Phoenia

{Chapter 1}

{Inferno}

My feet are weightless compared to the heavy tread marks Mr. Carlisle leaves in the snow. I stalk the tracks like a fox smelling for its prey.

He has good money on his head; it makes me wonder how yet another useless man can evoke so much anger, so much need for revenge.

I suppose the answer is, as it always is with that question, because of the ever-present revenge links. Mr. Carlisle wasn't careful with his targets; he picked one with a large family and following. When you do that, they all come after you. Well, only few actually physically come after you. If they all did, and with killing succession, I'd be out of a trade.

Bounties upon bounties can build for just one man having killed one target. And sometimes it doesn't even take that. Sometimes, it only takes a family member to do a really unforgivable thing, then suddenly, upon their death, all their sins pass to you.

One thing you have to know about this city to know everything about this city: Revenge is relentless.

I reach Mr. Carlisle's apartment. The corridor has new patterned carpets, only to be ruined by the dampness of melting snow trod in by his boots.

I was never given the bounty payers' motives as to why such a useless man was wanted, nor do I often get given the motives on any mission, but it all becomes fairly obvious when you track your target for a while. Weird things occur that are too farfetched to be coincidences. Questions begin to emerge, like how has a relatively low profile tavern worker suddenly acquired enough wealth to buy himself a new high rise apartment in only a matter of days? Then you look at other "coincidences", like a high strung merchant in good health who dabbles in owning businesses such as taverns abruptly falling ill. Curious indeed.

The man is no fool...when it comes to ordinary assassins. Unfortunately, he hasn't met me yet. He leaves his door unlocked. Enticing, isn't it? He knows we hunters are out hunting for him tonight, that we, like foxes, are cunning enough to track him to his apartment where he is alone and vulnerable. Ah, but there is one flaw in his assumption. I think he assumes only one assassin is looking for his head and killing that one might ease him of worries. Even if he was to kill me tonight, he still wouldn't be safe. But on the bright side, if he could kill me, he'd be filthy rich from my own bounty.

I pin myself to the floor, seeking between the narrow crack underneath the door. His legs hang from his chair as he hums a joyful tune. Soon, the so beautiful melody will crumble to ashes, just like all that is sweet in this city.

He's waiting for an assassin to come, probably has the daily newspaper in one hand and a crossbow in the other, just patiently waiting for a greedy killer blinded by his thirst for blood and bounty to stumble blindly in to his trap.

I take a slow and quiet approach up the next flight of stairs, the one leading to the roof top.

I'm standing on one of the tallest points in the city, other high rises looking diminished compared to this one. Snow and darkness fall around me. No one has been up here since the first snowfall Phoenia has seen for 6 years. A white blanket lies untouched. It's tempting to run on the roof, carving snow angels and treading fresh prints. After all, at 16, I'm still classed as a child. But I'm on a mission. I can play once I have that bounty in my hands. But the money isn't what I dream of. I have more of it than anyone could ever need. Reputation. That's what I dream of. I want my name to be known, feared. And most importantly, a desire an assassin should never admit, I have a need for revenge against this sick city. Perhaps against my own kind too: night dwellers; assassins.

I'm careful not to leave prints in the snow. It's not the revenge links I am worried about, that someone will find who killed this petty man using footprints and wish to exact revenge. Another bounty on my head has never been my worst concern and I plan to leave a sign of my doing anyway. After all, how else could I expand my résumé, the fright I bring, the amount of people who know my name? I plan to be remembered, even when my head falls from my body, dished to the highest bidder, the highest bounty. Inferno.

No, it is not the revenge links that worry me, but the rarities that could lead to others finding more information than they already know about me. I plan to be remembered, but I don't plan to be killed any time soon. I mustn't let anyone see the prints my shoe's make for they can give clues to my shoes maker. And my maker knows what I look like. I'm betting my maker knows more about me than I think he does, because in the city of Phoenia, to survive, you must know exactly who your clients are and what exactly they want.

A stone wall stands in the way between me and a sky high drop. I clamber over it, keeping a tight grip on the rampart. My feet find a hold on the slight jut of a window. Not just any window: Mr Carlisle's window.

It's not hard to break in to a locked house soundlessly if it's what you have to do every day. And sure enough, as I fiddle with the lock, supporting myself on the narrow windowsill, I see Mr. Carlisle sitting there, newspaper in one hand, cross bow in another.

I shift the window open somewhat, enough for me to throw my prized dagger in to his chest. It's never misses. Actually, it has missed, of course. But the last time that happened, I was twelve in training.

When I collect my knife, I leave everything in its place, all except his desk draws where he keeps his letters, opened and unopened. Some of the ones yet to be sliced open gather dust in the corner. I take those ones first. Then I take the pages with the most writing, the ones that look the most interesting, most telling of who the person slumping dead in his chair once was.

But don't worry, I'm not a thief. God forbid I stole for a living rather than killed for a living. I always give something in return for borrowing people's letters. On the man's dead corpse, I leave a sole red ribbon.