Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Ace leaned back against the wall and watched his roommate looking for something under one of the beds. Staz, short for Anastasius, had grown a lot since theyād first become roommates, but his features still had a certain softness that made him look younger. Maybe it was the lips, plump and soft like the Prophetess on the Sistine Chapel, or whatever that painting was. Staz was a little over eighteen now and his body looked it, tall and lithe, even if his face didnāt.
Most people thought they were a couple just because theyād been roommates for years now. Most people were idiots. Maybe it was because they didnāt have separate bedrooms, but given that it was a studio apartment, that would have been some trick. They had their own beds, pulled into the odd shaped space between the bathroom ā that was its own room ā and the kitchenette. Theyād put up curtains for privacy, not that either of them had needed that in a long time.
Staz was in his āman skirtā as he liked to call it, a towel slung over his shoulder from where heād been drying his hair. It still hung in loose curls, jet black from the damp. āAce? Have you perchance seen the jewelry case?ā
āNaw. Aināt seen it since thā last time you went out. Wasnāt it fer that play by Ara-- Astop-- that Greek guy last month?ā There were many reasons people whoād met them both were shocked to hear they lived together.
Staz gave him a cool look, āAristophanes. That play was the Acharnians. You watched it; you should remember these things.ā
He shrugged, āDidnāt understand a word they was blatherinā on about.ā He waited till Staz gave him an incredulous look, then burst out laughing. āGotcha. Naw, it was good. I can just never remember the guyās name. Have ya tried lookinā behind the towels in thā bathroom?ā
Stazās eyes narrowed, āNow what, pray tell, would it be doing there?ā Ace merely gave him an innocent look. āI keep telling you that Carson is not going to steal anything. Would you please stop hiding the valuables when heās going to be coming over?ā Of course he wouldnāt. He didnāt trust little Mr. Blonde Ambition. āJust because he tried to steal one of your condoms once does not mean that he would ever take anything of value,ā Staz scolded.
Ace shrugged in response. He and Carson had, by silent agreement, never said what it was that heād actually tried to steal. Ace had hidden a garrote in the condom package so it would be overlooked in a casual inspection. Carson had known what it was and that alone was enough to raise Aceās hackles. They werenāt in the same business he was sure. Not many people their age did what he did, not that lasted as long as heād known the man, so heād have heard of him by now.
Of course, it wasnāt just the young ones who didnāt last long. Being an assassin had been made into something glorious by the media and so people bragged. Once they bragged, people heard it. And once that happened, either the police came for them or their employers showed up to shut them up. Permanently. Ace had already done three jobs on people who talked too much.
The next thing that seemed to get other people in trouble also stemmed from the media. The Look. Black trench coats looked really cool; they got peopleās attention. And that, boys and girls, was the last thing needed for a successful hit. The final thing that tended to winnow out people from his job was money. As an old friend had been fond of saying, you could make a killing at killing. They saw all the money they were making and, well, spent it. A fine car, nice clothes, those also got attention and one had better have a very good way to explain it.
This was why he dressed like everyone else, cultivated a look that let him blend in about anywhere when he was working. This was why he lived in a studio apartment with another man and drove a remarkably reliable and amazingly ugly car. Most of his money was being quietly funneled into an off-shore account and accruing some fat credit while he prepared for retirement. He hadnāt developed a āsignatureā like so many little idiots did. Yeah, it made a name for you among the police, but since when was that a good idea?
This was also why Ace kept his mouth shut and never said the A-word. He didnāt even call himself that in his own head. He called himself a hit man because the people he killed werenāt important enough to be assassinated, only murdered. The closest thing heād had to a āhigh profileā case was a businessmanās son. The man was to testify against his company and they didnāt want that. The target was sixteen and Ace had felt a little squicked about it at first even though heād only been eighteen at the time.
Heād stopped worrying about it after he did a little research on him. Heād found out he frequented a particular club that Ace hated, one that was dark enough to slip things into girlās drinks without them seeing. One of the girls had tried to press charges but then sheād fallen down the stairs. Ace had bribed the bouncers to get in just like his target did, watched him for a little while and waiting for the band to get set up. Heād slowly breathed the smoky air into himself, wrapping the rage and desperation around him like a cloak and slowly drawing certain symbols on his wrists with a ball point pen.
When the band was ready, heād pulled on latex gloves, pulled out two knives, and walked behind the drunken target. Heād released the magic from the air, whispering, āI destroy you,ā and stabbed him twice in the back, all with hardly a pause as he continued to walk to the door and out into the street. The targetās screams and thrashing had blended in with the rest of the crowd when, ācoincidentallyā, the band had started just as he stabbed him. The club had housed murders before but theyād been kept quiet. This couldnāt be kept quiet and Ace had gotten warm fuzzies when the club was closed.
Heād been nervous when he first started in the business. After all, what would he do if he was asked to kill a really good person? Now he had a small tattoo on his back that proclaimed āNo One Is Innocent.ā Heād known someone with one like it and it had seemed to fit more and more. In factā
āYouāre thinking about work again,ā Stazās voice cut through his thoughts. Ace shrugged yet again. Heād told his roommate that he worked in a slaughterhouse; he actually did once a week. Staz looked up from where heād finished lacing a boot and lifted a brow.
He smirked, āYeah, Iām thinking about work. Now Iām hungry.ā He rubbed his belly, āYum. Cow.ā
āYou can stop. I know. ā The other manās brown eyes seemed darker than usual but his expression was placid as always.
āYou know whā Shit.ā
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