My Sweet Revenge My Sweet Revenge

My boots fall lightly on the cracked road as I make my way down the darkened street. Carefully sliding the checklist out of the pocket of my leather jacket, I check the number next to the final name on the list – the only name not crossed out. Thanks to the selective breeding of my ancestors, I can clearly make out the house numbers on either side, even in a moonless night like tonight. Despite my resentment of the life I was born into, there are times when I must admit that there are advantages to being a natural born assassin.

Silent as a lioness stalking her next meal, I slip into the shadows of number 42, keeping my tail close to my body. A memory of my first training mission comes to mind: I was still young and clumsy then, and my fluffy kitten tail got caught in a bush while I was trying to sneak up to my teacher. Old Mange-Paw had never seen my youth and inexperience as a reason to go easy on me and the scar I received from that experience is still with me.

A light is on inside the house. The list provides me with no information about spouses or children, although I know for sure that if my target had cubs, their names would also be on the list. Still, I cannot assume that there are no adopted children or visitors in the house. To assure that no innocents are killed tonight, further spying is necessary before I close in on my target.

Closing my eyes, I concentrate on filtering out unnecessary information. Every generation that has passed since the betrayal has been selectively bred to preserve this ability and enhance others. Each new generation has proved physically stronger than the last, although the act of inbreeding has created weaknesses as well as strengths. My thoughts turn to my sister, afraid of every shadow, unable to form proper sentences despite her 12 years of age. Not the first disturbance in our gene pool.

Putting Senesca to the back of my mind, I focus on finding a way into the house. When my eyes open, my vision is blurred around the edges, like the surface of a window on a rainy day. As I look closer, I see that a few bricks on the side of the house are in sharp focus, and I realise that someone with my skill could use them as paw-holds to climb up to a window on the second floor. This is the true legacy of my ancestors, a power unique to my family that gives us the edge we need to complete our destined task.

Blinking away the after-effects of the blurriness, I take one last glance at the checklist, making sure of the name, and put it back into my pocket. The first brick is a metre or so above my head – it has crumbled enough that I should be able to fit my paw into the hole. Bending my knees, I jump straight up into the air, grabbing at the brick with my left paw and finding it to be secure. Now it is just a case of reaching out with my right paw and taking hold of the thick branch of ivy that juts out of a crack in the bricks, just within arm’s reach.

Quickly progressing up the side of the house in this way, it isn’t long before I have both paws on the windowsill and I’m hauling myself up onto the narrow ledge. Of course, the window is locked, but lock-picking was the first skill I ever mastered, and with the twist of a claw I soon have it open. Once inside the house, I quietly pull the window closed, thankful that it doesn’t squeak.

I seem to be in a storage room. Along one wall is a futon that’s probably used for guests, but the rest of the room is full of boxes. Studying the nearest, I read the words “Wedding Stuff,” written in thick black marker. I’ll have to assume that my target’s wife is in the house with him. In the pit of my stomach, I feel a faint pang of regret that I’ll be making someone a widow by the end of the night, but I was trained to repress such emotion long ago.

Taking a pair of thick cotton socks out of an inside pocket, I place them over my boots to silence them and make my way out onto the landing. I can hear two voices coming from downstairs – one deep and masculine, the other lighter and more feminine. It seems that my assumption was correct. If these two are the only ones in the house, it should be easy to tell which is my target.

Working clockwise from the room I came from, I check the upstairs rooms to make sure they’re unoccupied. My right paw rests on the hilt of the sword passed down to me through the generations, originating from the ancestors themselves. I took it from my brother’s lifeless hands as he lay on his deathbed, just as he took it from our father upon his death. If I were to find anyone in one of these rooms, it would take me less than a second to draw the sword and apply the flat of the blade to the side of their head with enough force to knock them unconscious.

Finding no one, I move to the stairs and jump over the side, landing silently on the floor below. My first instinct is to burst into the room from which I hear the voices and plunge the sword into the heart of the male, but common sense takes over and tells me that I must be more cautious. Moving noiselessly into what I assume is the living room, I take a look around and see a bookcase spanning an entire wall. Drawing my sword, I use the blade to knock a few of the heavier books to the floor, causing a noisy clatter that I’m sure can be heard from the other room. Now I hide behind the door in wait as I hear the male voice telling the other voice to “wait here while I check it out.”

Perfect. My heart begins to beat faster as footsteps cross the hall and the door to the room I’m hiding in starts to open. This is the moment I’ve waited for my entire life, the moment that I was born for and that my family has been planning for since the betrayal. This is what my father and my brother and my aunt and grandfather and countless others died for – the last name on the list.

When the last name is crossed off, I’m free.

The light clicks on, but the male wolf who has entered the room doesn’t notice my presence until I speak. “Turn around slowly,” I say in a hard, steely voice. My voice used to be softer – if my sister heard me speaking this way, she’d hide behind a cushion until I apologised – but I’ve changed a lot in the past year. Being forced to kill can do that to a person.

The wolf does as I tell him, and as soon as he’s facing me I see the fear in his eyes. Like the others I’ve tracked down, he probably has no idea why I’m here, but his gaze is fixed on the sword in my hand, and that’s enough to make him fear me.

“I’m here to kill you,” I inform him. “And before you try to convince me otherwise, you should know that others have tried and failed.”

He wants to speak but is afraid of what I’ll do if he does. I guess he realises that there isn’t anything worse than what I’m going to do to him anyway, because he swallows nervously and asks weakly, “B-but why?”

I smile. “Of course. I don’t even know you. Why do you deserve to die?” I take a step forward and place the tip of the blade against his chest, directly over his heart. “I’ve heard it all before. You’re going to die soon – what’s to gain by knowing the reason?”

Eyes fixed on the deadly point that pressed against the fabric of his shirt, my target whimpers in fear. Taking pity on him, I take a step back, keeping our eyes locked together in case he makes an unexpected move. This gives him enough courage to speak up again: “If I’m going to die anyway, w-what’s the harm in telling me?”

Surprised by his defiance, I let out a puff of what could once have been laughter. “You make a good point,” I reply. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. I’ll make it brief in case your wife plucks up the courage to come in and see what’s taking so long.”

By the blink of his eyes, I can tell that he’s half-hoping she’ll come to his rescue. If she does turn up, it should be easy for me to incapacitate her and finish off my target, but I’d rather not traumatise her any more than I need to.

“Many years ago,” I explain, “There was a clan of noble cats, famed for their elegance and wisdom. They lived in seclusion but gave help to those who sought it… for a price, of course. And so they thrived for several generations… until a neighbouring wolf clan was attacked by ferals. Instead of allowing their own members to be eaten or taken as slaves, they made a deal with the ferals. The wolves would be left alone if they led the ferals to the cats.”

Staring into the eyes of my target, I can see that he has an idea about where this is going. “As you can imagine,” I continue, “The carnage didn’t last long. A few were able to escape due to the sacrifice of the others. Once the survivors found out that they had been betrayed, they made an oath. Even if it took a thousand lifetimes, they would track down every last member of the wolf clan and run a sword through their hearts.”

Once again, I raise my sword to his chest. “I am a direct descendent of those survivors. And I think you’ve guessed what your part is in all of this.”

“You’re killing me because of a betrayal that happened hundreds of years ago?” the wolf asks. It seems that he has managed to suppress his fear now that he’s come to terms with his fate.

“I know,” I say softly. “I’m aware of the futility of the situation. My entire family is obsessed with murdering people who don’t even remember what happened all those years ago. There was a time that I refused to become a part this idiot grudge. But this sword is stained with too much blood to be cast aside now.”

Remembering my brother’s face as he begged me to take up his burden, I tighten my grip on the sword and plunge it deep into the wolf’s beating heart. A silent grimace of pain crosses his face and he falls to his knees as I thrust the blade in deeper.

Blood pools at my feet. I wipe the blade clean on my victim’s sleeve and take the checklist out of my pocket for the last time. After putting a line through the final name, I disappear into the night.

My family’s momentous task has been fulfilled and the suffering of my ancestors has not been in vain. If my brother or father had been the ones walking down this darkened road, there would be a celebration, but all I can feel is hollowness as I walk away from my bitter revenge.