8. Kaden

8

KADEN

"Idiot," I mutter under my breath as I crouch behind a large, overturned rowboat, partially buried in the sand near the lighthouse.

Its paint is peeling, revealing weathered stone and rusted metal. The abandoned structure casts a long shadow in the fading light of the day over Layla's small house.

I watch the silhouette of my next victim skulk around a craggy outcrop of rock, edging closer to what's mine. The person's cautious movements and frequent glances over their shoulder suggest they're not just a curious trespasser. But he fails to pause or check his surroundings in detail, his overconfidence in hunting down a twenty-four-year-old girl clouding his judgment.

He has no idea that a scythe has attached itself to her shadow.

In the past twenty-four hours, Layla's property and Layla herself have been silent. She ran from me in the forest, which was expected. Her return to the lightkeeper's cottage was a possibility but not a certainty. Yet when I resumed my watch, there she was, curled up on her bed and sobbing.

I don't feel guilt. The wraithling needs to understand the seriousness of her situation.

A situation that's just become more complicated when I noticed movement on the shore twenty minutes ago.

I knew another assassin would come after my refusal to accept Layla's kill contract, and I'm not disappointed.

The air is thick with the scent of salt and decay. Gulls cry overhead, circling the lonely tower that has long ceased to guide ships. The surrounding area is strewn with debris from the sea—driftwood, tangled seaweed, and the remnants of old fishing gear.

Lowering my binoculars, I creep forward, moving with practiced stealth, keeping low, and using the natural cover of the terrain. I navigate through patches of tall beachgrass and behind clusters of rocks, closing in.

Every step is calculated and silent despite the crunch of gravel and dry seaweed underfoot. My focus is absolute, my senses tuned to any sound or movement from the lighthouse.

I freeze when the silhouette moves not to where Layla is undressing and getting ready for bed but to inside the lighthouse.

Curious.

As the assassin enters it, I sprint for the door, slipping inside a few minutes after him. Inside, the lighthouse is hollow and echoes with the sound of the sea.The interior is dank and smells of mold and rust, with puddles of sea water dotting the floor. A fragile metal staircase winds up around the crumbling walls.

Taking cover under the stairs, I wait until my new friend is a few steps above my head, then lunge .

I grab his ankle, yanking it sharply. The assassin's surprise is audible—a sharp gasp cut short as he tumbles down the stairs. I move quickly, my actions honed by years of training and real-world combat.

I don't let confidence overshadow the situation. The assassin, a trained killer, recovers quickly and swings a fist. I deflect the blow with my forearm, using the momentum to deliver a precise elbow strike to his ribs. The impact is sharp.

As the assassin doubles over, I grab his shoulder and spin him around. Driving a knee into the assassin's abdomen, I further knock the wind out of him. Every one of my moves is designed to incapacitate without causing unnecessary harm.

Yet.

The assassin, now struggling to catch his breath, tries to retaliate with a wild, desperate punch that I sidestep, grabbing the assassin's extended arm and twisting it behind his back in a classic arm lock.

"Looking for someone?" I whisper in his ear while baring my teeth.

With my other hand, I reach into my tactical vest.

In a swift, practiced motion, I secure the assassin's wrists behind his back with black zip ties. I force him to his knees, and with another zip tie, I bind his ankles.

As I stand over the subdued killer, my breathing is steady. There's no anger in my study, only a cold, professional necessity.

With the assassin now securely bound, I take a moment to survey my surroundings, always vigilant for any further threats. My vision stays cold and calculating, my features betraying no emotion as this attempted threat to Layla looks up at me with shocked, flared eyes, but my mind races ahead to the information I'm about to methodically extract .

All to protect my wraithling.

"Fuck," the hitman groans as he opens his eyes and sees me standing over him.

I've dragged him onto a wooden chair, securing him tightly and waiting for him to come around.

The lighthouse is silent, the darkness broken only by the soft glow of the moon through the broken windows overhead, laced with the neon green that glows through my mask.

He squints as his vision comes together and notices my snack. "Is that…?"

"Red licorice?" I ask, snapping the rope of candy between my teeth, chewing, then swallowing. I hold the other half between us. "Would you like some?"

"Who the fuck are you?" The would-be assassin spits on the floor, the chair creaking under his weight.

I move faster than he can react, wrenching his chin back to face me.

"Wrong question," I growl, punching him under his jaw and almost sending his entire tongue down his throat. "What you should be asking is how much pain you're about to endure."

The hitman's bravado falters. Fear flickers in his eyes, a delicious sight that sends a thrill down my spine.

I decide to add to it.

Lifting my arm in a high arc, I plunge a knife behind his kneecap.

He screams but doesn't scream loud enough. I twist the knife. "Who hired you? "

"Fuck you!"

I pause my torture. "I've asked you a question."

"Fuck yourself." The hitman spits blood in my face.

I shove the knife farther, my knuckle nearly touching his thigh.

"All right, all right!" he gasps out, the desperation in his voice palpable. "It was the Morellis! They hired me!"

"Who specifically?" I demand, keeping a firm grip on the knife for emphasis.

"Franco Morelli … Frank … The Ghost," he stammers, dread dancing over his face as he stares unblinking at the hot steel embedded in his leg.

My expression hardens. I knew he was behind this, but to hear it from this amateur's lips is something else entirely. I take another bite of my licorice, my gaze never leaving the hitman before standing and taking my blade with me.

He screams through clenched teeth.

"What's your name?" I ask idly, wiping my blade clean with a cloth.

"M-Madman."

I arch a brow over the fast-cooling silver, though he can't see it. "Madman? Really?"

His throat bobs so deeply, beads of sweat fall off and into his collarbone. "A contract went out on the dark web. I'm not the only one coming for L?—"

I glance up sharply. "I'll kill every last one of you."

Then I pause, pretending to be in thought and picturing a graphic, graphic death. "If any of you tries to so much as utter her name, I'll make sure you live without a tongue or eyes for a few days first."

The idiot turns smart. He shuts his mouth.

"I know who you are." His swampy brown eyes rake over me, watching me chew my candy with considerable unease, muscles pulsing in his jaw.

"Oh?"

"I recognize that mask. You're the Scythe. Never seen but … always felt."

That gets a laugh out of me. "Is that what they say? How amusing."

Madman regards me like—well, like I'm the madman.

"You torture your kills." His voice reverts into puberty. "Prolong their deaths."

"I find it fun."

Madman's shoulders slump. "Why are you here, man? This isn't—she isn't your type. Of kill, I mean," he corrects quickly when my cold neon-green stare claims him. "You usually go for guys like me. Men. Not women."

"I'm here for her." That's all I'll admit.

I watch the tiny clock of his fate start ticking in his head. "Okay, well, good for you. The Morellis have a whole file on her. But I ... I don't know all the details. They just tell me what I need to know. Grab the girl, find what she's hiding. That's it."

"What's she hiding, then? Be specific."

Snap goes another rope of licorice through the mouth-hole of my mask.

Madman looks increasingly nauseated. "Why are you eating through that thing? So fucking creepy, man."

Snap. Chew. Swallow.

He breathes deeply, bracing himself. "Okay, fine. She has some sort of evidence against the Morellis, I guess. I don't know, man, they don't tell me everything!"

"How many have you killed, Madman?"

He blinks, sweat now coating his lashes. "Maybe … ten?"

"And you take any contract given out, don't you? Women, girls, boys, kids, the elderly. Am I right? "

His blinks turn rapid.

"The truth, Madman," I prod him kindly.

He answers, his voice thick with unease. "Whatever pays the most."

I incline my head.

Then I drive a fist into his abdomen. His gasp fills the circular room, bouncing off the walls.

"Go to hell," he wheezes, defiance sparking in his gaze. It's a fleeting spark, however, and one I fully intend to extinguish.

I snatch the man by his hair. This man—young, likely in his early twenties, with a lean build and short, unkempt hair. Too arrogant for any sort of disguise.

His eyes dart around nervously. I push him backward until his chair balances on two legs. "Do you truly believe I haven't already been there?"

I lean in close until our noses almost touch, his flesh, mine cold metal. My fingers dig into his scalp, drawing blood as I angle him farther. "You won't be leaving this lighthouse alive, but whether you die quickly or suffer for hours is entirely up to you."

"WAIT!" he screams, surrender finally overtaking the bravado now that his throat is exposed. "Look, Scythe, I'm just a hired gun, like you. I'm not given a ton of info on my hits. But I can tell you something … Morelli is not directly calling the shots here. It's someone else, someone close to him."

I still. Not even the breeze coming through the upper windows dares to flick my hair. "Someone close to Morelli? Who?"

"I don't know, I swear. I just heard whispers. Morelli's got a right-hand man, someone who's been with him for years. They say he's the real brains, the one who's been keeping Morelli untouchable. "

I release my hold, sending Madman crashing onto four legs. His head sags, and he groans with relief.

Processing this new information, I ask, "And you think this man is behind Layla's targeting?"

"Yeah. It's all about whatever she's got that they want. It's big, whatever it is."

I face him. "You've done me a favor, Madman. It's only fair I return it."

"Thank—wait, what the fuck?"

He watches me pull out not a knife or a gun, but the remaining bag of licorice, dangling it between my fingers. "Hungry?"

I smile a slow, sadistic smile behind the darkness of my mask as I cut a single strand from the rope of licorice, stretch it taut, and slice it cleanly.

Madman's eyes widen as I make a second cut, then a third, until I have a handful of bright red licorice.

His breath catches as I raise the bundle, bringing the candy closer to his face.

"What is this? W-what are you doing?"

"Whatever you do," I croon in a low voice, "don't swallow until I say you can."

I feed him the licorice, piece by piece, as his eyes slowly close in relief. Madman's fear made him hungry.

"I won't lie to you," I begin. "I can't simply kill you. I have to send a message."

When I'm finished stuffing as much licorice into his mouth as I can, I take the plastic bag the candy was in and twist it.

"Ready?" I ask.

Madman shakes his head in denial, his cheeks bulging like a poor, cornered chipmunk.

"Swallow," I command.

His head bobs as he works to ingest the licorice, his hair matted with sweat, his face more scarlet than the candy. When I notice the bulge in his throat, I take the bag and tie it tightly around the man's neck, creating a tourniquet that works nicely with his sweetened suffocation.

"You do get a quick death," I explain to Madman as the chair bucks beneath him and his garbled cries transform into chokes. "But I never said it wouldn't be traumatizing."