The Traitor's Stain (wattys 2019)

Chapter Thirty: New York, New York

Ophelia felt sick to her stomach the night they were to kill Otetiani. She'd been given every assurance that what they were going to do was for the greater good by Hercules and Abraham, as well as reminders that she wouldn't be the one doing any of the actual killing, and yet, as the three of them prepared to leave on that chilly night, she still felt the guilt eating at her, making her stomach twist and turn inside her like a snake struggling with its prey. No matter what they al did to assure her, they would still be killing a human being, that night. And that was something that she couldn't shake, no matter what she did.

"You certain you'll be alright, tonight?" Abraham asked one last time before they left Hercules' home.

Ophelia forced herself to nod. "I'll be just fine; don't worry."

Stop thinking about it, she ordered herself. He wouldn't hesitate to kill you; not for one second!

"Just take a nice, big, deep breath," Hercules counseled. "Don't think about it. And if anything starts to go south fast..."

"Run back to Robert's," Ophelia finished the sentence. It was the one contribution Robert Townshend would be making, that night: he'd agreed to stay up in case any of them needed a quick place to hide, as they would be near his home, that night. He had, however, refused to allow them to start from his home, which she didn't quite understand.

"Exactly," Hercules said. "Don't worry about it: Abraham and I will take the fall if things don't go as planned."

"What do you mean, take the fall?" Abraham asked. He looked horrified. "Why is anybody taking the fall for anything?"

"Worst case scenario, my friend; worst case scenario," Hercules assured him. "That being said, if things go south, I don't plan on getting arrested. They'll probably go easy on you, anyway."

Abraham grew pale.

Hercules laughed. "You're too funny, Abraham! Don't worry: I'm not going to leave you for dead or something. Now, come on: time to go."

He walked out.

"You... think he was serious about all that?" Abraham asked.

"I don't know," Ophelia admitted. "I think he might have a few screws loose."

The late November air was chilly, and Ophelia was instantly grateful for her coat and her borrowed scarf and mittens. It was surprisingly busy, the streets filled with people trying to get home before the curfew. She heard a few snippets of conversations, all of which had to do with the chilly weather. A few said hello to Hercules, but overall, nobody gave them so much as a second glance.

Ophelia didn't quite understand why, but part of her half expected people to know what they were up to just by looking at them. As if there were some sort of sign on their foreheads or something. Like there would be something in the way they walked or the way their eyes looked that would tell people that they were about to break the laws of God and men. That they were about to commit the very sin that many considered to be unforgivable.

God help us! She hoped that things would go as planned, that night. And that God would forgive them for what they would have to do.

***

Otetiani hated social functions.

He didn't understand them. Especially the ones thrown by the damned foreigners. That night, at John Andre's latest event, he simply stood to the side and watched as a few couples danced to a prim tune that he didn't recognize. Or care to recognize, for that matter. A few others were standing by the walls, drinking champaign, chatting and laughing with one another. None of their conversations were about things that actually mattered: just a bunch of talk about the less-than-impressive things they'd done in earlier years, how much they missed London, and other talk that bored Otetiani out of his skull. Of course, there were also the few that would sneak glances at him. Whenever they did that, they whispered something to their partners, covering their mouths with one hand, as if afraid that he would read their lips. Little did they realize, he couldn't care less about their opinions of him. They could be afraid of him, hate him, want him dead, whatever; so long as none of them tried to come over and act like saints because they were willing to talk to the heathen, he didn't care.