Wicked is the Curse.

02 | Mercy

Chapter Two |  Mercy

 Aire was still, her mind whirring with possibilities.

 Mick remained where he was, smugly surveying her as if she was a rat caught in a trap. Six men were a challenge, not that she counted Mick. If she went with them willingly, she would be locked away somewhere terrible and tortured for secrets that the ghosts brought her.

She clucked her tongue, forcing herself to remain calm as the final seconds ticked away.

Whisperer. 

That's what the other gangs in Irial called Junhyn's personal informant. A whisperer who worked for Junhyn and sighed their secrets into his ear. She knew of shipments and plans as their inner circle did, but she had sold secrets for many others who had the coin for it. Just not against Junhyn or her gang. Never against them.

Nosy.  Her mother, clucking her nose as she caught Aire trying to listen in to adult conversations. 

She knew, with cold certainty, that they would lock her away in the darkness. The Eoban would seep from her blood, leaving her blood bare and defenceless against the wicked beast that slumbered under her skin. Even if she went willingly, they would kill Aevran.

It would be stupid to leave them living.

No.

"I hate killing." She said absently.

 She always had. 

Though death was common in Irial's underbelly, she hated the idea of confining another soul to the tortured wandering if they couldn't pierce the veil into the afterlife. Killing was only done when necessary, a lesson drilled into her from the day her father pressed her first blade into her hands and cut open her palm to let her blood soak the earth.

Another man screamed as he fell to the ground. The noise was growing and that would only drag attention their way.

"I do not want to kill you, Mick." Mick's betrayal didn't surprise her, but the hired hands did. Mick had slipped coin from Junhyn more than once, but Junhyn balanced Mick's punishment on his usefulness.

Mick's lips twisted into a sick smile. "Aire, girl, there are six of us. And Aevran is injured."

"If death is a necessity, then I can sleep." She told them. The mark against her palm, years old, gave a phantom throb. 

Aevran righted himself behind her, the stalk of the arrow sticking out of his arm. Royden circled the men, sitting on nothing and stuffing his falling entrails back in as he waited for the show to begin. Mary Curtail had fled into the darkness, her scream a whisper from her gaping throat as she was cast away by the thought of spilling blood.

"Stay behind me, Aevran."

"Feck off, Aire." Aevran growled. "I didn't have my arm cut off."

A woman yelped high above.

Aire lunged. For Mick first, driving a blade into his leg. His death would come later, when his secrets had been squeezed out for her to collect. The first man came for her, stubby fingers reaching for her coat. Her fingers slipped into the fingers of her knuckle-blades and she withdrew it, spinning around. The blade, curved like the quarter slice of the moon, cut across his throat.

Blood spurted out and the man gurgled, scratching at his throat.

Royden peered down at him. "Do you think he will linger? I would like a new friend."