Cause Ωf Death (Femme Fatale Freakshow)

Chapter 2

PRESENT DAY

I writhe and grind on the cock impaling me, one hand pinching and tweaking at my nipple while the other braces against the bare, hairless chest of the man I’m riding, his hips bucking and thrusting upward eagerly.

Mitchell Collins.

Blond hair, blue eyes, with that wholesome boy-next-door look going for him, Mitchell is a dime a dozen here in Fresno. His body is toned and tanned, the muscles not too prominent but just obvious enough to show he takes care of himself. However, there are no callouses on his hands from lifting weights or boxing, nor on his knees or feet from surfing. My guess is that he makes good use of the treadmills in the gym downstairs. My research has given me the impression that everything about Mitchell Collins is designed to be the perfect showpiece. There’s very little actual substance left once you get past his appearance. At least, not that I could find.

I gyrate my hips again, eliciting a groan from the man beneath me. His cock is a reasonable enough length and girth for a normie—those who either don’t ascribe to or identify with a particular designation or are completely mundane in their humanity with no other abilities—and he knows exactly how to wield it for maximum impact. Thrusting his hips up, Mitchell strums my clit with his thumb as his cock brushes over that hidden cluster of nerves, and pleasure washes over me.

Oh, he’s good . It’s not often I’m brought to climax so quickly. It’s a shame, really, that his generosity and attention to his partners in bed hasn’t expanded to his life outside the bedroom. If it had, I doubt I’d be here with his name on my lips.

I clench my pussy around his cock, a strangled moan erupting from Mitchell’s throat, his hips jerking up uncontrollably as he nears his own climax. I take advantage of his slack-jawed lust and distracted state, allowing my left arm to dissipate into my namesake. I keep rocking and grinding away, pinching his nipples hard with my right hand when he closes his mouth. His responding cry is the last sound he’ll ever make.

I trail my now-vaporous arm up his torso and slip my intangible fingers past his lips, dripping and drizzling my hand down his throat. Once I’m sufficiently deep enough, I allow the consistency of my arm to solidify somewhat, the thick, unyielding mass molding to his trachea. In this state my arm is neither solid nor vapor, and there’ll be nothing left inside him to incriminate me.

I grin wickedly down at my target as he chokes and seizes, his face turning purple and blood vessels bursting in his eyes. We both hit our individual orgasms at the same moment, his convulsions sending me on an absolutely amazing ride as his involuntary auto-erotic asphyxiation tips his own body over the edge.

His heart races under my palm, my body weight pressing down on it as I lower myself to whisper in his ear.

“Mitchell Collins, you should have never crossed Scott Naylor nor attempted to silence him. It turns out he has friends in low places, the type of friends that not even your wealthy and corrupt associates can buy off. But hey, at least you got to go out with a bang, am I right?”

Mitchell doesn’t respond. He can’t really, not with my arm so far down his throat I can probably poke him in his stomach. But that’s okay, he doesn’t need to say anything. In fact, I’d prefer it if he dies silently.

Mitchell’s heartbeat slows, his limbs falling to the mattress below and stilling. I wait as his eyes, so frightened, angry, and full of tears, glaze over and dull as death tightens its grip on him. I feel the last stuttered beats of his heart fail. There’s no death rattle, no last gasp, just silence.

I dissipate my arm once more, drawing each strand and tendril from the bruised and swollen channel, before dismounting my satisfying ride. I quickly leave his bedroom and head for the bathroom.

I make use of the facilities to do a basic clean of my nethers, as the last thing I need is a UTI thanks to a dead man. Once I’m satisfied that there’s no hint of Mitchell left on—or in—me, I grin with satisfaction as I spy the bottle of sodium hypochlorite—otherwise known as liquid bleach—stored neatly under the sink with the other cleaning supplies, and get to work removing any and all traces of my presence here. I examine the bed closely, picking up several strands of hair from the bedding, too long and the wrong color to be Mitchell’s. He had the all-American-frat-boy look going with his short blond hair, so my long, copper strands will stand out as foreign. I wrap them up in some toilet paper before wiping my own essence from Mitchell’s groin and thighs with some damp tissues. I’m not too worried about my own DNA, because I have a plan for that.

A bottle of lotion and several scattered tissues soon litter the bed, and I squeeze some of the lotion onto his limp hand. I grimace as I wrap it around the base of his now flaccid cock, and then pull the used condom away, slicking the spongy shaft with lotion. I don’t care that his own cum oozes over his thighs and groin, because as far as anyone will be able to tell, he suffocated while having a wank.

The last item I need to make this look authentic comes from his kitchen. A plastic grocery bag goes over Mitchell’s head, and I once again dissolve my arm into vapor and push the plastic down his throat. While it won’t necessarily explain the bruising, there’s nothing here to indicate that Mitchell had company when he died.

Ignoring the stench of sex mingling with the shit and piss that Mitchell’s dead body voided as his life left him, I take the discarded condom and my hair back into the bathroom and use the bleach to destroy the remains of my DNA and flush it down the toilet. I know, there’s a special place in Hell reserved for people who flush things down the toilet that don’t belong there but needs must. A few swipes with the antibacterial cleaning wipes erase my presence from the bathroom, and I’m done.

One last stroll around Mitchell’s apartment shows that there’s no trace of my presence here—the alarm was disarmed with the code when Mitchell entered; the door has been secured from the inside, including the swing bar door guard; and there’s absolutely no indication of Mitchell having a guest—no stray piece of clothing or jewelry left behind, no additional glassware with lipstick on the rim, and no sign of forced entry, either.

I glance down at my naked body and grin. It’s actually quite funny how many people don’t consider the implications or consequences when they come home to a previously locked house or apartment only to find an attractive, completely naked individual sprawled out on their bed, masturbating. You’d think they’d at least ask who I am, what I’m doing there, and how did I get inside? Nope. Not in Mitchell’s case. His response? Get naked and dive dick-first between my legs. I’m sure that wherever he is now, he’s regretting his rashness. Oh well, he’s not my problem anymore.

I close my eyes and sigh out in relief as the weight of my body disappears, my form melting away into nothing but ephemeral vapor. I have no idea what I am, or how I can shift into this form, but it’s proven to be a boon in my chosen career. After all, people can’t live inside a vacuum, and if there’s a way for air to get inside somewhere, then I can hitch a ride as well. I just can’t physically take anything with me, as I don’t have a body to lift or carry things.

My infinitesimal particles drift through the air and then down to the sliver of a gap at the bottom of Mitchell’s front door. I seep through, leaving nothing of myself behind, then float down the hallway of the secured building. My exit is as quick and easy as my entrance had been, and the only hint of my passing is the faint traces of my natural smoked vanilla scent lingering in the air. Even this is easily explained—it could be the after notes of a woman’s perfume or a man’s cologne; it could be caused by a scented candle burning in another apartment; or it could even be the enticing smells of sweet bakery treats being carried inside to be consumed later.

I rise above the heads of my fellow pedestrians, preferring to float above rather than have them stomp their dirty feet through my intangible body. It’s not even the fact that they’re trampling through my form—no, it’s because I have no idea what they might have stepped in or on in their travels. The stench of fresh dog shit lingers , and the last thing I need is to either spend several days showering multiple times and wearing a lot of perfume, or to spend several hours spritzing different odor-neutralizers into the air and drifting through the particles in my evaporated state to get rid of every trace of poop. Don’t ask me why I’m unable to carry a damned thing while in this form, and yet the stench of dog shit will cling like a barnacle. Or a hemorrhoid.

Eventually, the parking garage appears, and I dart between people and through the gaping maw of an entrance. It doesn’t take long before I’m hovering at my vehicle, a 2017 Toyota Corolla in nondescript white. Such a common car, yet perfect for those “vertically challenged” people like me who enjoy the extra head and foot room while not breaking the bank. Mine has a couple of after-market modifications, not that they’re overly noticeable to the average passer-by.

The most obvious of the modifications is the midnight tint over the back side and rear windows, the darkest legally allowed here in California. However, with all the celebs and moguls, along with the incredible number of sunny days we get here, nobody bats an eyelid at my windows. Now, if they knew why I decided to get my windows tinted so darkly, then I’m sure I’d be attracting all sorts of attention, left, right, and center.

I do a quick circle of the car, paying particular attention to the wheel wells and the undercarriage. When nothing out of the ordinary jumps out at me, I swarm up through my favorite air intake and out from the floor vents into the back foot wells of my car. My clothes are where I’ve left them, and thanks to the way I’ve parked and the dark tint, nobody can see me as I reshape and solidify into my corporeal form, before quickly getting dressed. In moments, I’m just another Cali girl rocking cutoff faded denim shorts, a lacy forest green-colored midi-tank with spaghetti straps, an oversize cream knitted cardigan, and a pair of Vans. Scrambling back into the front seat, I pick up the jewelry I’d left in the cup holder, looping the gold hoops back through my ears, and shoving several beaded bracelets over my wrists. A fine gold chain holding a chunky pendant wraps around my throat, and the last addition to my outfit is a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses pushed up into my hair. My clutch is locked away in my trunk, so after another quick check to make sure that nobody can see me, I grab my keys from the center console, unlock the car, and get out.

As I exit the car, the overhead lighting shines down on a small, black card tucked discreetly beneath one of the windshield wipers. I disregard it for the moment, instead heading to the trunk and retrieving my clutch. It’s only as I walk back to the open driver’s door that I pluck the cardboard from its hidey-hole and stash it in the center console.

I ignore it as I start the engine, put the gear in reverse, and back out of my parking space. I pay the card no mind as I shift into drive and head to the exit of the garage. No notice is given to the glossy black rectangle as I pay for my parking and then merge into the traffic of downtown Fresno. It’ll take me roughly an hour to get home to Merced, and I want to sit and think before I either accept or decline this contract. I’ve been a member of the Guild for less than a year, and so far my contracts have been spaced out to one every six to eight weeks. Receiving another one straight on the heels of a completed contract is… unusual , in my limited experience.

But then again, nothing about the Guild and their interactions are predictable or “normal.” I mean, it’s a Guild of assassins , for fuck’s sake.

There’s a Ford Bronco parked in front of the house.

Kimberly is an absolute menace on the roads with her Vespa, and Leslie would probably marry their Corvette if they could. Steve drives a fairly beat-up Jeep, so that means that the Bronco can really only belong to one person.

What the FUCK is Henley doing here?

I maneuver around the beast and onto the drive, tapping the remote to trigger the garage door. Kimmy’s Vespa is tucked against the back of the garage instead of parked in her half, with a cherry-red Corvette taking up her usual spot.

Great. If both Leslie and Henley are here, it means that Steve’s not far behind. I love my chosen family, don’t get me wrong, but up until recently—as in eleven months ago—only the direst of circumstances or major life changes would have us gathering together.

I park my car in its usual spot, the garage door rattling slightly on its track as it closes behind me. I make a mental note to check the mechanism in the morning, and possibly lube it up if needed. Gathering my smartphone and clutch in one hand, I use the other to nab the black card that had been left for me before I exit from my car. I’m sure Henley will move his monster onto the drive soon enough, and Steve will no doubt park behind him once he gets here.

I shoulder open the connecting door to the lilting tones of smack-talk emanating from the rear of the house. Kimmy and Leslie are playing some sort of first-person shooter from the sounds of it, loudly directing each other to where the enemy is positioned.

“Up there, there’s one of them on the ridge. Shoot them! Shoot them!” Kimberly orders, and then dual whoops echo as they obviously score a direct hit.

I kick off my shoes and tuck them into the closet, leaning down to scratch the chin of my little void. Gizmo has grown so much over the last year it’s crazy. He’s almost as big as a Cavalier Spaniel and now looks like a miniature panther. However, he’ll always be my little baby.

I finally make my way through the house to where everyone is hanging out. Just as I thought, both Kimberly and Leslie are playing a game, cuddled up together on the sofa facing the wall-mounted flat-screen television. Henley is supervising their playtime together from the kitchen, a mug of coffee cradled in one of his massive hands. He’s wearing worn jeans that sit low on his hips, and a form-fitting cotton V-neck T-shirt that looks incredibly soft. Most telling of all is that his feet are bare. Don’t kink shame me, but Henley has the sexiest feet and toes I’ve ever seen, and with his arm-porn on display he looks absolutely delectable. If I didn’t have so many hang-ups about finally agreeing to taking him as my alpha, I’d be on him like a shopaholic on a sale. That and the fact I still smell like my terminated mark.

It all adds up to Henley having been here long enough to get comfortable, and that means he likely won’t be leaving any time soon, either.

“Hey, there, little Wisp. Your contract went off without a hitch, then?” Henley asks me quietly, his voice a low rumble that I feel in my belly.

I nod wordlessly, carefully setting my phone and clutch to one side before unceremoniously dropping the black card onto the white tile bench-top. Henley drops his gaze from me to the dark little cardboard rectangle, then glances back up at me, quirking one eyebrow.

“I thought once you accept or decline a contract, the card itself disappears. Why do you still have it?”

His question manages to hook the attention of the others, and they pause their game to listen in on my response.

“As far as I’m aware, this doesn’t have anything to do with Mitchell.” A brush at my ankles lets me know that Gizmo is wanting cuddles, so I bend over and scoop him into my arms, setting him comfortably on my hip like a baby before continuing. “I found it on my windshield after I’d dealt with him. I haven’t looked at it yet, because I’ve never had another job request so soon after completing the last one. Not since joining the Guild, at least.”

The clatter of controllers being dropped onto the coffee table precedes Kimberly and Leslie joining Henley and me in the kitchen. The four of us stare down at the innocuous yet menacing rectangle laying face-down, hiding its information from our view. Sighing, I reach out and flip it over, blinking in shock at the details etched on the surface in crimson ink.

Kieran Prince

$4.5M USD

Drop of Blood to Accept

Tear Card in Half to Decline

I rub my fingers over my eyes and then reread over the card, sure that I’m misreading the payout for the contract. Nope, I’m not seeing things, I’m being offered a cool four and a half million to take out one Kieran Prince.

Why does that name sound familiar to me?

“Oh my fucking god, are they insane ? They want you to go after Kieran fucking Prince? The only son of Darla and Edgar Prince, who rival Jeff Zuckermusk and the freaking House of Mouse when it comes to wealth and influence? What the hell has the pampered darling offspring of the heads of the Royal Empire done to attract the attention of the Guild?” Leslie blurts out, and that’s when it twigs.

Back in the fifties, Saul Prince had opened his first storefront selling items to young families and new mothers. One store soon became several, and he quickly discovered just how in demand the baby industry was becoming. However, once the US opened their doors to cheaper imports from abroad, Saul grew dissatisfied with the quality of the products flooding the market. So, he instead decided to research and develop his own lines to sell in his shops. Baby clothes came first, then buggies and strollers. Next came nursery furniture, safety monitors, and other handy gadgets and toys. Diapers, pacifiers, bottles, formula, and baby food all followed in quick succession. By the time Edgar Prince took over from his father in the nineties, they were a household name in the Continental USA to rival the likes of Babies R Us.

Edgar took it a step further. Housewares, skincare and cosmetics, personal care products, food, fashion, books and entertainment, even home security. They designed and developed educational apps and games, as well as devices like child-safe phones and jewelry with trackers in them. They were endorsed by Disney and catered to all income brackets. It was like rolling Target, Saks, Macy's, and Sears all into one. Even their catchphrases were enticing: Eat Like a Royal; Live Like a Royal; Dress Like a Royal; Sleep Like a Royal; Anyone Can Be Royal .

This is not going to be an easy job, that’s for sure.

I don’t know how long we all stand around in the kitchen, staring down at the card, but we are all startled back into the here-and-now by the slamming of the front door.

“Where is everyone?” Steve’s voice echoes through the house, rebounding off the walls until it reaches our ears.

“In the kitchen,” Henley rumbles back, his tone stern and uncompromising. Oh joy. Daddy Henley is in control, which means that he’s about to start laying down the law.

“So, what are you going to do, Dee? I know you’ll get all the info if you accept the contract, but this one goes waaay beyond what you’ve agreed to in the past. The Prince family has more security than the King of England, for all that they’re not actual royalty.” Kimberly’s gaze is filled with uncertainty, and in a way, I get it. Up until now, most of my targets have been relatively small fry—domestic abuse victims, embezzlers, corrupt businessmen and officials, and even a minor celebrity who thought they could intimidate their victim and pay off law enforcement to cover up their hit-and-run while driving high as a kite. But this?

No.

The contract for Kieran Prince is on a completely different level, as evidenced by the exceedingly high payout.

“I don’t think this is going to be a normal contract, Kimmy,” I respond slowly, my thoughts darting from one possibility to another at the speed of light.

Warmth steals over my back at the same moment that a pair of muscular, freckled arms brace the bench-top on either side from behind me. Traces of fresh linen, hops, and newly cut grass linger in my nose, almost hidden by the clean scents of soap, laundry powder, and the powdery hint of unscented deodorant.

“What’s going on, guys? Is that what I think it is?” Steve asks, and something deep inside me settles knowing that everyone I care for is here with me, safe and sound.

I sigh softly and lean back into the delicious bulk of Steve, his body heat enveloping me like a hug. Henley’s gaze meets mine for a moment, the longing there quickly shuttered before he glances away. My heart tugs a little, knowing that he wants me in his arms instead of Steve’s, but that I’m not ready to take that step, not yet. There’s nothing sexual or possessive in the way I’m being held, but that would soon change if it were Henley’s arms cradling my body to his. Hence the distance.

The solid wall of Steve’s chest is warm and soothing, settling my nerves once more. I ignore the conversation flowing around me about the possibilities and implications that both accepting and declining the contract would have for me, but one particular thread keeps tugging at my thoughts.

The Guild would never send me a target or a job that would diametrically oppose my innate sense of morality or violate my chosen criteria.

Clarity suffuses me and I make my decision. I stealthily use one of Gizmo’s claws to prick my finger, and then pick up the card. The others don’t even get a chance to protest my move before the card blinks out of existence, and knowledge floods my brain.

The first time I accepted a contract through the Guild, I was gobsmacked at the way they delivered the pertinent information. There was no email or phone call, no face-to-face conference with a “handler,” or a package in the mail. Nope. Instead, it was a straight transfer of knowledge directly into my brain. Think of how Keanu received information in either Johnny Mnemonic or any of the Matrix movies, but without the insertion of a physical probe into my temporal lobe. The first time had been disorienting, sending me to bed with a nausea-inducing migraine. Accessing the sheer volume of information had also been overwhelming at the start, but I’ve since managed to create a system to help navigate my way through it all with little more than a nagging headache.

Blueprints, schedules, access codes, and file after file on relevant personnel flicks through my mind like a movie reel on fast forward. I again tune out the noise of raised voices as I concentrate on the information downloading directly into my gray matter.

On the surface it all appears to be fairly straightforward. A contract has been issued for Kieran Prince, with the kill order requesting the cause of death appear as “natural causes.” The reasoning given for the hit is that he’s a pedophile the family has been hiding and protecting while also trying to find a way to “help” him overcome his predilections. However, accusations have arisen that paint him as a major player in a child-trafficking ring with an emphasis on child pornography and “red rooms.” If there’s any truth to this, then Kieran Prince ticks all the relevant boxes to be taken out by me.

If it’s true.

Which, according to my gut, it’s not.

“Guys, can it for a moment. I’m not about to waltz into one of the Prince compounds and execute Kieran. Something here is twigging my Wispy senses, and I think that’s why the Guild sent it to me. I not only have the ability to go and check things out for myself without being discovered, but I have you all as my support team as well. So, we’ll take this slowly, and once I have my answer, I’ll proceed accordingly. If the hit is genuine, goodbye Kieran Prince.”

“And if it’s not, little Wisp? What then?”

I meet Henley’s angry glare, his jaw clenched so hard I’m surprised his teeth haven’t shattered yet.

“Then I deal with the lying liars who want me to do their dirty work for them. I refuse to be used in such a manner, especially because someone very dear to me taught me once that you should always stand up for the little guy, because they can get into places the bigger guy can’t… including the intestines. Don’t forget about the clause I requested in my agreement with the Guild. I can always eliminate the client, if needs be. After all, the Guild ‘sees all’, and will understand my motivation.”

I grin at him, twitching an eyebrow mischievously in challenge. He doesn’t let me down.

“Right. In that case, little Wisp, I want you to jot down everything pertinent about the target that the Guild has sent you.” He grinds out, his orders just shy of an alpha bark. “Les, if you can put your feelers out and start searching for anything, no matter how boring or outlandish, that you can about Prince and his family. Steve, starting tomorrow I want you to do what you do best—surreptitiously stake out the primary locations where Prince can be found, and make notes of accessibility to the public, exits, security, etc. Kimberly, work with the others and create dossiers on Prince, his family, and those closest to him. Trawl through everything—and I mean, everything —that has their name attached to it. I have to go back east in a few days to finalize my separation and formal discharge, but once that’s all done, I’ll pack up and head back here.” I shiver as Henley points his finger at me, the command in his voice doing awfully delicious things to my body.

“You are not, I repeat NOT , to do anything more than observe until my return, Disa Mariah Aloft, is that understood?”

I bite back a smile at the muttered, “Ooh, the full legal name. You’re in trouble now, short-stack,” that drifts over my shoulder, and I gently elbow Steve in the ribs.

“Yes, Hen. Understood.” I soothe my not-yet-alpha playfully, but reach out and squeeze his hand with mine just to reassure him that I’m taking his request seriously. A lot of things are about to change now that Henley’s moving out west to be closer to us all, and it’s a major leap in our relationship. The poor guy is a nervous wreck.

Without another word we all break from our huddle around the island bench. Leslie is already tapping away at their smartphone, but quickly finishes and heads back to the discarded controllers. Kimberly joins them as I head upstairs to my bedroom. I’m tired and need a shower, and I wrinkle my nose at the thought of Mitchell Collins’ lingering scent tainting my skin. Heavy footfalls follow me up the stairs, and I wave loosely in the direction of the spare bedrooms.

“Steve, you know the drill. I’m not sure if Les is in with Kimmy or by themself, just make sure your room is up to scratch then unpack your shit in the closet. If there’s anything missing or wrong with the bed, come find me.”

A gruff chuckle sends shivers down my spine, closely followed by the feather-light slide of a finger.

“And what if the bed I want happens to also belong to a fiery Wisp of a thing, what then?”

I slow my steps and turn to face one of my oldest and dearest friends, one of the trusted few who has truly seen me naked and vulnerable.

“Honestly? Right now, I feel kinda dirty, what with how I dispatched my mark. While having you erase his memory with your touch would be amazing, I won’t use you in that way. Nor will I rub Hen’s nose in my hesitancy by undertaking one of our trysts outside my heat, while he’s here and I’m still unclaimed. However, if you want a massive cuddle-puddle, I’m sure the others will be only too happy to indulge you with that need. Just let me wash this last job away before we set it up, okay?”

Steve’s sweet smile and easy acceptance soothes my ragged nerves. Reaching out to cradle my face in his hands, he presses a soft kiss to my forehead, before lifting his chin.

“Go on then, short-stack. Go have that shower, scour the scent of that asshole from your skin. I’ll stow my gear before helping Hen out with a late dinner, yeah? You must be starving, shifting forms like you did on top of completing that job. Then, while we’re waiting, you can dictate to me, and I’ll write out the details regarding Prince. It’ll be easier that way, as none of us can read that chicken-scratch you call handwriting.”

I stick my tongue out at the sigma behemoth before I turn around and mock-flounce my way to my room. Steve’s chuckles echo in my wake, and I shake my head over his words.

Chicken scratch, indeed.