Parked under a broken street light on a suburban road, I watched my target from behind the wheel of my jet black, 98' Chevy Camaro. He was wearing a wet, creased suit, his brown hair slicked back, struggling with his keys at the front door of a semi-detached, white-washed house. Clearly, he was drunk, which would make what I had to do so much easier.
The drunken business man slumped against the wall as he roughly shoved the key into the door and stumbled inside. I glanced in my rear-view mirror to check nobody was around – unsurprisingly, nobody was. It was 2am, and rain drummed on the roof of the Camaro. Street lamps flickered, throwing pools of yellow light onto the cracked pavement, reflecting in the gathering puddles.
Coast clear, I slipped from the car and flipped the hood of my jacket up over my head. Not because the rain bothered me, but to hide my face should anyone happen to glance out their window. I felt the weight of my weapon in the inside pocket of my leather coat, a heavy reminder that I was here for one purpose only – to kill.
Pausing at the door of the semi-detached, I listened. With my better-than-human hearing, I could hear the target shuffling around inside, probably getting ready for bed. Sliding a hand into my coat to grip the handle of my weapon, I reached for the doorknob with my other hand. It turned easily in my hand and the door swung open silently.
Inside, the house was neat. Brown leather sofas, a flat-screen TV on the wall, an oak coffee table piled with copies of GQ and Men's Sport. I walked, quiet and sly as a cat, through the living room. I passed the kitchen, catching a glimpse of a knife block next to the microwave. Too bad this guy wouldn't get a chance to reach those knives before I killed him.
The bedroom was at the back of the house, and the door was ajar. My target stood with his back to me at the chest of drawers, his shirt in a crumpled mess at his feet and his shoes next to the bed. The man was slender and tanned, and as he turned, shock draining the blood from his face, I saw he was good-looking, with a straight nose and strong jaw. He looked normal, human.
Only the faint glow of power hovering over his skin gave him away as anything else.
"No," the man whispered, backing into the dresser and knocking a glass of whisky to the floor. The drink stained the beige carpet. "No, please. Please don't."
Ah. I hated when they begged. It disgusted me. That these abominations existed was bad enough, but that they were so pathetic, that they begged for their lives…made me sick.
I pulled my weapon from my coat, the light from the bedside lamp glinting off the edge of the six-inch blade. The runes etched in the metal glowed red as I shifted my grip on the leather-bound handle.
Tears streamed down the man's face as he held up his hands, shrinking in on himself defensively. I ignored his pleas for mercy. I had no choice. This was what I was created for. My sole purpose for being.
I moved faster than the human eye could track, and sank the blade into the man's chest, piercing the heart. He let out a cry that turned into a gurgle, and dropped to the floor with a thud. As I watched, the faint mist of power around his boy faded and blinked out.
It was done. One more target removed.
I took a rag from my pocket and wiped my blade clean before slipping it back into my coat. The smell of blood and death permeated the room, and I closed my eyes, inhaling it. I waited.
Seconds later, an image flashed through my mind, courtesy of my Creator. The image was a face. Female, attractive, with green eyes and hair the colour of maple-syrup. The image came with a name – Magdelena Archer. Maggie.
My next target.