“Such a pity, that,” he sighed.
Lorraine returned to put more wood in the hearth. “Does seem very dark in here, doesn’t it now?” she asked.
Opal looked up at her with his right eye. The room was gloomy, much darker than he remembered when he had first slipped into the bath.
“Well then, we’ll just get a roaring fire going and chase away all these shadows.”
* * * * *
An early morning came fast; Opal scurried down the dirt road in his fine clothing, with a terrible headache. He moaned to himself as the sun’s light came out of the heavens through two clouds and directly into his eye. He pulled his lapels up to ward off the cold morning air and the feeling of nausea that was threatening to overtake him.
He stood on the step of the pawn shop for a moment, appraising himself. He wasn’t wearing makeup, he realized with a disgusted snort, and he had forgotten his eye patch. Opal put one hand to his face absently, and then saw he had at least taken the time to wear his beautiful blue velvet gloves and best lace shirt.
“Black Opal,” the store owner beamed, as Opal finally walked in.
“Morning, Paul.”
“Have yourself a good time last night, huh? You look like shit.”
Opal made a half-hearted attempt to get his hair pushed back into its tie. “Oh do I? Too much wine.”
The pawn shop man laughed at this, “Well, if you can afford it, why not? Right?”
“Yes,” the fop said. “About that....” he drifted off as he took a couple pieces of diamond jewelry out of his pocket and laid them on the counter in front of Paul.
“Hmm, now where’d these little pretties come from?” the owner grinned.
A wave of nausea came over the dandy for a moment as he stood leaning against the counter.
“I don’t know if I would have a market for those all the way out here in this craphole,” Paul hedged.
“What about this?” Opal asked, reaching into his coat to bring forth the cameo.
“I’ll have that.”
Opal’s hand fell open as a dagger pushed it to the countertop, and the brooch slid out.
Paul took a step back. “I’m sorry, Opal. She was going to kill me if I didn’t go along with her.”
“I’m sure Black Opal will find it in his heart to forgive you. Come back to the counter and stay put,” Cameo commanded.
She inspected the highwayman in his blue velvet trousers and jacket. He looked as if he might be playing the piccolo in a symphony somewhere elegant, somewhere he had never been himself.
Opal put a hand over his face instinctively, covering his left eye, which was a white, sightless orb. Some of his loose blonde hair fell over the left side of his face as he lowered his head. For a moment he considered going for his sword.
“You really don’t look much like your wanted posters at all,” she smirked.
He tilted his head to one side as he looked at her finally.
Her eyes were gray, and cloudy. Her face, although well proportioned, seemed too gaunt, too white—quite eerie, actually. He wondered if there was more to tell than the stories of murders she had committed for the Association. There were tales of her residing in the graveyard of Yetta, tales that said she was not one of the living at all. He had lived in Lockenwood a long time, he had watched the Association grow over the years, and he knew Cameo was someone who had been part of that group for a long time, long enough that she must be someone to be reckoned with.
She was smiling at him in a knowing and amused sort of way.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid that artist had some difficulty representing an outlaw who possesses so much dash.”
“Indeed.” She held out her hand, “The brooch.”
Opal set it in her hand slowly.
Her eyes went to the rapier hanging on his hip then back up to his face realizing he wasn’t going to fight.
She put the cameo in a small pouch on her belt, and then backed out of the shop, dagger in hand. In one quick turn of black wool, she was out the door.
“She didn’t even want the rest of your loot?!” Paul asked, incredulous.
Opal rushed to the door, only to watch her heading north through the woods, presumably on her way back to Lockenwood, through the graveyard.
“Was that really Cameo? I can’t believe we aren’t both dead. I’ve heard she’s a heartless killer.”
“Yes. I’ve heard that too.” Opal said, watching the tangle of her long hair in the distance.
“Why didn’t you draw your sword?”
“She—she had a pistol.”
“You could’ve beaten a pistol,” Paul said.
Opal ran a blue velvet hand through his hair, “No, I couldn’t.”
Chapter Two
T
HE HUNTING PARTY FANNED
out into the woods on Belfour’s estate. Cameo stood behind a blackened tree, bored and waiting. She had two shots—two loaded pistols—and if she missed, she was likely going to be stuck following Leon around for weeks. Wick wouldn’t be too terribly pleased either, but there wasn’t a time limit on the death of the prince, as far as she knew.
She followed a lot of prettily dressed lords and servants roaming the grounds. There was one large gentleman in a spectacular ensemble of pale blue loading a blunderbuss while talking to another man in brown. For a moment she thought about that silly, deep blue frock that Opal had on days ago, when last she had seen him. She smiled to herself.
Leon and his dog burst out of the wood suddenly and ran toward the man in the pale blue. Hidden in the trees, she lifted her pistol and waited for the group of hunters to take a shot at their prey, and then she took her shot as well, at the somewhat portly prince.
The man fell to the ground instantly.
Cameo dropped her used weapon and dashed toward the town. Moments later, a gang of lords and servants had been rounded up to find the thug who had just shot their prince. Heavy gray smoke hung in the air where she had just been standing.
The assassin ran for a few minutes until she got close to the town of Lockenwood, then she fell into the pace of the people on the busy street. She slid on her gloves to cover the black powder, bought a new flask, and had it filled at the local tavern on the walk back to Wick’s tower. She took a swig of whiskey to calm her nerves. Reflecting on the shot, Cameo was somewhat impressed that she had actually hit the target through that wooded part of the estate.
“Good day to you, Lady.” One of the coachmen recognized her and tipped his hat.
She nodded at him; it was easier than trying to catch her breath.
The sun was starting to go down; it was nearly time for dinner, and she was glad to know that she would actually be getting a bath, a change of clothes, and a decent meal for the first time all week.
As she met the familiar guards at the front door, she knew she was going to be safe. Leon was going to have a beautiful funeral with lovely bouquets of flowers, and a large mausoleum in the graveyard of Yetta, and she was going back to her room at the top of the tower.
Cameo was at the foot of the stairs when Pindray came around the corner.
“The Lady wants to see you.”
“This moment?”
“Yes, I’m to take you to her.”
She dusted off her clothes and followed the lad unhappily. He led her through the dining hall and back further until they came to the large, oak doors, polished beautifully, which slid open and inside revealed Wick’s living room.
There was a very large fireplace, and the woodwork in the room was done on a large scale, with most of it painted white. Cameo’s eyes lingered on the gaudy turquoise and gold wallpaper and the animal heads mounted on the walls.
Pindray pointed her toward Wick, who was seated on a sofa near the hearth, and the figure of another assassin standing nearby waiting for her to join them.
As she grew closer she realized it was Clovis Gail DePell. He was a man of about fifty, with black, shoulder-length hair and leathery skin. He was the other long-time assassin with the Association. She would rather be sticking a pointy implement into Clovis than standing next to him.
“Lady.” Cameo’s voice came deep and flat as she inclined her head in a bit of a bow to Wick.
“Ah, Cameo, you’ve finally gotten back. That little
trick
took you long enough, didn’t it? A week. Isn’t that a bit long for a job that simple?” Wick chewed her pipe as she was searching the cushions of the sofa for something, perhaps the tobacco, perhaps a light?
Clovis moved to light her pipe.
“Ack, no. I don’t need that.” She turned to Cameo once more, “Have you greeted your Associate?”
“No.”
Clovis pretended that he was taken aback by her response.
Wick tossed a bag of coin at Cameo, “there, now you’re paid. The man died in case you hadn’t heard.”
“Was that why you asked me—”
“No.” She looked over at Pindray, “You can leave us now.”
The lad left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Once he was out of sight, Wick sat back and lit her pipe. Smoke bloomed around her white hair; she sighed and rearranged her girth a bit. “All right, Cameo, I have to send you right back out the door. You’ll go tomorrow morning.”
“Oh?”
“It seems you had a bit of trouble on the road?”
For a minute she wasn’t certain what Wick was getting at, “We got stopped on the way to Terrence, if that’s what you mean.”
“Exactly. Got held up by highwaymen is what the coachmen told me.”
“Yes.”
“And you had your cameo taken.”
Cameo touched the brooch at her collar to make certain it hadn’t fallen off. “Yes, but I got it back.”
“Mmm hmm,” she pulled out two pieces of parchment and handed them to the assassins before her. Cameo’s eyes fell upon the sketch of Black Opal once more.
“Avamore wants him taken out.”
She met Wick’s eyes quizzically. Avamore was the duke who actually ruled over Shandow, an isle in the sea off the north coast of Lockenwood. But it was unpleasantly cold there, so he spent most of his time living near his brother, the king, Bainbridge Belfour in Lockenwood. Wick catered to Avamore’s requests more than any other noble that Cameo was aware of. He was a young, handsome man, and she assumed Wick was enamored with him. He probably hired the hit on Leon Belfour, his own nephew.
Cameo took a swig from her flask in the middle of the meeting. “What did he do to Avamore?”
“That’s not important. The important thing is that he needs to be deceased, and soon.”
She looked over at Gail in disgust. “Why is he at this meeting?”
“Because he’s going to help you kill this Black Opal person.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help, especially his,” she hissed.
“You got your cameo brooch back I noticed, the one that was robbed from you,” Wick clicked the pipe between her broken teeth.
“Yes.”
“And yet that highwayman is still alive. Why is that Cameo?”
“Shocking as it may seem, I don’t kill every man, woman, and child I meet. I leave some of them alive for you to bully.”
Wick croaked out a bit of laughter.
“The Lady thinks that you maybe need a little help killing that fop,” Gail interjected.
“Are you still here?”
“Heh, heh. I’m going to enjoy this little journey into the countryside with you, Gwen,” using the name Cameo hadn’t called herself by in years. “It will be just like old times—”
Cameo pulled her pistol on him.
“Put your weapons away!” Wick’s voice cracked.
“Bang,” Cameo whispered. There was no expression in her voice at all, just the simple idea that Gail wouldn’t be in the room with her anymore. Well, just his nice, quiet, bleeding corpse.
He kissed the air back at her.
She turned to look at Wick, “Why must I endure this animal? Don’t you trust me to kill this petty thief?
“Word is he might be good with a sword. You might need Clovis.”
Cameo snorted in amusement. She slowly slid her pistol into her belt. “Isn’t there another Associate?”
“None as good as Gail.” Wick looked up at Gail, smiling, then called after Cameo, who was walking out the door, “I thought you two were old friends.”
“You know very well that is not the case.”
* * * * *
The morning after, Cameo and Gail sat alone in the same coach she had taken just days ago. They sat facing each other, sharing the same window. Cameo would’ve preferred him to sit further from her, but he knew this and opted to stay as close and as annoying as he possibly could.
“Are you sure you know where he is?”
“Yes,” she said confidently. She knew exactly where he was; she had left the shade with him, just in case—in case she wanted to find him again, she guessed.
“How do you know?”
She looked up at him with her dead eyes. The coach was dark, and she could only make out the indistinct shape of his face in the shadows. “Stop talking to me.”
He laughed, “You’ll feel better after we kill someone.”
“I’ll feel better after I polish off a bottle of wine.”
“Whatever vice you prefer.”
Gail hadn’t changed a bit since the first time she had seen him. She had lain in a meadow for hours, clinging to life, after she had been brutally attacked. She had been raped, her sister had been taken away, and she clawed her way up and out of that terrible scene. She was on her way through Yetta when Gail first laid eyes on her.
She was dirty, and hungry. Her dress had been torn to rags. She was weak and still recovering from the wounds that she had endured. Gail was a killer even then, although he wasn’t working for the Association at the time. He was younger, but he still looked the same: the same greasy hair, the same brutish man. Gail named her
Cameo
because of the brooch she wouldn’t let go of; he gave her the name that she had gone by for years. She had just gotten through running away from the scene of horror that she had endured at the hands of Adrian and his friends, and ran right into Gail.
Clovis Gail DePell was a killer of young women; she suspected he still was, although he was protected by the Association now. He liked to torture women and let them linger until they died.
Wick was aware of their history, yet still put them together for this
mission
. Cameo glanced at Gail from the corner of her eye and wondered what had transpired to make her employer want to torment her. Was Wick really so upset at the length of time it had taken for her to finish off Leon, or was there something more to it? Was it possible that Wick actually believed she wouldn’t be able to finish off a highwayman easily and would need Gail’s help?