BLADESTORM

12.Paris Shoes

Aplot Fardel set in motion his carefully orchestrated scheme in the alleyway that night. The rain cleared and the wet pavement captures the light cast on the corner. A bulb bursts and the street goes dark, concealing Aplot's agenda beneath his hooded figure. He would do anything to safeguard his position and silence the threat that Paris posed; anything but get his hands dirty.

Jason couldn't shake the feeling that he was just like Paris—trapped between two worlds—a thought that betrayed his actions. Oh, Paris, he mused silently, yearning for one more rhyme to touch her. In his fantasy, he needed one more rhyme to fix her. Yet, she remained emotionally unaware of his existence. Oh, Paris, why don't you know me?

Aplot's finger covered his breathless hush, urging Jason to exercise discretion. He needed a pawn to execute his plan—one who would carry out the task without leaving a trace of his involvement. And Jason was the perfect candidate, who agreed to the task like a faithful servant—just as Aplot knew he would.

From a shadow in the alleyway his evil grin lurked, casting a watchful eye as Jason guided Paris to her car. She was a fallen crystal shard on an endless return to earth who knew too much. Aplot would take care of her one way or the other. Her slick Fuel-Injected Dodge Lancer awaited her, its door held open by Jason, who could think of nothing but his silent plea: I can go all night.

With a gesture, Jason handed Paris a cassette tape, his words a mere whisper, "Here's a Fix tape for your ears only. It's from me to you." She accepted the tape with her soft hands, still disoriented, not giving a damn, just wanting to go home. Paris slipped the tape into the player and the cassette automatically played. "Listen," Jason implored, "for the only sound just for you."