In the dark and relentless world of assassins bound by codes, hidden allegiances, and unbreakable oaths, Blood Oaths and Shadows offers a thrilling collection of interconnected short stories set within the legendary universe of John Wick. These stor...
Sam Faith studied the blood spatter on the dining room wall, reading its story like others might read morning papers. Single entry wound, close range, executed while seated. The victim had been eating linguine with clam sauce when death arrived.
"Time of contamination?" she asked the room.
Her assistant, Davis, checked his tablet. "Target was eliminated at 20:43. Current time is 21:17. Degradation is within acceptable parameters."
Sam nodded, pulling on her nitrile gloves. Everything about her was precise—from her steel-gray bob to her tailored black jumpsuit. The Table's premier cleaner didn't deal in mess. She dealt in erasure.
"Standard protocol," she ordered. "Full sweep, level three containment. The neighbors heard nothing, saw nothing, and will remember nothing."
Her team moved with practiced efficiency, transforming the cozy suburban home into a sterile crime scene. Blood was collected, surfaces cleaned, evidence bagged. The body—former High Table accountant James Morrison—would be processed separately.
But something felt wrong.
Sam crouched by the dining chair, examining splatter patterns again. "Davis, verify the hit team's exit time."
"20:47, ma'am. Clean egress through the back door."
"Then why..." She touched a droplet of blood, testing its consistency. "Why is there fresh blood in the kitchen?"
The words had barely left her mouth when they heard it—a wet, gurgling laugh.
Sam's hand went to her pistol as she moved toward the kitchen. The sound came again, accompanied by soft humming. A child's lullaby, twisted into something grotesque.
Around the kitchen island, she found him.
A man in an expensive white suit, now stained crimson, sat cross-legged on the floor. Before him lay Morrison's wife, Janet, her throat opened in a ragged smile. The killer was fingerpainting in her blood, creating intricate patterns on the tile.
"You're early," he said without looking up. "I usually have more time to play."
Sam's weapon centered on his head. "This hit was sanctioned for Morrison only. The wife was innocent."
"Innocent?" The man giggled. "Oh no, no, no. Nobody's innocent. They all have secrets, all have sins." He looked up finally, and Sam felt her blood chill.
His eyes were different colors—one blue, one green—but it wasn't the heterochromia that disturbed her. It was the complete absence of humanity in them.
"You're the Artist," she breathed.
The Table's newest enforcer had earned his nickname through his "creative" approaches to killing. Sam had cleaned up three of his scenes in the past month, each more grotesque than the last.
