SERAPHIC BLISS

41. Managements and Meetings

It was beautiful , the cesspool of dripping menace from her proclaiming charisma. How very 'good girl gone bad'.

Her living cadaver with a tapestry of near-misses and fights.

"I loved you , father. I really did , I used to see a warrior in you , but you are nothing but a pathetic old man. I feel ashamed to call myself your daughter "

"You will always be a Cushing , Elizabeth. Don't forget where you came from , this is our empire"

"mine" Her hand grips the handle of the sword , her arms lift for the one last strike at the falling apart cadaver of her parent "Rest in peace , father for the Cushing Mafia is under new management"

Her face is tear stained , but her lips in a thin line indifferent to the mess she had made. The only thing heard in the room, was that of flesh tearing and long , brutal cry of agony.

Flower girl , that's what they called her. A perfect picture of innocence. The epitome of purity. But every flower wilts and every petal darkens...call it perhaps a force of nature for situations.

An angel falls into the darkness because she trusted the light to many times , after all hell hath no fury like an angel without her halo.

~*~*~

The air is cold ; it catches his air, ruffles it lightly , but he doesn't flinch. He is used to the chill , the building stands like a great wreckage, proud in its destruction. It's walls charred and windows burnt , hollowed out like the empty eye sockets of an aging face. He tilts his head to one side.

This is the address. There are no cars nearby. It cannot be police intervention , he would've heard something , been given a warning , had a message passed on. He doesn't understand-he took all the precautions ensured he had information on the individual he was encountering . He has a name , an age , a criminal background. Either this is some trick , or a warped misunderstanding. He doesn't like the quiet. Cautiously , he turns around prepared to make his exit.

Three red pin pricks settle on his chest.

Two men step into the driveway , the third remains out of sight. They are tall-taller than him-and heavy with muscle , their jaws squared and hair brushed back. They hold their guns like he holds his knife .

Casual familiarity.

He is ordered to put his hands up.

He obliges , more out of curiosity than fear. This is not a threat on his life. If the unnamed perpetrator wanted him dead , he's have been shot thirty seconds ago. His arms are wrenched behind his back: he doesn't struggle , although he's confident he could break free. He has his own weapon concealed , inside his blazer-they just don't know it.

He is dragged unceremoniously though the doors , into the building , up a broken staircase. Notes of the wood burnt hang suspended in the air and he inhales them as he is manhandled through the corridor .

They pass rows of empty picture frames and peeling wallpaper-there is something beautiful in the decay ; a vintage , old age appeal. His mind begins to wander. She'd look ethereal standing here , against the deteriorating walls. If she wore white-not white , pale grey , pale grey lace-and her skin was coated in a fine film of dust , she would make this building her own. The walls would part around her . He can see if when he blinks ; branded behind his eyelids.

He is pushed through another set of doors.

The room is resolutely empty , bar the two chairs in the middle of the space ; they stand facing each other , antique furniture , positioned with the care of a perfectionist. He is forcibly lowered into one. The crosshairs stay strained on his chest.

He smiles , charmed by the theatricals of it all. It is extremely polished.

Footsteps sound in the corridor behind him.

The doors are opened again ; he hears someone step into the room and stop , presumably examining the back of his head. He doesn't turn around , he decided he will entertain this trickster.

The footsteps pick up again , quiet on the damn wood , and come to a halt right behind his chair. The voice is soft at his ear ; lilting and thick with a British accent.

"Are you sitting comfortably , Mr. Lavitsky?"

His smile falters , as his hands feel for the knife hidden in his blazer.

"Our meeting has been long overdue"

His fingers pause , centimeters away from the ivory hilt of his blade. He calculates rapidly ; he can't stab this man from where he stands , not without receiving a heedful of lead, he can't stand up and leave , her may have grazed his heart-but it was hers after all , and she could do whatever she wants with it. He wants to get back to her so he cannot give his opponent the advantage to kill him. And so it is with slow reluctance , he withdraws his hand back.

He sits back , and folds his arms across his chest. He selects his smile.

The voice tuts disapprovingly.

"You've got ten of the world's deadliest assassins pointing their rifles at your chest. I wouldn't look quite so smug. Mr. Lavitsky"

"Ah , finally we meet. I was hoping when would I come across my equal , this is a pleasant surprise , Mr. Zavier"