The Unchaste

Cloak and Daggers.

Slitting the throat had never been the tough part.

Watching the blood ooze out and trickle down along the gold edge of her dagger had never been the tough part. Sensing the life curtail under her impact, the breath diminish under her touch was never the tough part.

Gazing into those dying eyes, telling them of their transgressions had never, ever been the tough part.

Those were the easy fractions.

The fractions that required an ice-filled heart and fizzed up blood pumping through the veins_ things, she could modestly provide. Without a beat of her lashes.

The tough part had been to know_ there was a next man awaiting the same fate. A next man_ darning her next kill.

A next man_ committing the same crime.

There was always a next man. That was the tough part.

It was like this one question, which haunted her day and night_

If you do something extremely wicked to assist a cause exceptionally sacred, are you good or are you evil?

She didn’t care anymore.

She had stopped heeding it.

Good or Evil. Wicked or not. Chaste or un, She was content sacrificing her heaven to dig out a few little girls from the earthy hell they had been abandoned into.

By God. The world.

By men…..those like this one. .

Lord Benedict Ainsworth, whom she had just slaughtered.

And like this Mysterious Man, about whom she had just been hinted.

She was going to find him. She was going to kill him.

****

She was woman of unconventional means.

A creature of silent anonymity.

Young. Pale. Slender. Tall.

A killer by instinct as much as by purpose.

Delilah Eves.

She was sitting in the old, dark library of Heathway’s abode, London, gazing out in that ethereal morning glow across the window, looking supple. Divine.

Not someone who went about slitting throats in midnights.

Beautiful was a word too ill used. She was like winter mist. They mistook her as summer cloud.

She was haze and coldth. Not fire and warmth.

Not your usual woman to dance across the ballroom in the arms of demanding, scheming men. She was a woman to chop those arms. Condemn those men.

She was the woman who watched balls with the contempt of a bird watching its cage.

A new entry in the room did not disturb her silent ministration.

“Delilah.” The voice called from behind and Delilah’s eyes flickered, her attention no more beyond the window.

It was her cousin.

“Charlotte.” She acknowledged without facing her.

Charlotte was a blonde of twenty five, a viscountess and Delilah’s first cousin. She was older than the later by three years but the ruthless maneuver that Delilah ministrated was not her own alone.

Charlotte too knew this secret of hers.

Infact, she was the one who provided all the documental information for the operation that Delilah pursued.