by Jessie
She meets the eyes of her mark across the room, and smiles at him. Wine and song are beginning to relax him; his eyes slide across her face; lazy, trusting. The music breaks. She crosses the room to meet him; catches his hands in hers, laughing, playful.
In the darkened street outside, misfortune befalls him; a passing thief in the night, perhaps. That is how the story ends. First, there is an alley, a certain blood-mage, an exchange of information. The first time, she was shocked. Today, she returns to the entertainment pausing only to scuff the blood from her shoes.
*
Blood pools on the floor. The screaming hums through her head, not like music, oh no, although there’s a part of her brain that catches the sudden modulation from A flat into a sobbing G minor. Take a person apart and what’s left? The raw expiration of breath; the changing melodies of pain.
Holtz has fled the scene. Though she does not turn her attention from the prone body, she wonders if he’s alright. Sometimes, doing this kind of work, you find yourself getting a little schizophrenic in your attitudes to people. It matters if Holtz is alright, for now.