Cause Ωf Death (Femme Fatale Freakshow)

Chapter 1 Continued

“Uh, apparently our little side-jobs haven’t gone unnoticed, Kimmy. I’m being recruited by a guild of assassins, if this letter is to be believed.” I finally murmur, my thoughts racing at just how this Guild has learned of my existence.

If they know about me, then they must also know what I am, and who I surround myself with.

Shit.

“We need to get Leslie over here. I want to hear what they know about this Guild. If this Femme Fatale Freakshow —and what kind of name is that?—is truly all-seeing and all-knowing like they’re implying in this letter, then they’ll already know I won’t do anything without talking it over with both you and Les. Fuck, we might even need to call in Steve and possibly Henley for advice. Let’s make it a family affair, shall we?”

Neither Henley nor Steve were able to drop everything and scramble back to Merced before the deadline, so we had to settle for a conference call at ass-crack o’clock instead. Henley is on base over at Fort Knox, Kentucky, and is in his last year of active service, whereas Steve is on a job that’s taken him up to Missoula in Montana, of all places. I hope the bounty he’s tracking is worth the travel.

As much as I’d prefer the opposite, I’m not a stranger to early mornings as I work four days a week as a pastry chef in a boutique patisserie in Modesto. Kimberly, on the other hand, is not a morning person. In fact, she hates mornings so much that I had a mug made up especially for her. It’s got a cranky little storm cloud obscuring the sun on one side, with the words, “Grumpy Little Mórgenmuffel” printed on the other.

She loves it.

We’re waiting on Leslie to arrive before syncing up our conference call. They’re driving up from their base of operations in Los Angeles and will be staying with us for the next day or so until they head back home. I’m grateful for their presence, and I know Kimmy will enjoy having her occasional bed-buddy back under our roof, even if it’s only for the night.

I’m brewing a fresh pot of coffee so that Kimmy is at least partially functional when the rattle of the front door echoes through the house.

Leslie has arrived.

“Hello, hello, my little buttercups. I hope the weather outside doesn’t bode ill for whatever news you have to share with us all. It was so lovely out this morning when I drove up here, but in the last half hour or so the sky has turned black. The weather channel has no idea what’s going on!”

I pull another mug down from the cupboard, leaving it free of creamer and sugar, just how they like it. I add three heaped spoons of sugar to Kimmy’s mug, before adding one spoonful of sugar and a dash of creamer to my own. By the time I carry all three mugs across to the rear lounge, Leslie is already settled on the sofa with their feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Here you go, Les. As to the weather, I don’t know what’s going on, either. I mean, I know I only got out of bed a half an hour ago, but I promise I’m not the Antichrist!”

Leslie snorts out a laugh at my comeback as they take their mug from my hand, leaving me to place Kimberly’s on the table ready for when she descends from her lair. Leslie is a delta, and their designation couldn’t be more perfect for their chosen career. Marketing themselves as a “procurer of rarities to the elite,” Leslie is—to put it simply—a black-market smuggler. They have their fingers in so many pies that they’re the first person Kimmy and I turn to when we need information we can’t obtain on our own, and they in turn provide us with the majority of our contracts.

Leslie is taller than both Kimmy and me at five foot eleven, but then again, most people are. Kimmy is five foot six, and I’m five foot three in bare feet. Leslie’s natural hair color has been lost to time, part of their many looks and disguises. Today, their tousled teal curls sit in an asymmetrical cut reminiscent of Tilda Swinton’s gender-bending portrayal of Gabriel in Constantine. Violet-tinted contacts hide their baby blue eyes, and their angular jawline is sharp and freshly shaven. A shrunken cropped vest in a shade of purple that matches their contacts clings to their chest, exposing their toned and tanned bare midriff, with a pair of flowing black palazzo pants and strappy wedge sandals rounding out their current look.

“Disa, darling, you’re looking a little peaky. Have you been getting enough sleep, my love?” Leslie interrogates me while carefully sipping their coffee. I roll my eyes, knowing they’re not intending to be offensive, but also a little miffed that they’re asking me that.

“Gee, I dunno Les, between burning the candle at both ends with my dual life, and then having some secret society somehow gain access to our secure house to attach a collar to my kitten without any of us noticing, I think I deserve a pass on looking as amazing as you do. Not all of us have our beautician on speed-dial, yannow?”

Pursing their lips in a moue of disdain, Leslie sniffs dismissively at my words, but gets over their little huff almost instantly.

“Seriously, Disa. You need to take care of yourself better, or at least let Kimmy do so. It doesn’t make you any less of a badass if you give into your designation’s tendencies from time to time, especially if it’s done in private. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone, my love, and those who would suggest differently are all idiots.”

I don’t say a word. I know Les is correct, and that their words come from a place of love and concern.

I’m an omega, and from a very young age I realized that the moment people learn that about me, their opinions change. They treat me like a child who has no autonomy or a working brain in my head, as though I’m fragile and delicate as blown glass. They don’t see my steel spine or hardened core, the result of growing up inside an orphanage for others like me—unknown parentage, unknown lineage, unknown powers, yet with an identifiable designation. They see me as an easy mark, a simple target who won’t fight back. I’ve buried more than one person who tried to take from me that which was not freely given.

Life isn’t kind to those who are different, especially if they’re alone. Bitter experience taught me that. I guess I was lucky that Henley, Steve, Leslie, and Kimberly were all at the same orphanage, and took me under their collective wings. Their protection not only made it harder for those with nefarious intentions to gain access to me, but it also showed me who each of them are at their core. They’re my family, my very heart and soul. Blood doesn’t make a family, not in the standard sense of the word, trust and commitment do. They’re the ones I know I can trust, that I can count on to be there for me, no matter what. The ones who have helped me bury the bodies I’ve left behind.

Literally.

I don’t get a chance to respond as Kimberly loudly stumbles down the stairs, her hazel eyes bloodshot and her russet hair falling out of her bun. While she normally tends to stay up late, she never went to bed last night thanks to my mysterious correspondence, instead using the time to research whatever she could about the mysterious Guild and their offer. And it shows. Kimmy’s still wearing the sweats and oversize T-shirt from last night, and she looks rumpled and barely cognizant of her surroundings. She heads directly over to the sofa, dropping down onto the cushions and glomping onto Leslie. She snuggles up to their side and once she’s comfortable, she turns to me and makes grabby motions at the steaming mug in my hand. I pass it over without a word, because I know better than to come between my best friend and her miracle bean juice.

I might have skills that mean I can kill without a trace—which I have, once—but that woman wouldn’t kill me. No, she’d just make me beg for death instead.

“Okay, now that our resident coffee gremlin is with us, shall we call the guys? I want everyone’s input on this group before I decide, one way or the other.” My voice is calm and even, not revealing even a shred of the anxiety and terror roiling away in my gut. I can only hope that this Guild won’t take exception to me calling in my family for advice.

With only minimal messing around, we soon have Steve and Henley displayed up on Kimmy’s laptop screen, both men looking tired but not completely sleep deprived. They’re a lot like me in that respect; they have jobs that often mean early mornings and late nights, so they’ve learned to catnap at will.

Henley is exactly how you’d imagine an alpha serving in the military to look: tall, stacked, and lethal. He’s six foot eight inches of pure muscle, although most of his bulk is in his upper body and thighs. It’s only sheer dedication to leg day that his calves are proportional to the rest of him, and that he doesn’t have the “chicken legs” that so many so-called body-builders suffer from. His burnt umber skin glows with health, and the tight, dark curls of his hair are cropped close to his head. His eyes are a warm brown, the gentleness imbuing them belying his occupation. Henley is a protector at heart, not prone to violence or savagery unless provoked. His aggression is rarely channeled anywhere but at a punching bag, or a hammer and nails. He loves to work with wood in his downtime, as he claims it gives him the patience he needs to deal with the “idiotic grunts” within his unit. The man screams “Daddy Dom” and “caretaker” to me, and I know that Kimberly sees him as her big brother. I have a more… complicated … relationship with Henley.

Steve could be Henley’s twin, except for the fact that Steve’s skin is lily white and covered in freckles. Looming over most of us “short-stacks” at six foot six, Steve’s build is what some would call “a brick outhouse.” His shoulders are broad, and his arms bulge with the most perfect arm porn you can imagine. Although his chest is broad, his stomach isn’t toned or carved into washboard abs. In fact, he’s got more of a “dad bod” than a sculpted Adonis figure.

The guy could quite easily play receiver for the Rams, as he’s also quick and nimble on his feet. That, along with his imposing height, is a boon when collecting bounties, I guess, as well as a walking billboard for his sigma nature. He has shoulder-length auburn curls and a beard most lumberjacks and Vikings would swoon over. With his piercing blue eyes, and an ingrained sense of justice that would rival Superman’s, it’s no wonder that he’s inundated with offers from both women and men to throw them around their bedrooms. Unfortunately for Steve, he’s also incredibly shy when it comes to sex. Although, I can state with some authority that the guy is not only hung, but he’s more than adept at satisfying his partner in bed. He’s one of my best friends—with benefits—and I know that he values having a relationship based on friendship and shared values, rather than just physical attraction. Plus, he absolutely detests that people peg him as dominant in the bedroom. The guy is a bedroom submissive, one hundred percent.

Steve waves to the camera, his cheeky smile warming my heart.

“Okay, now, little Wisp. What’s got you all in a tizzy this early in the morning?” Henley breaks the silence and gets straight to the heart of the matter. That’s Henley, though. Why put off a problem when it can be dealt with now?

I quickly recount the events of Kimberly’s and my previous evening, and how it ended with a black envelope attached to Gizmo’s new accessory. I then read them the letter in its entirety, waiting at the end for them to digest the missive’s contents before asking the million-dollar question:

“So, what should I do?”

Henley’s expression rivals that of a thundercloud, and I can feel his urge to get on the next flight out of Kentucky and make his way here to protect me from this potential threat. Steve, however, has a more thoughtful expression on his face.

“What did they call themselves, again, Disa?” Leslie drawls, and I show them the letter. They hum thoughtfully before pulling out their smartphone and tapping away. I shrug and return my attention to the laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of me.

“I’ve heard rumors about civilian groups acting like black ops for a while now, and this ‘Guild’ is pinging on my internal radar,” Steve begins, and I sit up at his words.

“What have you heard?” I ask, and Steve takes his time answering.

“Just that nobody knows who they are, and a lot of their contracts seem to include the impossible—people dying mysteriously in secure locations, inexplicable causes of death, and the fact that there’s no trace of them left behind.”

“Do it,” Leslie butts in suddenly, tucking their smartphone back into their pants pocket. “The Femme Fatale Freakshow is a very select, very clandestine operation, one who even the governments of the world are aware of and have utilized in the past. While they are demanding and exacting in their expectations, they aren’t unreasonable. And when they say it’s a lifetime commitment, that applies on both ends. They will take care of you as long as you also take care of them. I’ve heard… whispers from the shadowy corners of dark, smoky rooms that their older personnel tend to move from active service to a more hands-off approach—research, assigning contracts, that kind of thing.”

Leslie pauses to flick their hair over one shoulder dramatically before continuing. “But the point is, they’ve already done their research. They already know everything about you, and by extension, us. Not only as a form of insurance for them, but also as a form of protection for you. After all, they don’t want their operatives under any unnecessary duress if those closest to them are in danger from their enemies. Besides, it’s not like they’re going to ask you to do anything you’d find morally repugnant. By their own words, ‘The Guild will never send you a mark that doesn’t fit within your target criteria.’ That means that you will set the boundaries of which contracts you will and won’t consent to undertake.”

I bite down on my lip, considering Leslie’s words. They aren’t wrong. The terms set out in my invitation are clear, if succinct. But I can’t join their ranks unless all of us are on board.

I already know Leslie is on board, and the excited squeaks and wriggles coming from the end of the couch are enough to tell me that Kimmy is all in as well. Hell, she’s probably wondering why she hasn’t been invited, but if she’s included by association, she’ll be happy to be my support team. She won’t give me a choice about being my backup, either, not if I want to live a long and happy life.

I flick my gaze back to the laptop, and the duo of stern visages hovering on the screen. I meet Steve’s eyes first, warmed by the concern and gravity pooling in them. He gives the barest nod, and a coil of tension I hadn’t even been aware of loosens inside me. I finally look over to Henley, his brow furrowed in a frown and wait for his response. This is the moment where it’s either make or break. He’s the unofficial head of our little family, and he gets right of veto in cases like this.

Henley stares at me for a moment, then holds up a finger.

“You can accept on one condition, little Wisp.” We both ignore the excited squeals coming from Leslie and Kimberly. “You keep us in the loop at all times. Kimberly will continue working with you on research, and you’ll call us in as and when you need us. You’ll also let us know when you’re about to go after a target, although you can leave the details out if needs be.”

I nod in agreement, knowing that this must be a nightmare for Henley. I know he loves me, and in a way that goes beyond our family unit. He’s never seen me as a sister, and by his own admission, he’s been in love with me for years. It was his idea for us to wait until I was a little older, so I could experience the world. It was my decision that I wouldn’t take that step until everyone was ready and willing to live together as a pack, and that couldn’t happen while Henley was still enlisted and stationed half the country away.

I’m his omega, even though we’ve never done anything more than cuddle up on the sofa together. In a nutshell, he’s waiting for me to mentally be ready to accept an alpha, to be open to starting a family and once I am, he’ll be mine. I’m waiting for him to be done with the military, although I’ll never actually ask him to leave. He has to do that on his own accord.

But until that moment comes, he’ll be my protector and dear friend.

As I said, it’s complicated.

“Um, the invitation says that you need to ‘consume the invitation,’ whatever that means. So, how are you going to do that, Dee?” Kimberly peers over my shoulder where the black invite rests on my lap. The alarm on my phone goes off, the song I chose giving me inspiration.

“Well, I’m going to light it up and then take it with a finger of whisky, neat. Should accentuate its smoky flavor nicely.”

And that’s how I joined the hallowed ranks of the Femme Fatale Freakshow.