Deliciously Deadly: a Red Riding Hood retelling

Chapter 10

Say what you will about Dawn, the damn murderess could heal as well as she could kill—not the best of the best, but not too shabby either.

Cain watched her every move anxiously as she picked up Lottie's limp hand and felt for the pulse with two fingers. Not even the most miraculous cures came with absolute guarantees; the outcome was always dependent on a mixture of the treatment, the mental and physical strength of the patient, and the whims of fate.

With a face that revealed not a hint of her assessment, Dawn unfurled a cloth-wrapped roll with an assortment of needles. Not the ones she had tried to kill him with, but longer, finer ones designed to penetrate skin bloodlessly and target the hundreds of delicate pressure points spread across the body. With a pinprick in the right spots, Dawn could put someone into sleep or paralysis in a matter of seconds.

Cain did not understand how it worked, but he had seen enough miracles worked by the assassins in the guild with an affinity for treating wounds, brewing antidotes and all that kind of stuff that went over his head. With their penchant for slicing up and poisoning others (and sometimes themselves), it not only made sense, it was also necessary.

Halting the killing effects of the plague was no simple matter, judging by the number of needles Dawn carefully pressed into Lottie's arms, palms, ribs and the soles of her feet.Then she sat back, slid a handful more needles out of her cloth roll, then inserted them into Lottie's temples and scalp with painstaking care.

It was the first time Cain had witnessed this level of gentleness and attentiveness from Dawn. Sweat beaded at her hairline with the amount of concentration she exerted to ensure that each of her needles were placed precisely at the right points and depths.

Most Enfocers preferred their kills clean and swift. There was, after all, almost never any bad blood between an assassin and their victim—nothing personal, just following orders. Dawn, however, enjoyed torturing her victims more than anyone else in the guild. For secrets she could keep up her sleeve? For enjoyment? Who knows. But try reconciling that Dawn with this one. He couldn't.

Rolling up the cloth wrap, Dawn tucked it back into the belt of her sleek, dark red armour. "It's up to her now," she said as she scooted across the floor until her back rested against the wall. "Even if she dies, you still owe me."

"What exactly do you want?" he asked.

"A hundred lives."

When he left the guild years ago, Dawn was ranked seventh in the Enforcers based on the number of targets she'd disposed. Adding a hundred to her tally could see her boosted a few ranks up and possibly boost her into the inner circle of the guild. What all those lives would do to him, though...

Cain tightened his fists and raked his eyes over all the thin needles protruding from Lottie's frail figure. In all the years he'd known her, she had never harmed a fly. Never even spoken an ill word about all those who continued to hurt her. When the famine came, it was she who insisted on sharing their food stores with her ungrateful villagers, and what did they do in return?

If the gods would crush someone like her, then what would ten blood debts to Dawn matter? He would paint the world with blood—heaven, hell, and everything in between.

With a deep breath, Cain closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm those thoughts. But what sprung to mind was his recollection of the first time he took a hundred lives in a single day.

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Hopeless and hungry after the plague that wiped out his village, five-year-old Cain trusted the first man who came along in a wagon, claiming he was taking all survivors of the plague to a city with food aplenty. Had Cain not been so hungry, he might have been more sceptical. He might have noticed that all the other survivors in the wagon were young, ranging from the years of two to ten, and no older.