Requiem

Chapter Six: Blood, Roses, and Dead Things

“The phone broke, remember? I swear, some of the inventions nowadays are so impractical.”

“Lyn! You’re avoiding the question.” They both breathed at the same time- and released. Roslyn hadn’t thought about Henry in years, and she had gone to great lengths to burrow those memories deep into a back alley of her mind, where they would only dig their way out in her sleep. Pippa had opened the floodgates, bronze and brainy, to the cruel creature that Roslyn was.

Henry- who her parents engaged her to marry. A sweet, rich old man, fat, portly, old, absolutely infatuated with her beauty. She had never loved him- and when her mother and father died, she had to kill him, too. No one of her past could remain alive if she was to make a fresh start- a clean break.

And Roslyn was never going to backslide into her muddy past.

“Yeah, I called him about a month ago,” she lied.

“You didn’t tell him about-”

“About this? Are you nuts? I would never. He thinks my parents died in a car accident. He thinks I’m out in the countryside, trying to find myself.” It hurt to lie to Pippa, to take advantage of her sympathies. She would never tell the truth- it looked too bland under the red light it would shine in.

Pippa nodded once, happy with Roslyn’s answer. She walked over and wrapped her in a cozy, tight embrace, graceful and flawed and very deep. It was one of their soft moments, where they could just forget about The Citadel, the bounty on their heads, the cruel life Paris had forced upon them.

“You don’t miss your father. But you miss your mother, no?” Pippa looked up at Roslyn, who was by far superior in height. Tears pricked her eyes, and she brushed them away with a pale white hand. To have a mother meant she’d be married, to a rich old man. In the last generation, it was never about love- but money. Nowadays, with cars pumping out smokey gas, radios buzzing with the pulse of technology, love became something deeper. But never for Roslyn. She stayed above it all, above the change in the winds as workers revolted and the revolution took hold. She had to, or she would die.

“There’s work to be done, Pippa. Much work.” She peeled away her sleeping wear and slipped into the shimmery, backless red number. She was the very image of beauty, a red flag to the business men, a chance to be free for those like her- imprisoned in the system. With no hope.

Meanwhile, Pippa strapped her black mask into place and put on her black combat boots. No part of her skin could show- highlighted against the night like an accent on a foreign letter.

Roslyn was many things.  A fighter. A believer. A survivor. A victim. Depressed. Confused. Dirt poor- with no honor to live by. Other sixteen year old girls in her precarious situation would have long since committed suicide, but she honored a code to live in the moment. So with new energy, she and Pippa quietly slipped out the cathedral brown oak doors as they closed with whispered words behind them.

And after some time and lots of tracking, they were at the very abandoned warehouse that had already been scouted out by past Citadel marksmen. Pippa was struggling between her gun and turkey silencer, or her flimsy tin dagger that had slightly been bent the night before. In a moment of brass impulsiveness, Roslyn had lent her intrepid red dagger. The only people who had ever seen it was her mother and her, and Pippa respected this as she taped it to her upper thigh.

“Ready?” Pippa mouthed.

“Ready.” While Pippa creeped around the building to the back entrance, Roslyn burst headlong through the flimsy door. It was a pub- The Antler. Not The Sontas headquarters, as you are thinking, dear readers. Remember this for later.

Back to our story. All the men turned at once, as Roslyn’s coin-shaped black curls bounced and danced around her shoulders. She winked, fluttered, turned to the modern and chic music blasting through the radios and speakers. The men were in a daze, of sorts- in a manly predicament as to who would get the right to buy her a drink. She chose a pink upholstered stool and waved to the bartender, filling three separate glasses with gin, vodka, and cognac. He passed the vodka to her, and she lifted it up to her eye. The crystal glass shimmered, a thousand magnified white eyes peeking at her own silver ones.

There were tiny flecks of brown. The glass had been poorly washed, or not washed at all. Out of respect, she downed its contents in one long slurp. Her walkie-talkie buzzed with Pippa’s confirmation of having killed the security manning the pub. She sighed with relief, finally free to flirt her way to victory.

“S’cuse me,” she said, clearing her throat. Two men sat on either side of her- vying for the bartender’s attention so they could buy her drinks. A smart and savvy businessman. A buff factory worker, charcoal still lathered into his wavy black hair like shampoo.

Finally, the bartender took notice of the fragile, frail beauty, nestled between two overwhelmingly handsome men. He took out his pad to write down the drinks, and both men piped up their voices- but it was Roslyn herself who dominated, speaking clearly and fluently.

“Port. Make that whiskey. Strong. I have an impeccable thirst,” Roslyn added with a wink. Hilariously, the men on either side of her wilted like dead flowers. Their chances were dashed.

When the drinks came, Roslyn downed about half and pulled the bartender by his bowtie in close to her.

“Take a break, will you?” She whispered fervently. The man did not have to be asked twice as he scrambled to a stool, leaving his struggling and depressed alcoholics.

And the game began, slow at first- a small flame heating between them as Roslyn reached out and caressed a stubbly cheek. While she pretended to drink, the man- whose first name was Campbell and whose last name was Jones- downed an enormous number of shots. The smell wasn’t enjoyable- not everyone found eau de stoned pleasant, Roslyn being one of those few who didn’t.

“You know, where I come from, The Sontas, you know- at that factory near the edge of the city? Well, there are tons of crazy women there, dart-throwing, not like you, and we all have this great fear of losing our fortunes, you know, like, the place catching fire, right, and everyone dying, and no more me, you know, ‘cause that’s just life...” The drink sloshed out of Campbell’s glass and Roslyn gingerly picked it away from his fingers. She smiled gently.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“HAH! Do I have a story for you! Few days ago, some chic nearly put my eye out! With a dagger!” His words slurred together, incomprehensible.

Roslyn was curious- this ‘chic’ was obviously feared. Killing her would be the next logical step in frightening The Sontas to death- or at least bankruptcy.

“Who ever would do such a thing?” Roslyn said loudly.

“They call her the Knight. Swift as a blade. Lethal.” The world could have stopped. The Knight was the reason this man would die- why The Sontas would die. They had become too big. Too much of a threat. It was now time for The Citadel to pluck them off their bush like a berry, watch them shrivel and die.

Roslyn slumped back into her seat. The Knight- whom she had seen on almost all her missions- was still alive. And back.

“Okay. Thanks.” In the background, Pippa scurried through the dark. The rest of the bar had died down, ‘til only the true alcoholics remained. Pippa lifted the red dagger above the man’s spine, who was finishing up his glass of spirits. The dagger glinted under the lamplight. And she could swear, he didn’t make a sound as his eyes rolled back and he slumped against the floor.

-Leithra