Cameo the Assassin
© 2009, 2010, 2011
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Dawn McCullough-White.
B o o k O n e
Cameo the Assassin
Dawn McCullough-White
Other books by this author
Cameo and the Highwayman
Cameo and the Vampire
Coming Soon
The Emblazoned Red
Thank you
Sounding board
: Phil White
Editor
: Sarah White
Cover art
: Kurt Hanss and Glendon Haddix
Website Design
: Kurt Hanss
eBook Formatting
: TERyvisions
Table of Contents
Cameo the Assassin - Acknowledgments
Trilogy of Shadows:
Cameo The Assassin
1 - Cameo The Assassin, Title page
Chapter One
H
ER EYES WERE WIDE
, nearly sightless orbs staring into the sky. She watched as the clouds drifted overhead, gasping. Her blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth as it slithered out and slipped in a gob onto her neck. For a moment she felt nothing, her eyes went dark, and she felt herself suck in the air once more. Never had simply breathing given her such happiness.
At her throat was the dead head of Adrian, his blonde hair tousled gently about her. It was the first gentle thing he had done with her all day. His blood was mingled with hers now, predator and prey, dead and dying lying in the beauty of the summer meadow.
Somewhere beside her lay sandwiches and hand painted plates. Ivy had wanted pretty plates and had made certain that the silver was polished very well. The last she had seen of her little sister had been her lifeless form, knocked hard into the Faettan soil. She was a few feet away now, a little body lost in the sea of tall grass...like her own...and like that of the young lord with his head still on her breast.
The sun was warm on her face, illuminating exactly what had taken place only a little while ago, showing all of Faetta true darkness in the brilliant light of day. Somewhere, drifting in on the summer’s breeze, was the sound of people passing on the ridge, chatting about their lives as she was dying just down the hill, in the meadow.
Her eyes were fixed; the transformation of the day into dusk was recorded behind those lenses. Her body rigidly awaited death. Her blood gummed up in the stab wounds in her chest, cold and nearly luminescent against her deathly pale skin, as the faintest of starlight lit her young woman’s form.
The spider’s web danced in the cool breeze. It was assembled beautifully in the branches of the black trees whose backs arched, and arms stretched to the sky, silhouetted against the setting sun. The meadow was turning dark. This was the moment he had been waiting for. The sun was soon snuffed out, and he did not waste any time. He burst forth from the dark house at the clearing, his black boots beat down the tall grass and the wildflowers growing in the meadow. He was tall and thin, rigid in appearance, nothing more than wispy black gauze against the stark nightfall, running like a wild animal toward his prey. He quickly fell upon the picnic basket, half-eaten food, and silverware fallen askew under the waxing moon. The forks and knives glittered in the starlight.
A fog rolled out from under the thick of the tree line; it ebbed along as if it were alive itself and fanned out with its smoky tendrils snaking around the bodies that lay there.
Haffef’s black eyes found the form that he had longed for—the child in the distance. As he swept past the older sister, he saw the distinct rise and fall of her chest. This had been the scene of a horrible crime, and as he knelt to look into her eyes, he took in her ripped gown and saw the rape that she had endured at the hands of the others at this picnic, seeing vividly what she had seen.
Her body was covered with stab wounds, and to one side of her bruised and bloodied body lay the dead body of a man. Clutched in her fingers was a paring knife slick with blood.
The fog crept over her battered form, as if it would steal her life away and take her with it as it moved. Haffef glanced over his shoulder at the girl who was just a few feet away, then back at the teenager in front of him who had a cameo brooch embedded in her collarbone.
Kneeling beside her, he tossed the dead body off of hers, moving it with such force that he nearly took off Adrian’s head. She felt the long, black hair against her face, caressing her body. It was light like the frail web of a spider. She felt his slender fingers against her back, the gentle feel of him raising her neck and the shocking pain it caused. After all she had endured earlier, she found herself unable to fathom what was happening to her now. It felt like ice ripping open her throat, its shards coursing from this icy bite to her heart. She took in a breath like one she’d never known; her lungs expanded, but it was almost as if they had hardened, and it nearly hurt to make them work again. It was renewing, but there was death in that breath of life. She blinked with eyes that were dry, and all she saw were black boots that were slick with dew and long, black hair that touched the ground.
She pried her fingers from the paring knife, opening and closing her hand to see if it still worked. Her breath was visible in the cold night air....
The stars moved across the sky as she regained strength. She watched the cool slivers of silver-tipped clouds as they slipped overhead. The moon and stars shifted position while she remained, her eyes capturing the moments that were lost to her. With a sudden surge of energy, she flipped her body onto her stomach and pulled herself away from Adrian’s corpse.
Years Later
She was gazing out the tower window when he walked in. Her eyes were on the black waters of the Avon, the canal that ran through Lockenwood, way down below her. It was like a twisted black ribbon from that height, and the moonlight was caught here and there on the water, causing it water to twinkle. She smiled thoughtfully and then turned to face the man whom Wick had sent up to see her.
“Well?” she asked flatly.
“What?” he startled as he met her eyes.
“What does Wick want me to do now?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in annoyance. Her eyes were not actually a color anymore, they were more of a filmy gray. Something rather unappealing to look at, and this generally caused people to turn away, which is what this man was now trying to do.
“Oh that, yes...yes,” he said, bringing forth paperwork he had under an arm and proffering it to her.
She gave him an ominous look as she took it. She was older, although it was hard to tell how old. Her long, dark blonde hair hung down over her shoulders as she spread the paperwork on a table before her.
Cameo sighed and folded up the documents. She glanced at Wick’s secretary as she packed up. He was staring at her, somewhat starry-eyed.
She rolled her eyes. “So,” she began rather loudly, hoping to break him from the little dream he was in, “tell the Lady I’ll get right on this,” she paused, “assignment.”
“Oh, certainly I will,” he beamed, waking from his trance.
As the young man turned to leave, Cameo stopped him, “What was your name again? I don’t think we’ve met.”
He spun around and met her eyes, then lowered his rather disgustedly to the cold, black floor. “Pindray.”
She studied the young man—shorter than she with shaggy red hair—as he left the room, and she wondered when Wick would want her to kill him. There were no favorites in Wick’s employ; everyone was a target at some point. Her eyes dropped to the scrap of paper she had left behind.
“Leon Belfour.”
She picked up the paper and brushed it against her chin. Leon was the prince of Sieunes. He was fair haired and fair skinned and, according to his file was partial to wearing blue. He was athletic and enjoyed hunting and had an award-winning dog named
Spangler
. The only part Wick’s secretary left out of the biography was that Leon was the heir to the throne. She had no idea what Wick’s plans were with this hit, but if she were ever caught—well, they would kill her, and it probably would not be quick and painless. Drawn and quartered with her body displayed in a gibbet for all the world to see was the most likely scenario.
Cameo was one of the longest-serving assassins in Wick’s employ, and she was known both in Lockenwood, the high seat of the Kingdom of Sieunes, and in some of the other local areas around there, which was probably not the healthiest situation for an assassin to be in, but it did keep her loyal to Wick. With the protection of the Association, the assassin’s guild in Lockenwood, she might be saved from an execution.
Her room in the tower was small and dark. She had a few comforts when she was home in Wick’s castle. A roaring fire in the hearth and a bottle of wine was how she had come to pass her evenings alone, away from the other killers and couriers in the place. And that is exactly where she deposited herself now, into a familiar antique chair, in front of the cold fireplace. She ate sparsely, a little cheese and slender crackers while her colleagues had a fine dinner many floors beneath her.
Wick, like Cameo, always dined in her personal rooms. She enjoyed her dinner with the youngest and most appealing secretaries. The assassin suspected Wick was manipulating their thoughts with the use of witchcraft, for the woman was at least eighty years old.
Staring into the cold ashes in the hearth, Cameo toyed with the piece of parchment and wondered how she would do it, with pistol or blunt trauma to the head. The moon’s light fell over the floor before her in one long line.
She lifted her gray eyes and saw the shadow beside the hearth, it seemed at first to be part of the darkened room, but as she lingered on it, she saw the outline of a person emerge. She looked at it dispassionately, unmoved by the ghostly creature standing before her. It was the size of a man, about six feet and of average build. It had shape but no features, and for this, she was thankful. The assassin glanced around the darkness knowingly as the other shades appeared, many shades; they filled her room.