This is the second instalment following our newly discovered assassin-in-training Eleanor Parkly; this instalment was inspired by one of the millions of writing prompts on Pinterest. This post made me question whether assassins are considered to be Lady-like, whether a female assassin must be dainty and sexualised to get the same job done as male assassins. *cough* Of course this is all fantastical, there are no real assassins *cough*.
“Miss Parkly, I implore you to listen!” His screeching voice filtered through the door.
“I’m sorry Mr Jacque, it is too late to prevent it.” Muttering was beneath me, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t hear me.
The razor was sharp, the slithers of red tracing its path along fingertips was testament to that. A nimble blade was the razor, small and easily concealable; but it packed a mighty punch. Even for an amateur.
I had killed three men with this blade, of course they were all destined to die for one reason or another. They were testers. Jobs sent to the house for those in training. I cant work out how they are sent, or why for that matter. But there was always one thing in common, their families could afford their prison taxes, so there was no place for them in prison.
The first was a petty thief, if he had been half decent he would have had enough loot in storage to settle the fee and for him to live the rest of his life only missing a few fingers. But alas, he had cashed it all in for a mistress who just happened to disappear the night he discovered what the inside of a cell looked like. Little to say, the family he pleaded he was stealing for, wasn’t exactly pleased; I don’t think they ever say a single coin of it.
Technically he was my first solo, ordered kill. Slip in. Slit his throat. Leave.
I didn’t even get a drop of blood on my gloves, they had given me white gloves of course, personally I don’t like hidden tests.
I guess the guards knew I was coming that night, if not they really ought to tighten up their security; almost an entire half-hour before anyone checked his cell. They weren’t even shocked to see the blood.
The holes in the floor weren’t just for piss it seems.
I must admit, the blade swung between my fingers, the second kill held a little more satisfaction. My orders were: let him know he is being killed.
What kind of order was that? Honestly, some people pay extra, and I mean a lot extra, for added elements. We’re custom order didn’t you know? It was after sneaking into his cell, and shall we say, separating him from his prized possessions, did I truly understand the arrangement with the guards.
They should have come running if someone screamed like that. I still hear it at night. The way he begged. I felt so big at the time, now, well now it’s gotten rather boring. The ones who fight are the most interesting.
None of these men are innocent. The second especially. It is a crime and a half to whore out a child under ten years. He had done it more than once, two were his own sons. Of course some of his patrons now shared a corridor with him. Lowered from noble houses to the dredges of the sewer pit. Mr Jacque dealt with them.
A special practice the called it, Miss Elasquest really didn’t like his kind. Liked them even less when they were part of her house.
The cook was easy to replace.
So were the gloves.
The third man was merely hours ago, an old man, frail and breaking against the spring breeze. I didn’t have to break into the prison for him, he was waiting, patiently, half-asleep in a guest bedroom below me. His crime was a grievous one; he out lived his body.
When the time comes, if the time comes. I want someone sneak in while I sleep; with a blade as sharp as this.
“Miss Parkly, please.” His head left a dull thump on the door frame. “It’s not Lady-like.”
“Mr Jacque, I don’t want to be Lady-like.” I twisted my fingers more securely around the blade. “I want to lure men to their deaths.” I ran the blade through my tight plait.
Soft twists hair bounced around my ears. An iron would change that. Folding the blade in on itself, I secured it back in it’s holding. High on the inside of my thigh.
Short hair was a sign. A sign of foreign ways and open to experiences.