In My Darkness: La Chatte Noire

Chapter Eighteen: Who You Really Are

Chapter Eighteen: Who You Really Are

Camillé stepped into the light of the room, allowing her troupe to see her. No one was surprised by this point, it was usual for la Chat to appear out of nowhere. She stepped over one of the bags on the floor, sitting with her legs crossed on a chair at one end of the long table they used for meetings, meals, and just generally everything. Most of the League was here, they were only missing one member. That wasn't particularly surprising either, considering it was a solid part of his reputation that he was always late. She sighed as the seconds ticked by on the only clock in their hideout, slowly driving her insane. Boredom colored her facial features and she pulled out one of her knives, throwing the point of it into the wooden table and pulling it out again repeatedly. She became aware of another pair of eyes on her and she looked up into the familiar green eyes of her companion.

"You know, Chat, you're going to ruin the table if you keep doing that," she warned her, and Camillé laughed.

"And you're going to ruin your reputation if you keep sparing lives," Wolfe growled from beside them, making Araignée glance at him scathingly.

"And you are un salopard bête (an idiotic bastard)," she spat, confusing the man with the French insult, seeing as he only spoke English, as they did around him.

Camillé shot them both a warning look. "If you two go at it while we're at the table, we'll have to tie you both down to your chairs, and you know I won't hesitate," she reminded them, "Now settle down. We're only waiting on Donnola as it is. When he shows up, we can get started and get this thing over with, and everyone can go back to their respective rooms. That particularly goes for you, Wolfe."

"You don't own me, little kitty," he sneered at her, and she smirked.

"No, but I am the one holding a weapon at the moment."

"That you don't know how to use," he retorted.

She cocked her head to the side and gave him a disbelieving expression. "How hard could it be, really?"

"To hurt me? Harder than you think."

At that moment, Donnola waltzed in, looking quite laid back and relaxed. He took a seat beside Wolfe – if a bit reluctantly – and Rabe glared at him from the other head across the table.

"What did you do, stop for a shot on the way here?"

Donnola shrugged with a smirk. "I was thirsty."

Everyone narrowed their eyes at him and he backed down. The meeting commenced as normal; raised voices, a few insults thrown back and forth, and a knife or three thrown into the wall beside someone's head. Before it had finished, Camillé had agreed to go with Rabe on another mission in a manor on the east side of London. It was rather close to home, but their last had been all the way to the southernmost tip of the city, so they figured it would be simple to get away with. As the League broke and stood from their places, a dagger crashed through the window overlooking the rest of their hideout. Camillé and Araignée walked to the entrance slowly, waiting for any more noises or movement. The dagger had pierced the ceiling above Donnola's head, and he pulled it out. There was a note attached to it, yet when he tried to read it, Rabe took it from him and began to read it aloud.

"Well done, boy. You have managed to avoid us for two years. But now we have found you with your precious League, and we have come for you. No one leaves De Manu Mortis. Come downstairs, brother," he read, then stared at Donnola, "You were involved with De Manu Mortis (Latin: The Hand of Death)? And you left? Do you know how dangerous that is?"