Page 2 of Cause Of Death

It’s simple enough to walk into the public-facing areas of our quarry and leave the required hardware hidden somewhere I can easily access after-hours and then installing key loggers or programs to weasel their way through the network to open up access for Kimmy to exploit later. Even easier still is to courier the devices straight to the relevant office once we know their schedule, and then once we’ve downloaded the payload, to have it shipped back to us via a secure re-mailer service. Tonight was a rush job, hence why I tossed the stick out a window.

We’re still giggling as I park the car, the garage door closing behind us and locking us in. Kimberly unlocks the connecting door and keys in the security code, with me following closely behind. A flash of black and a high-pitched mewing garners my attention and I bend over, bundling therealGizmo into my arms and nuzzling his soft fur as he rumbles and purrs in my arms.

“Does our boy want some salmon? I know youweren’tactually there tonight, but I did promise you the good stuff in absentia.” I murmur into his little head, and his purrs increase in volume and velocity at the magic word.

Something sharp scratches along my cheek, and I pull away from my furry purr-monster with a frown. An envelope—matteblack and ominous—is attached to a glittering jet collar fastened around Gizmo’s neck.

Except Gizmo doesn’t wear a collar.

And he doesn’t go outside, either.

And most telling of all, it wasn’t there when I picked him up a moment ago.

Still frowning, I carry my kitten through to the kitchen, gently placing him on the white tiled island bench before unclasping the buckle of the collar.

“Dee, what’s the matter? What’s going on?” Kimberly’s voice comes from behind me, but I don’t answer her. Instead, I’m staring down at the blank front of the envelope.

“Wh-what’s that?” Kimberly stutters as she spots the unopened missive in my hand, “And where did it come from? I haven’t collected the mail yet.”

I shake my head in answer, still not uttering a word. Kimberly snatches it from my hands and attempts to tear it open, but the envelope remains stiff and unyielding. After a moment, she hands it back to me. I stare down at it some more, then mentally give myself a shake. It’s just a letter, what am I so afraid of?

My finger moves to the flap at the back, a sudden shiver rippling through my body, as though someone has just walked over my grave.

Well, that’s not ominous at ALL,I muse, before sliding my finger underneath the flap and flicking it open. Inside is a rather heavy and luxurious card stock, the inky color offset by the crimson lettering covering its surface.

“Uh, apparently our little side-jobs haven’t gone unnoticed, Kimmy. I’m being recruited by a guild of assassins, if this letter is to be believed.” I finally murmur, my thoughts racing at justhowthis Guild has learned of my existence.

If they know about me, then they must also know what I am, and who I surround myself with.

Shit.

“We need to get Leslie over here. I want to hear what they know about this Guild. If thisFemme Fatale Freakshow—and what kind of name is that?—is truly all-seeing and all-knowing like they’re implying in this letter, then they’ll already know I won’t do anything without talking it over with both you and Les. Fuck, we might even need to call in Steve and possibly Henley for advice. Let’s make it a family affair, shall we?”

Neither Henley nor Stevewere able todrop everything and scramblebackto Merced before the deadline, so we had to settle for a conference call at ass-crack o’clock instead. Henley is on base over at Fort Knox, Kentucky, and is in his last year of active service, whereas Steve is on a job that’s taken him up to Missoula in Montana, of all places. I hope the bounty he’s tracking is worth the travel.

As much as I’d prefer the opposite, I’m not a stranger to early mornings as I work four days a week as a pastry chef in a boutique patisserie in Modesto. Kimberly, on the other hand, isnota morning person. In fact, she hates mornings so much that I had a mug made up especially for her. It’s got a cranky little storm cloud obscuring the sun on one side, with the words, “Grumpy Little Mórgenmuffel” printed on the other.

She loves it.

We’re waiting on Leslie to arrive before syncing up our conference call. They’re driving up from their base of operations in Los Angeles and will be staying with us for the next day or so until they head back home. I’m grateful for their presence, and I know Kimmy will enjoy having her occasional bed-buddy back under our roof, even if it’s only for the night.

I’m brewing a fresh pot of coffee so that Kimmy is at least partially functional when the rattle of the front door echoes through the house.

Leslie has arrived.

“Hello, hello, my little buttercups. I hope the weather outside doesn’t bode ill for whatever news you have to share with us all. It was so lovely out this morning when I drove up here, but in the last half hour or so the sky has turned black. The weather channel has no idea what’s going on!”

I pull another mug down from the cupboard, leaving it free of creamer and sugar, just how they like it. I add three heaped spoons of sugar to Kimmy’s mug, before adding one spoonful of sugar and a dash of creamer to my own. By the time I carry all three mugs across to the rear lounge, Leslie is already settled on the sofa with their feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Here you go, Les. As to the weather, I don’t know what’s going on, either. I mean, I know I only got out of bed a half an hour ago, but I promise I’m not the Antichrist!”

Leslie snorts out a laugh at my comeback as they take their mug from my hand, leaving me to place Kimberly’s on the table ready for when she descends from her lair. Leslie is a delta, and their designation couldn’t be more perfect for their chosen career. Marketing themselves as a “procurer of rarities to the elite,” Leslie is—to put it simply—a black-market smuggler. They have their fingers in so many pies that they’re the first person Kimmy and I turn to when we need information we can’t obtainon our own, and they in turn provide us with the majority of our contracts.

Leslie is taller than both Kimmy and me at five foot eleven, but then again, most people are. Kimmy is five foot six, and I’m five foot three in bare feet. Leslie’s natural hair color has been lost to time, part of their many looks and disguises. Today, their tousled teal curls sit in an asymmetrical cut reminiscent of Tilda Swinton’s gender-bending portrayal of Gabriel inConstantine.Violet-tinted contacts hide their baby blue eyes, and their angular jawline is sharp and freshly shaven. A shrunken cropped vest in a shade of purple that matches their contacts clings to their chest, exposing their toned and tanned bare midriff, with a pair of flowing black palazzo pants and strappy wedge sandals rounding out their current look.

“Disa, darling, you’re looking a little peaky. Have you been getting enough sleep, my love?” Leslie interrogates me while carefully sipping their coffee. I roll my eyes, knowing they’re not intending to be offensive, but also a little miffed that they’re asking me that.

“Gee, I dunno Les, between burning the candle at both ends with my dual life, and then having some secret society somehow gain access to our secure house to attach a collar to my kitten without any of us noticing, I think I deserve a pass on looking as amazing as you do. Not all of us have our beautician on speed-dial, yannow?”

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