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Chapter One:

“Easy there. We don't take too kindly to strangers in these parts,” the woman purred. “Next time, I won't aim for the wall.”

Velsing didn't know whether to laugh or kill her. He would have eagerly done both if it wasn't for the blinding pain that had him staggering against the stone-lined alleyway walls. Somehow her aim for the “wall” had gotten lodged within his shoulder, deep into the muscle, and she didn't seem all too surprised by the “miss”.

He didn't know if she was merely joking or threatening. But she only re-aimed her weapon slowly, as if she had all the time in the world to be a bad shot. Either way her death warrant was signed, and she just embellished it with the right to do whatever he wanted.

Strangling, he thought. While a bullet to the head would have been quicker, strangling was all that she deserved. Velsing could already feel a grim, detached smile tugging on his mouth. This would be one that he would enjoy killing.

“Hey!” The hiss brought his gaze back to the woman who bristled like an irate cat as if she could somehow tense his train of thought. One could only hope. “I don't like the look on your face, stranger.” She shook her head, or, at least, the heavy black hood drawn over it trembled left and right. “I could almost kill you for that look alone.” Then she laughed. “But I do like your clothes, and one more bullet hole would just completely ruin them.”

Velsing could almost feel greedy eyes scratch over the gray wool sweater he wore beneath a black leather coat. Cool, efficient wear that struck unease into hearts and minds before he even drew a weapon. Perfect attire for a mercenary.

“And all that blood will be hard enough to remove without your lifeblood spilling all over it too,” she sighed, tilting her head as if contemplating some deep thought. “I guess.....you'll just have to take them off before a kill you.” Somehow she managed not to laugh, but there was no doubt about the gleeful humor edging the words. If the alley wasn't so narrow and this close to the heart of the city's streets, Velsing would have killed her then. Slowly.

Instead, he only pulled himself up to face her. “I thought a whore didn't wear practical clothing.”

Boom!

Stone shattered inches from his nose in a choking cloud of dust.

“Next time, I won't aim for your head,” the woman hissed. She cocked her gun with an audible click, and tried to return to a languid stance, but her body language betrayed her. She practically radiated with fury. Intense, hot anger leaked from her core onto the cold winter-chilled alley ground. One mention of the world's oldest profession, and she turned from a playful sneak thief into a hellcat.

“Take. Them. Off.” She clipped over every word with the blade of her tongue, but waved her gun as if it could somehow finish the talking for her. Somehow it did. And Velsing wouldn't have had it any other way. He could have almost thanked the gods in the sky-- if he believed in any.

“And don't get any funny ideas either,” she warned. “This whore only takes the paying man.”

Joke or not, Velsing couldn't tell, but in these troubled times all manner of folk had stooped to jobs unworthy of mention at the dinner table. It was a sign of the new wondrous age that the revolution had brought: death, disease, poverty; but this time, it could all happen in the name of liberty.

With considerable effort to keep all murderous intentions hidden, Velsing decided not to goad the woman any further. All he did instead was shrug off his heavy coat, being careful not to jar his shoulder. Weapons concealed within the leather clattered to the floor as he kicked it toward the woman and began to peel off the blood-soaked sweater.

Gingerly, he held out his arm, observing the bullet wound. The damage had been more than he realized. The bullet didn't just enter his shoulder -- it almost severed it. A raw, bloody dark hole marked its entry on one side, with smooth skin on the other.

Well this will be a problem, he thought. Digging out the bullet would take more time than he would have liked, not to mention the eventual hell he'd receive later. The sane course of action would be to wait, go after her tomorrow. But getting to her tonight would almost make it worth the trouble.

“That looks painful,” the woman remarked. “Make sure you don't bleed too much when you take off my sweater.” She seemed almost bored, like a cat that had played with a mouse only to find it too easily giving in.

Best not make her too bored. The only sound of his movement was the squeak of an alley rat that had almost been crushed at the shift of Velsing's weight. In one motion he turned, opening his stance with one hand reaching toward the holster on his waist. He moved quickly, almost too fast for his own liking, as his shoulder burned like fire, but the woman's gun followed him every inch of the way.

“Let’s not do that again,” she growled. But in a second, her mood seemed to have changed, from anger to boredom, to just not caring. “Give me the shirt.”

He didn't fight her. In one controlled movement he peeled off the shirt, keeping his eyes trained on the woman while being careful to keep his shoulder still, to prevent the bullet from traveling any deeper.

Like a wary predator, the woman sidled up to him slowly, never lowering the gun even an inch.

Smart woman.

She snatched the sweater from Velsing's hands, stuffing it beneath the wide fall of her shabby cloak. Her every step jingled with what he could only guess was the stolen bounty from other men she'd met on this cold night.

Carefully, she backed up two spaces and bent to retrieve the fallen leather. It must have been heavier than she realized, for it fell from her hands with the muffled clunk of all its contents smashing together.

“Well, well, well,” the woman breathed. Her foot nudged the coat as if it were a living thing ready to come to life at any moment. “What do we have here?”

Pale skin showed only for a moment as she reached beneath a fold of black leather. Her fingers withdrew a blade so fine it glinted like one of the many icicles dangling from building ledges. Beautiful precision, lethal sharpness. It was merely one of many Velsing carried, as a rule. Stab first, ask questions later.

“And I thought ... you were a traveling man,” the woman murmured softly. “Huh.”

Leather scraped across the grimy cobblestones as she kicked the coat behind her, stepping away slowly until the moonlight revived the metal of her gun as she stood beyond the alley. “Nice night.” She stowed the gun beneath her cloak, still retreating. “Maybe you won't be stabbed to death by the first drunkard you meet.”

Then like the wind she was gone.

Velsing would have almost laughed if the rage coursing through his veins didn't demand his sole attention. He didn't care about the woman, she would be dead before the moon could even climb into midnight. He didn't even care that a woman so short she barely came to his chest had just robbed him of his weapons, clothes and probably his name. Life, like a reputation, could be easily...fixed, taken care of. What really made him curl a fist and slam it into the far wall with a solid bang, was the reason why this night had happened in the first place. It, like so many other things in life, could be explained by one simple explanation: It was all the priest's fault.