A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 3.3

Clang. Crash. Clang. Crash.

Delilah plucked a small lead ball from the small pocket attached to her black belt that kinked her velvet coat at her waist. Fitted it inside the cup atop the narrow chamber amongst the granules of gunpowder. Then sealed it between its resting place and the breech at the barrel's end.

The handle recoiled in her hand as the bullet left the gun, and not a moment later the smash of a glass bottle etched in her ears. 

Number five. 

Five out of five targets hit, and one was left standing on the wall ten metres away. Grey slate stacked atop more slate stretched across the garden, separating the house from the green field that trailed a cottage-length or two until it reached another slate wall. One taller - much taller - that wrapped the house's estate, shielding it from the sneering and judgemental eyes of the city folk. And decorated with sharpened black slate that pointed like a knife's blade to the clouds.

Any new paperwork could wait until tomorrow, or the day after that, or two after that. If her conversation with Baron went well, maybe she could even leave them a week or two.

Dawn was falling down through the trees, cascading its last lights over the garden and the final standing bottle. Gold buttons threaded the front of Gregory's black jacket to which the dark orange hues reflected, bouncing off the steel barrel mounted inside the wooden rifle in his hands. Pre-loaded and ready for her to take. Delilah reached for it, an exasperated sigh pushing out her lungs as she finally relented to practising with the rifle.

She had failed to deliver the crops from Cornswald. Failed to kill every one of those damn highwaymen that ambushed them. The dark figure riding from her, his black hair bristling in the wind, cloak floating as he rode, how the bullet in his arm left him unfazed - all of him was scorched in her memory, another torment to remind her of her disgraces.

The butt pressed against her shoulder, it's varnished wood grazing the red velvet fabric covering her. Her eyes trailed down along the barrel above it as she adjusted her aim.

The bottle was there. In her direct line of sight. Prey accepting its fate. But, the rifle shook, trembled in her hands as Delilah's thoughts remained elsewhere. Ten bullets then reload. Ten bullets. Reload. She could remember the sway of the cart, the thuds of the men she shot when they smashed into the ground. Her aim had been awful. Terrible. It took an entire round to shoot just one of them.

Inhaling, she steadied her breath. Reigned it in and released. Focused solely on singular breaths as they curled with the cool summer day.

The bottle was there again. In her direct line of sight. The rifle steady in her hands. Another breath in and then she pulled the trigger.

Applause soon followed. Not just that of Gregory. But a round of hands clapping in unison. 

Delilah pulled the breech block back into place and flipped the rifle upside down, releasing the spent case into the sodden grass. "A fine shot by a fine lady." A gentleman spoke, one she recognised too well to feel any pride from the compliment. "I thought you would miss! But you got it. Bravo. Bravo." He kept clapping – an obnoxious sound of slow slaps as he brought his hands together.

Of all the guests Baron could bring, of course it was him. "Oh dearest Darragh, did you see it? I'm sure you are quite impressed, yes?" The greying man prattled on. Gushing about the one shot he had witnessed, exaggerating the splendour of it only to climb an inch or so higher in Baron's good graces. Rolling her eyes now would merely irritate the latter more, tighten his jaw more so than it already was as he stared at her.

"You skimmed it." That was his response. 

Short. 

Sharp. 

Concise. 

Enough to pluck away the minute pride that she had felt towards hitting the bottle on the first attempt. "Do better tomorrow." She wanted to glower at him, hurl the rifle right at his stern face. Make those hollow brown eyes show any emotion. Instead, she nodded. Kept her lips tight and her eyelids wide.

"Oh, Dede," Delilah despised that pet name, despised the man that spoke it. An abhorrent mutation of the name – her name. "You'll do better. It's simple really. Just try harder."

Simon was a leech. A grey, slimy, bloodsucking worm that would not disappear no matter how many times it was stepped on. He thrived on attention, seeped it from those around him.

His scraggily form was attached to Baron whenever Simon visited East City - a second arrogant head added to the one already adorning Darragh's neck. Delilah could not like Simon regardless of his constant compliments and gestures of affection. Would not, even. How could she like the man when barely two weeks after her father vanished Simon was lunging into Baron's bed like he had never left? Removing all of her father's possessions, Simon made himself entirely at home, stripping the household of any moment to grieve.

He was a horrid little man, and she did not care for any contact with him at all.

As he stared down at her along the bridge of his bulging nose, through the tiny spectacles hanging on the bridge that were only there for show; Delilah fought, battled with her instincts to resist any visible display of disdain. Rather, she nodded her head again and turned to the shorter man beside him who continued to stare coldly at her.

Shoulders back.

Feet anchored onto the ground.

Rifle resting in her hands and a deep breath. Then, and only then, did Delilah request to go to Alder Creek.