagger graced across her skin, just enough to send that familiar shock again and reinforce the glimmer in her eyes, which she had partially lost in her attempt to hide her goodies. But, as much as the violent part of her (which was not small) wanted the person at the door to be some kind of assassin, or barbarian, or thief… or just do something rude that could justify a quick slice of her blade, she was denied. And so, when she undid the latch and swung the heavy door open with relative ease, the sight that met her eyes was annoyingly disappointing.

A young man stood there, barely seventeen, if not younger. His hair, brown, was buzzed and he wore the common-enough toga and under-tunic of a pageboy. The bronze medallion at his shoulder had been molded with the image of two legs, running, the sandals that adorned the feet ornamented with miniature bird wings. Ah, so he was a runner? His handwriting must have been horrible then, to pull him away from writing messages and into the position that usually went only to the extremely fleet of foot. He was not exceedingly fast, though, and it was obvious from his slightly flabby build, and flustered face, the look not completely diminished, even after the long minutes he had stood at her door. She cocked an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to speak.

But speak he could not- for a few moments, anyway, as he had been confronted with a very scantly clad, very good-looking woman. And at this point, there was not near enough blood in his brain for it to function properly. But his mind was filled with something… many somethings, in fact. Fantasies blazed lightning fast through his dirty, dirty little mind, and he was certain that if Desiree just leaned a little more that way, and perhaps bent a little forward, he would totally be able to see at least half-

“Just letting you know,” Desiree drawled out in a cool voice, the look on her face and in her eyes subtly pronouncing danger to the close observer, “That if all you’re here to do is stare, I have no problem stringing you up by your own innards.”

Just hearing her low, mezzo-soprano voice instantly added another dimension to his numerous fantasies, not to mention the ‘stringing up’ part. But this was a brief, fleeting thing, for he knew that this was a woman deadly and accurate, weapon or no… or barely tied robe or no. Regretfully pulling his feasting eyes away from the voluptuous meal, the boy puffed out his chest unconsciously, and lifted the scroll he had been sent to deliver.

“Are you Desiree Diluvium?”

And lo, the man did speaketh, and it was very, very stupid.

Desiree’s face fell, dark eyebrows coming down heavily over blue eyes, and her mouth becoming slack as her shoulders drooped with disgust, something that was almost unnoticeable but effective nonetheless. She looked delightfully acerbic.

“No,” she said flatly, but dripping with sarcasm, so much so that one would not be surprised to find a literal puddle at her feet. “I am the goddess Venus, and I was just in the middle of pleasuring myself while forcing my love slave, Francesco, to watch till his aching lust made his heart explode. The woman you’re looking for is two doors down the hall, on your left. Can’t miss it.”

The young man gaped at her. Open-mouthed. He was panting as well, for she had just given him the best fantasy ever. And his tunic-bottom attested to this, pointedly.

Desiree closed her eyes, looking up slightly, partially in disgust, but mostly to keep herself from wielding her blade upon him with a vengeance.

Ugh.

Some people just should not breed…

When she opened them again, though admittedly with some reluctance, it was to find him still staring, though his mouth was now mostly closed and his hot and heavy breathing had subsided. The look on his face, though, was one of dawning comprehension as the smarter parts of his mind realized that her words had simply been a very dry, sarcastic quip. He was still stuck on this epiphany when the woman made an exasperated noise and snatched the scroll from his suspended hand, snapping at him with impatience and annoyance, “Diana’s Bow, you idiot! Of course I’m she!”

The boy’s face froze, a panicked look in his usually glazed-over eyes. Their attention was caught on the gruesome-looking dagger that had been in the hand that had snared the message, and his mind was in the process of tracing the track of that glinting blade had followed as it had flashed out of nowhere, its handle almost carelessly held between the first two fingers of Desiree’s hand, and its pommel hooked over the knuckle of her thumb. He felt his face involuntarily twitch as he realized just how close that sickly slick piece of steel had come to his vulnerable throat. At that moment, he truly understood who he was dealing with, and staring at. His tunic suddenly became very flat.

Said dagger was now resting against the doorframe, still held the same way in Desiree’s hand. Which having preformed its job and having transferred its parcel to its mate, braced itself against the wood of the frame and so made it easier for its mistress to cock out a hip, and lock it, and therefore recline in a better position to view her message. The forked blades hung loosely down, allowing the light from Desiree’s window to make their razor-sharp edges (and various nicks and battle scars) glitter evilly. And the boy, wanting to look at it no more, dropped his gaze instantly, trying to take his mind off of his almost-brush-with-death. But his eyes had barely descended a few degrees before they found something exceedingly more attractive to look at. Because of Desiree’s sudden action, and the way she was leaning, her robe was hanging even more tantalizingly open, and it was too much for a young, sexually active male to resist. He actually leaned in to get a better view, for now he could not just see half her breast, but indeed, he could absolutely see, in all its bare-chested glory, at least half her-

And then Desiree looked up.

She had assumed that from the young man’s reaction to her dagger, he would’ve stopped trying to violate her with his eyes, and that she would have had a moment to look over the parchment, and to ponder what its strange wax seal foreshadowed, before having to inevitably tip him for delivering it.

But fucking retards don’t get tips. Oh, no.

Her glance had been horribly quick and took in everything instantly- especially that the boy had yet to realize that she was watching him, and that he was leaning in past the doorframe. Perfect.

So, with brutal efficiency and speed, she whipped herself away from the entrance and slammed the door in his face, before he even had time to register that his eye-candy had been taken away. Actually, into may have been the better word.

For indeed, the door had slammed into his drooling face, and Desiree’s eager ears had heard the much-anticipated squishy crunch of his perverted nose being smashed the spilt-second before the heavy oaken door was rammed into place within its frame. The painful crack had given her a not unpleasant chill that could have border-lined upon orgasmic in some minds. And the following bangs and stumbling crashes (and resulting yelps of startled pain) only did more to make her blood flood hotly with sadistic excitement, as she imagined him tripping backwards from her blow and cracking his head on the opposing wall, all the while clutching his now blood-slick hands to his face.

And she was disturbingly correct, for that is exactly what he did.

Desiree only turned from the door, grinning and with a satisfied look in her bright eyes, when she heard him run off, crying down the narrow hall. The swift act of closing the door had caused her obstinate hair, already at the end of its patience and ready to fall back down, to tumble back into her eyes. But, no longer was it limp, instead it was almost statically sharp as it hung like her deadly daggers in front of her face, dropping its contrasting shadows across it, and slicing and marring what was considered a classically beautiful face. This was complimented by an equally sharp and wolfish grin.

This was going to be a good day.