Page 5 of Tethered Souls
“I bet it is to him. He’s probably gonna strike us down at any moment once he traces our soul signatures.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“I doubt he’s going to have much mercy for two assassins who tried to off his girl in her sleep.”
“One, he probably isn’t even an archangel. It’s not like we have a database to run his face through, and two, we didn’t exactlydoanything, so…”
“Aha! That was my point,” I say triumphantly, having totally not forgotten why we were having this argument again in the first place. “Yourplandidn’t work. You can only have so many contingencies, I always say.”
“You never say that.”
“The best way to hit someone is to go in fast and adapt accordingly.”
“Like you did in New York?”
I wince, my side burning from the phantom pain of an eknor rage demon’s claws. That wasn’t my best ‘plans are for wussies’ moment, I’ll give him that.
“And going back to last night,” he continues, “if we’d gone in fast with the ‘plan’ to adapt accordingly, we’d both be dead. It was only because my plan had been to find out more about her first that we discovered shemighthave the eye of a guy whocould bean archangel.”
That might be a lot of ‘mights’ and ‘could bes’ but you just didn’t chance it with an archangel.
I snort. “Yeah, okay. Of course you’d see it that way.” It didn’t help matters that it was also the truth.
But gods, I hate planning. It’s so boring. I like to just jump up and stab things in the face. Which is why Dayne and I work so well together. He plans. I kill. The money pours in from all the jobs we do.
“Fine,” I sigh, dragging the word out in my annoyance. “Tell me the plan.”
It is his turn to snort. “You can’t make a plan to kill Varius fucking Shadow. He’sVariusfucking Shado–” He laughs as he dodges my ball of purple fire. He’s unable to see it, but he knows me well enough.
“You’re an ass,” I say as I snuff out the flames before they catch something on fire.
He grins, completely unabashed. “But you bring me his body, and I’ll help you hide it.”
“Thanks.” Joking aside, I’m seriously considering it.
Because I’m not letting my little sister, who doesn’t even want to join the Family business (instead, wanting to go to college to get an art degree – which screams I am not ready for the realhumanworld, let alone one full of dangerous witches, werewolves, and vampires and all the boogiemen you can think of) get married to that monster.
The timer on my phone buzzes, signaling it’s three in the afternoon – the time our target arrives with his nanny. The hunt is now on, and my mind focuses sharply. As much as I love my sister, Dayne is my partner, and getting distracted now could get him killed.
Peeking through the plastic blinds, I scan the heads of all the kids in the playground. Their parents might think they can protect them from all the little boo-boos they might get, making sure they’re not climbing on something too sketchy or running off with strangers, but the truth is, there are some dangers no amount of planning and careful watching will ever stop.
Like it didn’t with Bambi.My eyes fall to the tattoo I have on my left hand – the geometric stag with a code that says ‘Bambi’ down one side and the date I hurt that little girl down the other. The day I was forced to sell my soul so I wouldn’t stain the family name with mymorals.
I pull my eyes from my black tattoo, from my constant reminder of who I really am and scan the adults across the street. Despite having negotiated exclusivity in our contract, I don’t trust a selfish bitch like our client to actually honor her word.
And fuck, is half of me hoping she doesn’t.
Because then I’ll get to kill her – a consequence that’s clearly outlined in our Ts and Cs. Don’t fuck with us doing our job, and we won’t fuck with you.
We deal with a lot of assholes in our line of work, but there’s something about this particular client that rubs me the wrong way. She’s a stepmom entrusted with the care of her dead husband’s child. A monster with diamond-beaded cheeks already prepared for six-year-old Ron’s funeral.
“Target spotted climbing up the slide,” Dayne says.
My gaze lands on a small head of brown hair sticking out of a red hat. Bundled up against the cold of February, he’s wearing a thick coat and gloves. His cheeks are round with baby fat, but his hazel eyes are far from innocent. He knows pain and misery, and anger burns inside me for the injustice I am about to aid.
Picking up the handgun, I place it between two blinds of the window.
“Old man on the bench at two o’clock. Cane beside him,” Dayne says, and I glance in that direction. I find the man quickly. He has yesterday’s newspaper open on his lap. His legs are crossed.
