Aurelia is a Courtesan, not an Assassin. Her world is turned upside down, however, when she kills a high-ranking Senator in self defense. Given his status, and the political power his family wields, Aurelia knows she will be executed without a trial...
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Countdown: 2 Days, 23.5 Hours, 4 deaths
The stench of poison clings to her.
Late last night, she used a corner of Joe's kitchen to brew more of the foul concoction Colin had taught her to make the morning of her first contracted kill. The coating on the needle of her hairstick had thinned, and she could not risk being without it.
She'd made sure to keep a close eye on the heat, this time. Colin had tried to mask his pride at the end result, but she could see it in his eyes, anyway. She'd felt more like an apprentice in that moment than she had in years.
Kaol had not returned to the bar.
She had slept in a cold bed, alone with her nightmares for the first time in days.
She'd dreamed of blood. Coating her hands, crusting under her nails, slipping down her forearms. She'd dreamed of walls of faces- green eyes set into visages with smooth flesh where mouths should be. They had watched, reveled, as she reached into Marcus' skull, and ripped out his eyeball with her bare hands, severing the tendons of the stalk with her fingernails. In the dream, the eyeball had transfigured itself into the slippery egg of Warmus' testicle, and she had squeezed it between her palms until it softly crushed, oozing through the gaps in her fingers as though hard-boiled.
She had woken not with screams, but with a wetness between her thighs.
Her mug had contained more rum than coffee this morning.
She sees someone sniff, then choose a seat a few rows away from her when they step onto the Bullet.
The bell chimes, announcing her stop, and she steps off the bullet and onto the platform in P Hept. She pats at her hair as she descends the stairs and onto the coral-paved street, is reassured by the crude wooden hairstick nestled within the knot of disconcertingly dark braids.
A chill runs up the back of her spine, her hair stands up on end at the nape of her neck. The sudden, unexpected sensation makes her stumble and nearly lose her footing. She glances around her, quickly, searching for an imposing figure, for eyes as black as chips of obsidian. She half-expects to find him lurking in some shadow, his shark-toothed smile glinting unnaturally white.
Her scan of the area reveals only commuters and the ordinary, day-to-day movements of average people. Despite the persistent feeling of eyes on her, there are no hints of The Artist's presence.
She doesn't look for another hallucination of Marcus; those have been appearing far too frequently for her sanity.
She wonders if The Artist will find her here, if he will take her entrance into the Belvados household as his answer rather than a death. If she will even survive long enough to use the poison she'd spent the night brewing.
As she walks, she passes a man standing on a street-corner, a group of the citizenry huddled around him, listening eagerly as he speaks.
"We will not let them get away with this. We will make ourselves heard. No justice, no peace!" she hears him exclaim. The slogan of the terrorist organization is repeated by those around him, not with jubilance but with a grim determination.
