The Assassin's Charge

Chapter 4

"You need to get her out of here as soon as possible."

"But, Father, they can't find her until she actually remembers," I counter in a low whisper. "That's how the ritual works. As long as we stick to the plan, and wait for her rozdhenya, we'll be fine."

My father looks at me gravely with tired eyes. I notice how much older he really looks; not just physically, but mentally. The spark of humor that has always been visible in his eyes has been all but destroyed by time, like water wearing away at rock. His hairline has receded somewhat, and the sheen of what used to be youthful and healthy hair has dulled. The worry-lines around his eyes, mouth and above his brow have deepened, and one could tell that he doesn't have much to smile for anymore.

"Nick, the longer we wait, the stronger they will get. A few weeks of extra preparation might not seem like much, but those weeks could easily change the tide of a war. We need to cripple them before they reach full strength."

I flinch at me name, before standing up with my spoon still clutched tightly in my hand.

"General. I will not let you compromise this mission on the basis of suspicion alone. It was given to me, and me alone - therefore, I get the final call on all things concerning Anastasia Pace," I spit out. "Speaking of her, you are delaying me by arguing, and I need to get back to her place of residence. If you'll excuse me; General." I add, before raising my hand in a salute - I am not too enraged to forget my manners.

I place my now-bent spoon back into my bowl before moving the two to sit on the plate that I cleared before starting on the soup. I pick up the plate-bowl-combination and carry them to the washing up area without a glance behind me. I scour the utensils and plastic crockery, and, by the time I return to my previous seat to grab my backpack, the table is deserted; save for a small, clear bag, containing an iridescent powder that is tinted auburn. I sigh at my father's paranoia, before stowing the bag safely in a hidden compartment in my backpack.

I almost stride off again, but remember the character I am playing, and set off with the limp. I wave to Abigail and Richard, who, respectively, call out a goodbye and nod towards me. I put even more effort behind my bogus shamble, and reach the exit in what must be some sort of record. I push the battered metal doors open and throw a smile in Dolores' direction before continuing out of the front entrance of the building. I keep up my façade until the shelter is completely out of sight, before disappearing again.

I reappear in the corner of her room, and scan the space in front of me. She is sitting at her desk again, peering at the screen of her laptop. That damned webpage is displayed on her monitor again.

"What to do, what to do..." I breathe to myself, so quietly that she won't hear it. Well, at least for now, she won't be able to hear it.

There is a clomping on the stairs as her father makes his way upstairs after a hard night of cooking an entire casserole, before proceeding to eat more than half of it himself; the women in the house only had one average-sized serving each.

The clomping gets louder as he approaches her room, however she is too engrossed in reading about the past cases of Carla, or Colette, or whatever my next problem's name is. The utter lack of attention that she is paying her surroundings becomes apparent when her father opens the door, causing her to jump about a meter into the air and scramble to close the webpage.

"Just came to say goodnight. So, goodnight, darling," her father offers with a look that shows that he is perplexed by the sudden activity.

Finally managing to switch to a new window showing some article about how sugar is the root of all the evil in the world, or something of that sort, she says, "Oh, yeah. Uh, goodnight, Dad!"
Her father just shakes his head at what he assumes to just be his daughter's usual strangeness. He gives her a small smile, before removing his head from the doorway and closing the old door behind him, which protests against being moved twice in such a short period of time with a loud squeal emanating from the general direction of the hinges.
She releases an immense sigh towards her monitor.

"I really need to get that door fixed," she mutters at the news article. "Oh, well. Can't go around moping; let's see... When can this woman meet me?" she mumbles as she switches back to the private investigator's webpage. She wiggles the mouse, humming one of her favorite tunes - a slightly quieter song from a few years ago - as she tries to plan the meeting.

"Maybe... hmm, next Tuesday? No, that's my shift..."

Anastasia has worked at a small diner in the centre of town since she has been legally allowed to. It is owned by a kind middle-aged couple, and although the diner has a small budget and only six employees, it is very popular with the locals here. Though the salary is small, the owners obviously care for those employed by them, and treat them well; this is rewarded with a love for the couple from employees and customers alike.

Anastasia has four shifts per week, all after school, along with her partner in crime, Sophia Harrington.

"I know! Wednesday! Perfect," she exclaims without warning. She moves the mouse over to the Contact Me icon again, and selects the Send Me An Email option. The webpage alters to show the Compose screen of her inbox, with the email address of the private investigator already filled into the address bar. She thinks for a moment before typing:

Hello, Carly. I have seen on your website that you are quite critically acclaimed, so I would like to schedule a meeting to discuss the possibility of you looking for some people for me. Would you be able to meet next Wednesday at the food court of the mall in the centre of town? Please respond with your availability as soon as possible. Thanks, Anastasia Pace.

She sends the email and sits in her chair, chewing the back of the pen previously used to record the private investigator's phone number. Fortunately, or rather, unfortunately, this Carly Grayson was a local private investigator despite being so experienced, so would be able to respond and meet her quickly. I become incredibly worried that she will draw much attention to herself, and some of that attention will be negative. I will have to scout out the area before she arrives.

Anastasia jumps from her tense seat, startling me from my thoughts, before closing the webpage, shutting down her computer, and skipping out of the room. I mentally sigh and follow with a shake of my head, sticking to the shadows in case her subconscious has already started to unlock itself. She waltzes into her parents' room, where the aforementioned people are lying in bed and quietly watching a documentary on the depths of our oceans. She skirts the bed, before coming to a rest at the foot and plopping down between the two sets of feet. I situate myself in the corner of the room farthest from the bed, although it's not a very considerable distance, as the room is a relatively small one.

"Mom, Dad, I want to ask you something."

Her parents, looking flustered at her sudden entrance, exchange a look before focusing on her again.

"Sure, hon. What is it?" her mother responds.

"I know that this is kind of soon and weird," Anastasia begins, as she begins to scratch Bear's head after he jumps up onto the bed after her. "But I think I have the right to know." She takes a deep breath before continuing. Her parents exchange another look, this one worried.

Anastasia steels herself, and focuses on her parents' faces, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two.

"Do you know who my biological parents are?"