Seffargo

Chapter 17

Fear, anger and doubt—they were the primary emotions running through Barcley's mind as he watched Margaret raise the knife once more. He breathed quickly through his nose, never taking his eyes from Madeline. He could do this. He had to do this.

Slowly, Barcley stood. He grunted and cried out as he shifted his weight onto his injured thigh. But he didn't fall—even when his thigh was shaking and the voice in his head told him to sit, to obey, to give up.

'Get away from her,' he growled.

'And what are you going to do about it?' Margaret said in a sing-song voice. She held the knife by Madeline's eye but didn't move it further. She had stopped mid-cut. 'Look at you. You can't even stand properly.'

He clenched his jaw. If he were to speak now, his voice would betray the pain he felt.

'You don't listen!' Margaret's sudden scream brought silence to the night. Only the rain dared make a sound. 'I warned you.' She stood and crossed the room, thrusting the point of the knife beneath Barcley's chin. He didn't so much as flinch. 'You don't seem to understand your predicament. I have the girl. I have the knife. I have the antidote. And I hold the power. Do. You. Un-der-stand?'

If she was expecting him to tremble in fear, then she was sorely mistaken. Barcley's eyes narrowed as he flashed her an evil grin. She has the antidote.

In the blink of an eye, Barcley punched Margaret across the jaw. She staggered then fell to the floor, her knife lost on impact. He ignored Madeline's screams as he hobbled over to Margaret. She was struggling on to her back, her head moving on its own volition. He grabbed her jacket and brought her up, then punched her once more. Blood splattered the wood—he didn't care; it was all rotten anyways. His fist came back once more.

'Where is the antidote?' Barcley growled.

Silence. Then, 'I wouldn't do that if I were you, young Prince.' The voice was calm and deep; almost soothing.

A cold chill ran through Barcley's spine, making the hair on his body stand on end. He fought the urge to turn around; any sudden movements would end with his life. 'I know who you are,' he said through gritted teeth.

'Oh?'

'You killed my mother.'

In the silence which followed, he could practically hear the smile forming on the assassin's face—he could certainly hear it in his voice. 'It is truly wonderful to be recognized. But, before I acquaint myself with the likes of you, perhaps you could release my partner? It would go a long way in pleasing me.'

Barcley released his hold on Margaret's jacket, and she fell heavily to the floor. Her eyelids continued to flutter, and she groaned as she rolled on the filthy floor.

'Much appreciated. Now stand—slowly.' Barcley obeyed. 'And now turn.' A frown flashed across his face as he turned to see the strange man bowing before him. 'It is truly good to finally meet you, Prince Barcley.'

The man was tall—a head and a half taller than Barcley—and wore a fine-fitting suit of the deepest blues. He had a matching tie and a strikingly white shirt, which appeared grey in the shadows of the moon. A thin brown moustache lived beneath his crooked nose and shared those qualities with the hair on his head. His chin seemed to be permanently upturned.

'I don't know you,' Barcley said breathlessly.

The man tilted his head. 'Well, of course not! Just because I killed your mother—may she rest in pieces—doesn't mean I have to be someone you know. No, it was nothing quite so elaborate. I'm an assassin, and I was hired to kill your dear parents—for a King's ransom, of course.' He winked. 'But, for that kind of money, there are often ... ends which, for lack of a better word, need to be cut.'

'I'm just an end, am I?'

'Correct. I must say, you are rather quick on the uptake.'

'If my death won't bring you any money, then why not let me live?'

'Vendetta's, my boy!'

Barcley tilted his head at Margaret. 'Are you going to kill her as well?'

'She's ... different. When I found her, there was already hate in her eyes. The death of her friends just set that hate into motion.'

'So you recruited her.'

He shrugged. 'More like she pleaded for her life, and in return I asked that she become my faithful servant.'

'You aren't worried that she'll betray you?'

He shrugged again. 'Maybe one day. But who hasn't betrayed someone, right? It's almost like a rite of passage these days.'

'Why did you wait so long before going after my father? You killed my mother years ago.'

The assassin snarled. 'Some things are worse than death, my boy.'

Barcley opened his mouth to speak, but the assassin held up a single finger. 'Enough chatter.' Gone was the joyous lilt in his voice. 'Stand beside her,' he pointed at Madeline, 'and move quickly. If you so much as look at the girl, I will see to your suffering myself.'

Barcley hobbled to the circular window, moving as fast as his injured leg would allow. He pressed his back to it, wriggling as the cold glass met his sweat soaked shirt. Madeline was at his feet, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Bound as she was, she was unable to turn.

'Oh, Margaret,' the assassin said softly. 'I knew I should have helped you with this, but you were so confident in your abilities. It's a good thing I came. If I had left you alone, your beautiful face may have been damaged beyond repair.' He knelt by her side, his hand resting on her cheek. 'Can you finish this, or shall I intervene?'

A long, drawn-out groan came from Margaret. Her words—if that's what they were—were indiscernible.

'I thought so.' He sounded sad. 'Then, as you saw time and again with the others, I must cut the loose ends myself. Just know that this brings me no joy.' The hand resting on Margaret's face ventured down to her chest—right where her heart was—and turned to a fist. The assassin angled his body so that his elbow rested directly above his hand, then he thrust his hand downwards, and Barcley heard the sound of steel grating on steel. 'Rest well my dear.' The assassin took his hand away to reveal the bloodied hole in Margaret's chest, and the knife which seemed to protrude from his hand. The assassin leant in close and kissed Margaret's forehead as he closed her eyes.

/ END /

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