3. An Invitation

Exhaustion fills me as I step up to a large tree in the center of the wooded area I have been spending time in lately.

Giving in to my body"s need for rest, I lean against the tree and slowly slide down the trunk, hitting the ground on my ass with a soft thud. Even in my human form, I am unfading. Never aging or weakening. Never scarring. My body has even miraculously repaired itself from life-threatening wounds. So the tiny scratches from the bark of the tree are healed before I even begin to nod off.

Letting my mind rest, I embrace the dark bite of nothingness. I may be a creature made from a soul-shredding moment of pure passion and rage, but my own thoughts no longer hold on to that anger I once felt. Thankfully, that leaves my sleep undeterred by nightmares. Sadly, that also leaves me bereft of dreams.

There is no past or future for my existence. I harbor no feelings of hope.

My existence on this plane has become rooted effectively in the present.

And so, my simple moment of being awake ends as my mind drifts to the black space it patiently resides in while my body recharges.

A tickling sensation fills my right hand where it lies on the ground next to me.

While it is not uncommon that I wake up laying on my side next to the tree I have come to use as my point of refuge, it has been a very long time since I have felt any sort of sensation I could even remotely describe as a tickle. As quickly as the inquisitive notions began in my head, it was immediately thrown aside by a rush of adrenaline.

Quickly hopping up to a crouching position, my gaze becomes transfixed on the item that caused my reaction.

An envelope.

I glance around but see no one. Listening intently, I am unable to decipher any heartbeats, other than that of the usual animals who roam this area. Looking back down at the pristine envelope, I find it hard to believe that some sort of breeze could have carried it away as a piece of trash tumbling in the wind. So that begs the question...

Who would give me a letter?

I suppose the more thorough question would be something like, "why would anyone give me anything?" I have no connections or friends. The lovers I have taken throughout the years were merely devices used to scratch an ever-growing itch. So then my mind simply circles back to the "who?"

Picking up the simple black bit of pristinely folded paper, I flip the envelope to and fro, inspecting every inch for any indication as to the answer for my burning question. When nothing presents itself, I give into my curiosities and stick a finger under the back flap. In a quick motion, I rip the message open exposing more paper inside of the same color. Pulling it out, I open the letter to expose brilliant red calligraphy.

While the letter itself is a striking image, it"s the words contained inside the message that has me smiling.

The guild.

A mysterious organization that guides the hands of those who make their way through this life by spilling blood.

Red truly is my favorite color.

I tap the letter and consider the contents. Their proposition is clear. Work for the guild and your pockets will be well-lined. While money has never really been of interest to me, it would make procuring meals much easier, and possibly more comfortable resting quarters. The thought of a bath after every assignment fills me with a desire I have not felt in centuries. Maybe ever.

It would also be lovely to not have to dig for information on targets. So many creeps are hiding behind technologies these days and I have exactly zero interest in learning how any of that works. So the enticement of being able to fulfill my purpose with more ease is truly alluring. The letter even states that the mark will be within my "target criteria." They find the assholes and I get to remove them from existence. It almost sounds too good to be true.

Although, there is the bit about the membership being for life.

As far as I have been able to determine thus far, I am an immortal. Not only that, but I possess multiple abilities unlike all of the other paranormals I have encountered. I am an anomaly. I"ve also not found anyone who seems to have been alive for as long as I have either. Meaning my lifetime membership might last a bit longer than their usual assassin.

I straighten and my back lets out an odd cracking noise as my constricted joints and tendons relax from the tense position I held while inspecting my mail. Yes, my body could use a proper rest. After my countless turns around the sun and the nation"s worth of justice I have reaped across those years, I feel I am due a little more self-care.

Puzzling over the third line from the bottom, I finally decide that perhaps consuming the invitation is meant in the most literal sense. I crumple the paper and open my mouth wider than my human form should be capable of. With a toss and a swallow, the letter is no more. I pause for a moment and consider the envelope. Figuring it is best to be thorough, I give it the same treatment as the letter.

Better to be safe than sorry.

For mere moments, I hesitate to wonder if I misunderstood something in the letter as I itch to get started. The thoughts no sooner invade my mind, when a tiny card catches my attention from the bush in front of me. A bush I would have sworn was empty only a blink ago. This guild is becoming more and more suspicious. Still, I snatch the card and flip it over.

Jeremiah Bamford

59.3k USD

Drop of Blood= Accept

Rip Card in Half= Decline

Oh yes, this process is much easier than the system I have been struggling through. Without a moment's hesitation, I pierce my finger on a fang I allow to descend and smear it across the card, blurring the name and payment information. As the blood soaks into the card, the words disappear along with it, and quickly following the card itself dissipates into nothingness.

The moment the card is gone, facts begin to form in my mind as if they have always been there. I now know more about Jeremiah Bamford than I had ever wished to. Including the location on the cloud where he idiotically stores his stash of child pornography and selfies taken while raping drugged teens at a club. As the facts filter in, something pulls at me. I have no hesitations about taking out this scumbag, but it"s not enough. He stole from the hospital his father funds in honor of his departed wife. While the Bamfords are not tight on money by any means, I can"t let go of the knowledge that there is money hiding away that Jeremiah stole from that hospital.

Jeremiah is going to die.

But not before I ruin him.