1 Chapter One

*July, 2044*

I stroll leisurely down a dark, foggy alleyway, my blonde waist length hair cascading over my left shoulder in its usual fishtail braid. I sigh in frustration and re-adjust my tight black crop top. I swear to God, this is the last time I skip laundry day and wear a short ass shirt like this one. I'm grateful I'm at least halfway comfortable thanks to my favorite black jeans and boots.

The sound of heavy breathing and frantic footsteps interrupts my reverie, and I instinctively begin following the disruptive noises.

As I trot down the alley, I trail a woman wearing a bib of congealed blood as she shuffles away from me on the sidewalk. Her neck is slashed to ribbons and loose fingers of skin dangle down to her chest. Although she doesn't seem to notice me, I move into the road so as not to disturb her. I watch with unfazed morbid-ness as she ambles along aimlessly into the mist, on a path to God knows where. I think about how depressing it is to be headed on a path straight to nowhere. As I leave her body behind me in the glowing haze, I begin singing an old lullaby I picked up somewhere in my dreams.

For as long as I can remember, I've been able to travel into the Astral Plane on my own free will. From what I've learned, this place serves as a middle ground for the dead and everything almost identically mirrors the waking world. So far, I've never met another person who can do what I do, and that's probably a good thing.

As for the lullaby, I'm not entirely sure where I first heard it. Truth be told, I don't think it was ever a very effective method to put anyone to sleep since the melody is so somber and creepy. Not to mention the fact that the lyrics go something like this;

"Hush little children,

Now please close your eyes.

Your loved ones are waiting,

They're ready to fly.

But be careful you must,

For darkness does lie.

Stray not from the path,

Once slumber you find."

Is the lullaby disturbing as hell now that I think about it? Absolutely. Oddly enough, I find myself whistling or humming it every time I go into the AP. I smile at the incongruence: a child's lullaby for a freelance assassin in the astral world.

I groan with frustration as I emerge from the foggy alleyway only to find that my target has vanished. Of course this asshole has to make my life more complicated than it needs to be.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, concentrating intently on my surroundings. Finally, I catch the sound I seek: the ragged, labored breathing of a middle-aged male coming from a house about a hundred yards in front of me.

"Perfect," I whisper. Now I can finally give my next target a proper greeting. I'm ready to meet you in the spiritual flesh, Jack Jones.

I open my eyes and resume whistling my eerie melody as I skip up to the entryway of a white, French-style house and slowly push the door open. A loud creak emerges from beneath my shoe as my foot crosses the threshold, and the terrified wheezing of my target intensifies. I can tell that he's on the second floor from the makeshift barricade at the top of the stairwell composed of a flipped bookshelf, a coffee table, and a rolling computer chair. Well, that and the fact that I can hear him muttering a long string of Hail Mary's.

I study the wall of furniture, impressed despite myself. I mean holy crap, this has got to be a first. I don't think I've ever seen anyone attempt to block me with home decor. Although I applaud him for his efforts, it really won't help much.

I trot over to the flight of stairs and quickly ascend the steps. I pause in front of the stacked array of furniture and shrug before tossing the computer chair off the top of the pile and placing my palms against the center of the bookshelf. I brace my legs against the top step and slowly push the pile out of the way. Once I've cleared enough space for my body to slip past, I guide myself effortlessly between the base of the bookshelf and top railing of the stairwell.

Alright, now where was I?

Ah yes, my next target.

As I walk along the hallway, I casually reach down to the side of my right thigh, drawing my favorite silver throwing knife out of its holster. I gingerly run my thumb over the intricate etching that spans the length of the blade and smile dreamily. God, I love this knife. It's so sleek . . . so perfect. The blade itself is about six inches long and pure silver with swirling inscriptions. The handle is a four-inch, beautifully carved matte black with a large emerald bonded to the base. This is definitely one of Denali's best creations, and I always feel giddy holding such a masterpiece. Visions of this knife had haunted my dreams for many years, and Dani managed to turn those dreams into a reality.

I reach the last door at the end of the hallway. I carefully place the knife in between my teeth and raise my arms above my head, intertwining my fingers as I stand on my tippy-toes to stretch. I let my arms fall loosely back to my sides, release a quick sigh, and reach my right hand to grab the blade from my teeth.

I quickly twist the doorknob. As the door swings inward, my gaze is met by a short, terrified man with salt and pepper hair dressed in nothing but his blue striped boxers. He's of average build and appears to be in his mid-forties. So yeah, my typical client in a nutshell. The only unusual thing about him is that I wasn't hired by a disgruntled wife who wanted her husband gone.

I take a few steps towards him, and he backs himself up against a dark antique wooden dresser, muttering Psalms 23:4 shakily under his breath. I snicker to myself. I've always found people that pray for help when they stare eternal damnation in the face to be so absurd and pathetic. Most of them will never end up ascending to Aura anyways, so why beg? In my twenty-five years on this planet, I've met hardly anyone worthy of reaching the Aura realm. The vast majority of the population ends up going directly to Tenebra or getting stuck in purgatory which is, well . . . here.

But, I digress.

I shift my weight as I fidget with my knife, slowly rolling it over in my hand and testing the tip of the blade with my index finger. At this point, I'm just waiting for the inevitable ranting and raving. I usually let my targets speak first since they typically feel a need to beg and whine about not wanting to die, but today I grow impatient. I shoot him an annoyed glare.

"Pl—please don't do this! I—I can pay you twice whatever they're paying you," Jack stutters. Like clockwork: cue the pathetic petitioning for his life. I roll my eyes with a long, drawn-out sigh.