A Question of Will (6 page)

He expected the Hunters would be lurking in these trees as well, and he soon spotted them. The men were, for reasons he’d never quite understood nor cared to consider, named after the characters in a human work of fiction known as
The Three Musketeers
. Supposedly the three characters worked together to defend their leader from attacks, which was reason enough for their Leader to appreciate the monikers one of their number had suggested. The Hunters enjoyed the names, and nobody seemed to remember what they’d been called before receiving the pseudonyms.

Athos was quite appealing to the ladies, with his handsome face, dark hair, and dark eyes, and the scar across his right cheek — ironically, a gift from Will Stark — only added to the appeal. Athos was the nominal leader of the trio, if only because he was the most sane and level-headed. His gift for knowing when others were telling the truth — even when those questioned did not know
themselves
if they were telling the truth — was incredibly useful as a tool for making decisions during the course of Hunts.

Aramis was the most peculiar in appearance. He’d seen a photograph of a human man wearing a top hat and monocle, and had become fascinated with the accessories, and now it was difficult to get the man to leave the hat off. Thankfully, he’d given up the monocle, at least during Hunts, after his fellow Hunters could no longer take him seriously. He’d compromised by wearing wire-rimmed glasses he didn’t need. His wardrobe choices, combined with his white-blond hair, served to make the man look more like an aging professor than a young law enforcement officer. His demeanor, though, was more akin to a member of the Inquisition. Aramis knew every rule, law, and Oath of their organization, and the prescribed penalties for each, and he expected everyone else to know them and follow them with extreme strictness. Aramis tended to react with great emotion whenever someone slipped, as if he’d been personally violated in some fashion by their rule-breaking, no matter how minor the infraction. The mere mention of Will Stark’s name could lead the man to convulsions — a fact that The Assassin enjoyed abusing on occasion.

The final member of the trio was the most bizarre in terms of behavior. Porthos wore his brown hair to his shoulders, often tying it back in a ponytail, and liked to wear a dark cloak with an oversized hood. The man believed that such garb gave him an air of ominous mystery when on Hunts. Porthos was the Hunter most at ease mingling in and exploiting human culture and technology, a useful skill for gathering key pieces of data used on Hunts, but a habit which led to the display of many odd human mannerisms, including a lack of filters or decorum when speaking to other Aliomenti. Porthos could find anyone who emanated any of the Energy their group cultivated, tracking it like a bloodhound following a scent. His primary personality quirk — an ease of mingling with humans — led him to often question humans in order to narrow the search area for a suspect, or find some obscure detail that made the Hunts easier to conclude. It was Porthos who had tracked Will Stark to the outskirts of this domed city in southeastern Ohio, and it was Porthos who had unearthed the detail about Stark that necessitated the Assassin’s services.

Porthos spotted The Assassin and made his way to the killer. “Nobody’s left the house since we got here, so the human woman should still be in there, and you can go blow her up or whatever it is you’re planning to do. We’ll take care of Stark when he arrives.” The man seemed unsure of himself about the last part.

The Assassin glared at him with his blood-red eyes, showing no sign that anything Porthos had said was of any interest. Porthos took the hint and moved away. The Assassin took the opportunity to approach Athos, who was the only one of the three with whom he ever willingly conversed. Athos was a man of few words, at least around The Assassin, and the Hunter reached into his backpack and pulled out a large can that resembled an aerosol spray. He presented the item to The Assassin, and simply said, “Good luck.”

The Assassin took the can and did not respond. He didn’t need luck.

Hope Stark needed luck.

Actually, it was
Will
Stark who needed luck. Hope would simply die, quickly and painlessly. The rules said that Hunters were to conclude a Hunt with the least possible injury to the fugitive. Given the history between this trio and their Hunted target, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that even Aramis was going to make this day one of pure agony for Will Stark. They’d ask for forgiveness later, and they’d get their request. Everyone wanted Will Stark apprehended.

Well, not everyone, not those in the Alliance. They didn’t count, though, being Oath-breakers themselves.

The Assassin moved silently out of the small forest and into the Starks’ back yard, heading for the back door. A small bit of Energy was sufficient to unlock the sliding glass door from the inside. He slid the door open, smiling in a manner that contorted his horribly scarred face, in anticipation of the final kill of the day. He pulled the sword from the sheath on his belt, in case the woman interrupted his preparations for the gift he was planning for Will Stark, and felt a slight sense of sadness.

It was a shame it all had to end so quickly. He was just getting warmed up.

Hope heard the back door open as the alarm chime sounded. She held the gun in her right hand, and moved toward the kitchen in silence. The killer would need to move through the kitchen to reach her, and she had no interest in waiting around for him to come to her with that horrible, bloodied sword. She intended to fight him as best she could, rather than going quietly.

Hope heard the floor squeak and could verify where the killer was based on the noise. The noise was unnecessary, for the sensation of evil emanating from the man was so intense that she could orient on his location without using her senses of sight and hearing. Taking a deep breath, she leaped into the kitchen and started to pull the trigger.

An unseen force ripped the gun from her hands, leaving her defenseless. The gun moved straight into the outstretched hand of the man she’d seen in her earlier nightmare. In her dream, his appearance had been terrifying. In person, that same look was incapacitating. The soulless blood-red eyes looked at her, hungry to see the light of life in her eyes extinguished in death. His heavily-scarred face showed the untold tale of horror the man had created with his life. The short sword held in his right hand was red with the dried blood of previous victims, most likely including Mark, the security guard.

The man glanced at the gun, and the clip of bullets dropped out of it, disarming the weapon. The killer threw the weapon to the ground. “You won’t need that, Mrs. Stark.” The man’s voice was like ice, and Hope felt the temperature in the house drop as he spoke. The man glanced at the bullets lying on the ground, and Hope watched them shrivel into flattened pieces of metal. “You won’t need those, either.”

Hope found her voice, at least for the moment. “Who are you? Why are you in my house? I’m calling the police.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a command. Though she tried to reach the mobile phone clipped to her belt, the force previously used to pull the gun from hands now kept her hands up and away from the device. The phone rang, startling her, and she recognized the ring tone for Will. The killer smirked, and the phone dissolved into dust, destroyed by an invisible, crushing force. The force controlling her arms now pulled on her, forcing her into a chair at the kitchen table, where her arms were pinned to her side as she was restrained in the seat.

The man smiled, which had the effect of exaggerating the scars on his face. “That’s better. I have a bit of preparatory work to do, Mrs. Stark. I’ll then explain why I’m here, and then...why, then, you’ll die.” He said it without a hint of emotion, as if the concept of taking a human life had no emotional impact on him. Rather, if her dream had been accurate — and he was the living embodiment of the terror she had seen in her sleep — the man truly relished killing. And she was now unarmed, snared by some invisible force.

After sheathing his sword, the man pulled what looked like a large aerosol can from his pocket. He began to walk along the perimeter of the house, spraying a thin coating of the substance in the can on the exterior walls. Hope watched, confused, as the thin liquid expanded like foam, spreading to cover large portions of the wall surfaces. He exited the kitchen area and moved into the dining room, which sat on one side of the front of the house. As he left the kitchen, Hope felt the invisible force restraining her release, allowing her to move again. She glanced at the gun on the floor with the useless bullets next to it. She still had an extra clip in her pocket, but clearly the man had expected the gun attack. He was likely prepared for the possibility that she’d reload and try to shoot him... and her previous attempt suggested such an effort would be futile.

Her eyes fell on the rack of baseball bats Will kept next to the door, which were used in the batting cage he’d installed in the back yard. If the gun wasn’t an option, perhaps another form of attack was in order.

After slipping off her shoes to help muffle her steps, Hope stood, silent on her feet, using her knowledge of the spots in the house which would creak and those which would stay solid and quiet underfoot. She selected one of the wood bats, and crept out of the kitchen in the opposite direction of the killer, still silent as a shadow. She stayed close to the inner wall of the room, out of sight, bat held at the ready. She could hear the killer moving out of the dining room, past the front door. He should be entering the room right about...

Now.

The man stepped into the room, his back to her, still spraying the foaming liquid on to the walls of her home. Subtlety no longer an option, Hope charged the man, swinging the bat with every bit of strength she could muster. The wooden bat shattered into splinters as it hit him full across the shoulders.

He paused briefly, grunted, and then continued his work, as if he’d merely been aware of a bead of sweat trickling down his back.

Hope’s eyes widened, and she dropped the bat handle to the floor. She backed away from him, back into the kitchen, where she seized a large knife from the butcher block and returned to the chair she’d been in moments before. Perhaps it was a futile effort at self-defense. She could run now, but the other men from her nightmare were likely out there, waiting for her. If they were here to execute her, she meant to make them work for it. She would do whatever was necessary to prevent them from discovering her child. Running would never do, but delaying the killer from completing his mission might. If she held off dying long enough, Will might arrive at the house with the police in tow. This plan had the added advantage of her staying alive.

She wondered if this killer would be able to seize their guns in the same manner he had seized hers.

The killer came into the kitchen, having finished painting the walls of her home in the foaming substance. He pocketed the can once more, and turned to face her. The look on his face said that her attack with the bat had not gone unnoticed, and would not go unpunished. She made herself glare back at him with as much malice as she could muster.

“Mrs. Stark, the rules say that I am to explain the nature of the crimes committed, and then quickly and painlessly end your worthless
human
life. However, I believe there are exceptions in the rules for termination candidates who strike an Assassin. I shall have to ask clarification on that point during our review of this mission.”

In other words, Hope thought, he intends to make me suffer, regardless of the consequences he’ll face.

The killer cleared his throat. “Will Stark has been charged with breaking innumerable Aliomenti laws and rules, though those are of no matter for us here today. Assassins are only summoned forth when rogue Aliomenti violate one or more of the Oaths all members must swear upon joining. The two minor Oaths include willful communication of the existence of the Aliomenti, or the sharing of our advances with the human race, with marriage to a human considered to be an automatic admission of guilt to breaking those Oaths. For the guilty Aliomenti, the penalty is imprisonment. For the humans who knowingly or unknowingly aided and abetted the violation of these Oaths, the penalty is death.”

Hope blinked, as she translated this into more practical terms. “What kind of nonsense is this? You’re saying my husband is part of some group that sentences his wife to death? That’s ridiculous. My husband loves me, and he’d never join a group like that or swear such a vow.”

The Assassin laughed at her. “Your husband is not what he seems, Mrs. Stark. Not only did he swear to those Oaths, it was he who actually
instituted
them and the requisite penalties.”

Hope shook her head. “No. That’s not possible. You’ve got the
wrong man
.”

“I assure you, I do not. Will Stark’s name and face are the most widely known in our entire organization, and he is the one man whose identity we could never confuse with another. His open use of his given name without disguise may suggest madness on his part, but it does not change who he is or what he has done. All criminals must meet their punishment in the end. Today is the day for Will Stark.” He paused. “And for you.”

“I’m telling you, you’ve got the
wrong man
. I’ve never heard of this alley-whatever group you’re talking about. Will’s not told me any type of secrets. Let me talk to him. You’ll see. You’ve got the
wrong man
.”