Hidden Nightmares

Chapter one

Hope you enjoy :)

Word Count: 1,633

Macie

"M-ms. King?" A tentative conductor asks

Will a roll of my eyes, I sigh, "that'd be me,"

I tie my butt-length, light brown hair into a ponytail while I wait for the anxious man to get my ticket. Tapping my fingers to make him more nervous. A minute goes by of him scrambling to get my ticket ready.

"H-here is y-your t-t-ticket," he stutters, not daring to look into my abnormally blue eyes. I reach my hand out to the ticket with a smirk.

"Have the most wonderful of days, Mark,"

"H-how do y-you know m-my n-name?" Mark splutters. Every werewolf in this devil forsaken world is scared of me, especially when I'm in my costume.

I laugh maniacally, "name tag," I march onto the train and find my seat which is, fortunately, away from everyone else. Pulling out the file from my bag, I sigh. Another day, another mission. As I open the folder though, I purse my lips. This job never ceases to get old.

This time I have a man, 30 years old, who has taken a young girl, 8 years old, in order to spite her older brother. I look into the file more and realize that said brother is an alpha. So Gregory, the old man who apparently has ties with vampires and witches, just wanted to start a fifth supernatural war. I grunt and slide the folder back into the bag.

My head rattles as I press it against the train window. Sighing deeply, I pull my knees up to my chest and my eyes involuntarily flutter shut.

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I wake with a start and my hands immediately find my eyes to rub them vigorously.

"Ma'am is this your stop?" A female conductor, obviously human as a) she doesn't recognize me and b) she seemed totally unfazed about my assassin outfit, asks sweetly. I scowl at her and stand, pushing her to the side in the process.

Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the, well, seat.

I push my way through the slew of people standing on the train. When I step out, I curse loudly. I am literally in the middle of nowhere. Grumbling, I throw my bag over my shoulders more. Much to my dismay, I start to walk, my hand hovering over where my katana is.

My katana. I got it when I was six, my dad gave it to me. I remember because he had looked me straight in the face before he handed to me and said, Macie, you're going to be such a little warrior some day. I'm so proud of you.

Sometimes I wish I could show him how far I've become, how I'm not so little anymore. But then I think of who I really am. I think that the only reason that the agency hired me was for the fact that I was heartless and cold and that I didn't care if someone lived or died.

But I cared when my father died.

I scream and pull my katana out, slashing nearby plants out of rage.

I sheathe the blade and lock into a stone cold face, clenching my jaw and telling my self that I was not soft.

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