I have to kill her
"Aztec? What's that?" Catherine's voice cuts through the ambient noise of the bar, snatching me back before my thoughts can spiral any deeper.
"It was the title given to a primal god in Aztec myth," the stranger at the counter says, her voice smooth and deliberate. "A entity with something unbelievable—something terrifying—behind its eyes. Bloodthirsty. Frantic." She fixes her gaze on me, unblinking. "Your friend here looks just like him."
A faint, mocking smile touches her lips.
"Aztec was covered in ritual markings," I interject before I can stop myself. "I don't have anything like that."
"Indeed." Her eyes drift downward, lingering on the pale, jagged lines creeping down my wrists.
"No tattoos. But your scars make up for it."
I pull my sleeves down, concealing the skin.
Wish, i could Wear my murder gloves to work.
"Bloodthirsty? Frantic?" Grey stumbles into the conversation, slurring heavily as he leans against the wood for support. "Jensen isn't anything like that. He can't even kill a cockroach—hehehe!"
"Jensen," the lady purrs softly, tasting the sound. "Pretty name."
"You can take it as your middle name if you like it so much," I snap, keeping my eyes fixed on the damp wood of the counter. I hate compliments.
"You are talkative."
"Indeed I am." She slides onto a stool, settling in with practiced ease, and raises a single, elegant finger. "Brandy. Neat."
I pour the amber liquid, set the glass down, and immediately begin clearing the well. It's time to close.
"Time to go, big guy," Catherine exclaims, hauling Grey toward the entrance. He can barely keep his feet under him.
The brass bell above the door chimes one last time as they haul themselves out into the night, leaving only the two of us behind in the thick, heavy silence of the empty bar.
Pitiful.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she sways against the counter, taking another slow sip, seemingly struggling to keep her head upright.
"So, what do you do?" I ask, trying to throw a blanket of normalcy over the rising tension.
An awkward silence stretches between us. She doesn't answer immediately.
"How do you know about the Aztecs?" she asks instead, looking up through the dark fringe of her hair, her eyes heavy and unfocused.
I asked question first tho.
"I've read a lot of mythology," I reply, swallowing my annoyance as I wring out a rag. "The brutality always intrigued me."
The dark god was the only thing in those old books that ever made sense to me. Bloodthirsty. Frantic. Ruthless.
"People don't usually read about monsters," she murmurs, her voice thick with alcohol. "They prefer heroes. Kind gods who save them."
"I'm full of strange habits," I say, pressing the mop into the floorboards with rhythmic force.
She lets out a sudden, melodic laugh and pushes herself up from the stool. She wobbles instantly, losing her footing as her heels catch on the edge of the rug.
She stumbles straight into me.
I catch her by the waist. Her hands grip my shoulders to steady herself, her breath warm against my neck. In that fraction of a second, while her chest is pressed against mine, her fingers slip into my apron pocket, sliding a thin scrap of paper inside.
"Tomorrow morning. Kelina Park, 11:00 AM," she whispers directly into my ear, her voice suddenly devoid of any slur. "I'll be waiting."
She pushes off me, steps back, and turns toward the exit. Her walk is suddenly crisp, fluid, and perfectly straight—as if she hadn't touched a single drop of alcohol all night.
The bell chimes again. She's gone.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the folded note.
Big fan of your work. ;)
A sharp coldness settles in my stomach. She faked the entire act just to close the distance.
She knows what I am.
I should have killed her the second she stumbled onto me.
I reach into my left sleeve, loosening the thin, custom steel blade strapped to my forearm, and slide it back into its hidden sheath.
I walk behind the main counter, crouch low, and pry up a loose section of the floorboards. Beneath it lies a vacuum-sealed kit: a black velvet pouch containing a modified burner phone, a stack of crisp bills, and a fresh hunting knife. I pull out the phone, press the floorboard back into place, and punch in a twelve-digit sequence from memory.
It rings twice before a harsh, static-laced voice picks up.
"You're calling early," Billy states.
"I need a full sweep on someone," I say, my tone stripped of any remaining warmth.
"Urgent. I'm routing the bar's internal CCTV feeds and facial captures to your drop box now. I need an identity, affiliations, and a route history by 10:00 AM tomorrow."
"Understood," he mutters, and the line goes dead.
I snap the phone in half, pry out the SIM card, and crush it. Throwing the remains in the alcohol that she left behind.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a heavy silver coin. I stare at the dark glass of the front entrance where she vanished just minutes ago, then rest the coin on my thumb and flick it upward.
It cuts through the dim light of the bar, spinning in a blur.
It hits the floor with a metallic clack.
Spins.
Bounces.
Comes to a dead halt.
Heads.
I stare down at the silver face glittering under the fluorescent lights, then reach for my coat on the hook behind the door.
"I'm going to kill her."