(3) Painstaker

Painstaker

The sound of heels clicking against the cement ground bounced against jagged walls stained of blood. Not a soul was in sight, aside from the woman, only the whispers and chants of ghosts and wanderers. Her stride was determined; shoulders back, chin high, arms swaying. Any sign of fear and they would catch her.

"I've done what you asked," her voice, thick of malice, echoed back and forth. When nobody answered, she picked up her pace ever so slightly. "He's dead. Donovan Westwood is dead. Shame. He was kind of a cutie."

Again, nothing.

The woman scowled as she came to a complete stop. "So? Am I free to go now? Or am I still another one of your puppets, master?"

The man, Abraham, let out a laugh, the sound echoing around them in a dark song. "Freedom doesn't exist in this world."

The woman bit her tongue from saying something that would get her into more trouble than the situation was worth. "What do you want me to do, then?"

"There is someone who has something that I need." Abraham stood behind shadows, a place he felt safest. Not a single shift of movement would give him away. "Something that I need very, very much."

She didn't say anything. For a woman who loved to talk, she knew her restraint was needed. The man before her was sinister, evil, everything she should stay away from. She'd have stayed away if she knew it would drag on for so long. In the end, her hands were stained with blood, and she would probably forever have puppet strings attached to her body.

"I believe I know someone who can help us get this little something. You may have met her already."

"Okay," the woman drawled. "Who is she?"

"Crystal Westwood, the twin to the man you orchestrated the death of. Do you think you can handle this task, Mel Demarco?"

Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "Hm. Crystal Westwood. Haven't seen her in a while. I can't wait."