13 The Pistol

Helen came and found Serenica nearly asleep over a tankard of ale. Theod had bought it for her. The smuggler was in a lousy shape as well. It was nearly midnight.

"Oh for hell's sake," Helen complained. "I am worried out of my mind and doing everything I can to get you into even worse troubles, and you are drinking. Drinking with pirates."

"He's a smuggler," Serenica corrected. "He has given me a lot of valuable information. Did you know? Swordly is playing on both sides."

"If I have to listen to another word about mourning dresses, I'll cut you, I swear."

"Do you know who he serves besides Kinley?"

"No, I don't, and I don't care. Serenica, come with me. I have private business with you."

"The things that beautiful ladies share in private do not concern me, but I am not shocked by them," Theod said sheepishly.

"Swordly makes clothes for Captain Spade as well." Serenica shot a meaningful look at Helen. At least she hoped it seemed meaningful. To her, this subject was certainly interesting. Captain Spade, the most feared pirate on all known seas, was a known patron of witches and other rascals. It didn't sound likely that he and Kinley shared the same dressmaker.

"Spade? You are drunk. The man is nothing more than a legend." Helen shook her head.

"I've met him in person," the smuggler butted in.

"Oh, then he is alive. And Swordly plays on both sides. How are you going to utilize that information? Do I want to know?"

"You're just nervous. Sit down. You're with friends now, Helen, but I can tell Theod's presence frightens you. He's a gentleman and will surely leave us alone if I ask him to."

Helen sighed. "My main problem with this situation is that I am still stone cold sober."

Theod took care of Helen's problem and they sat in the corner, all three of them in varying states of inebriation, the smuggler handling the ale better than the girls.

"Here it is," Helen whispered and slid a brown bag across the table.

Serenica took the bag and felt it for a moment. A gun. Definitely a flintlock pistol, the latest, most sophisticated technology. At least when it came to killing.

"How did you even get this?" she finally asked.

"That is not your concern. What do you plan on doing now?"

"What does it sound like? Murdon must die."

"All right, all right, don't talk to me about it. I hate the thought of it."

Serenica was quiet for a while. She hated it, too. She wanted to heal. She had dreams in which she could raise the dead. Yet here she was, planning a murder. She was the last hope of the witches of Neul. Perhaps she could, in time, prevent something even worse from happening on an even larger scale. For now, Murdon was a threat to everyone he knew. He had to be neutralized. The man didn't want to live, anyway, otherwise he would have come to Serenica to be healed. In these ways Serenica tried to rationalize her decision.

"I understand," Helen said softly, as if she had read her thoughts.

They parted ways and Serenica promised to Theod they'd meet again. She made her exit. Towards Murdon's apartment she walked. With every step her heart threatened to jump out of her chest, up her throat, and leave a bloody mess on the pavement. Serenica thought about the blood she was about to spill. She felt like throwing up. She had never experienced anything that felt this bad. Even every positive thing she had ever done had brought her into this. Everything had been in vain. She was an actual monster, and even as she had not taken a life already, she felt like she had choked someone with her hands. Her hands, the hands of a murderer. Incapable of goodness and kindness. Not a healer, not a woman, she was nothing. Wasn't she supposed to nurture, to heal? She had to do this to survive, though. She had to protect the rest of Neul. The poor, the downtrodden, the beaten, their fates rested on her narrow shoulders. Was it booze that spoke of greater things inside her?

Serenica saw the lock on Murdon's door and everything became way too concrete. She would walk in, draw her pistol, and shoot an unarmed man. No. Murdon was not unarmed. He had a nasty tongue that could kill from miles away.

Serenica knocked on the door like a guest instead of breaking in like an intruder. She was honorable, unlike him. She had her priorities straight. She had the permission of her own morality to kill him. She was right, he was wrong.

It was late, and the old man was wary.

"Who goes there?" he yelled.

"It is I, Serenica, I have your money, it's everything I have and now I will starve, but at least you got your filthy money!"

Those words absolved Serenica of all responsibility. If Murdon was cruel enough to consider taking her last coins, he deserved his punishment for ratting her out.

Serenica looked at the nearby windows. No soul in sight. The neighbors had to be out drinking.

Murdon opened the door and Serenica drew her firearm. The man failed to register the danger in time. Serenica shot him in the head.