Atone

The Not-So-After Party

Slipping his venom ring back into its case, Caine strolled over to Socratine and gently untied the red sash from her hands. He hated having to bind her. Kiss'em and leave'em. That was his style, what got him branded lady-killer. But after her swift attack, he had to do it.

Her limp body tumbled into his arms. He cradled her head to his chest, carrying her to the bed. Her auburn curls stood stark against his white button-down shirt. His poisoned kiss left her lips dry and cracked from the heat cascading through her form. The toxins lingered long enough to claim life, dispersing when the heart beat no more, wafting a sickly sweet fragrance under his nose. It would soon be gone, replaced by her natural vanilla scent.

He cleared the suite of his presence, morphing the immaculate dinner he prepared for two into a meal for one. Lobster had been Socratine's favorite, according to her dossier. He loved making his targets a special meal, since it would be their last. It was the least he could do.

After cleaning and putting away dishes, and wiping every surface he'd touched, he headed to the bedroom.

Along with two empty wine bottles, he left a wineglass on the bedside table. A red lipstick stain distinguished it as hers.

Positioning the bodies always bothered Caine. His targets tended to dress to the nines, sex heavy on their minds from his love potion. They never knew they were walking the green mile in five-inch pumps. He spread Socratine's hair angelically upon the pillow, scattering sleeping pills by her hand.

With no note to say otherwise, her death would be ruled accidental. Toxicology tests would concur. One of the after-effects of his deadly lip lock. Not the first time Socratine visited a hotel room alone. "A monthly escape," is what she'd called it, according to the dossier. But it would be her last.

Caine gripped the room handle, opening the door. He hesitated crossing the threshold. Socratine's death wouldn't be just another notch to add to his kill list. Her sweet vanilla scent would stay with him, as had the scents of targets before. As much of a trained assassin as he was, heartless he was not.

Handkerchief in hand, he wiped the last of his presence from the door's knob, gave a nod to the security camera in the corner of the hallway and sauntered away.

*

Several hours had passed since Caine left San Diego and Socratine behind, several hours he fought to stay awake with the help of James Patterson and Stephen King. The rhythmic hum of the limo's tires on the road worked like a massage, relaxing tense muscles in his neck, down his back and into his thighs. His eyelids drooped heavily then closed.

Colorful dots covered a gray slate in his mind, moving, coalescing like an impressionistic painting, until a familiar face came into view. The smiling face of Lady Wella.

"T'isn't right, milady. Can't send'em away with nothing. He's but a boy of ten years and knows little of life." Auntie V hurried around the corner, long skirts rustling. Gray hair tumbled down her back, thick and full.

Lady Wella followed, head held high, dark curls artfully atop her head the way he'd seen other ladies of the court wear their hair, at least from his hiding spot. He had a lot of those around the main castle since, for reasons everyone refused to tell him, he wasn't allowed beyond the grounds of Auntie V's apothecary. Caine squeezed into a just-wide-enough crack in the wall to keep from being seen and scolded.

"I cannot chance my husband's discovery of the child. The boy's features are becoming entirely too similar to mine." Both women paused inches from Caine's hiding spot. He held his breath. "Besides, none of your so called cures ever rid me of him. You owe me this favor."