Half-Heart: Chapter Two

Ophelia hadn't thought that she could possibly sink much lower.

Yet here she was, sitting by herself in this tavern full of drunks waiting for a trained killer to walk through the door.

She would know it was him the moment he walked in; mercenaries always carried themselves with an air of arrogance that she found insufferable. He'd strut in with his head held high, a grin so smug she'd want to claw it off, secure in the knowledge that all he had to do was follow some instructions on a roll of parchment and he'd have enough money to drink himself half to death for a week.

But she couldn't let her dislike of those in his profession get in the way. This could be the most important evening of her life.

The dragoness dug her claws into the wooden table, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Her heart felt as though it was trying to burst its way out of her chest, smacking itself relentlessly against her ribcage. Still, it made a change from the cavernous, empty hole that she usually felt in her chest, dripping feebly with the memories of a life tormented by that dragon's face.

That face ... that grinning, triumphant face he'd made at her as he'd slaughtered her family.

Her memories of that night were nothing more than a blurry haze of blood and screams and death. But the nightmares she'd suffered for the ten years following the raid brought all the horror slamming back into her on a bi-nightly basis, painting the scene in her mind as vividly as any work of art would. She'd lost count the number of times she'd woken up screaming and thrashing.

But all of that was about to end. All the torment, the guilt, the grief, the suffering ... closure would come to her in the form of an assassin just a few minutes from now, and it would all come to an end.

The tavern was beginning to bustle as the indigo bursts of twilight filtered in through the open windows. Dusty mine workers staggered in after their twelve hours of digging, ready to put it all behind them with a frothing, hissing mug of alcohol.

A human slave holding a box of matches edged and twisted her way through the bustle, lighting all of the lanterns along the walls. Her eyes met Ophelia's just for the briefest of moments, conveying a wordless message, before she was swallowed up in the mass of wings and tails of the rowdy miners.

The minutes ticked on and on. Ophelia's deep blue gaze rarely left the door, and she began to shuffle on her haunches restlessly. What was taking him so long? She was thankful for having white scales at this moment in time; at least if she was as pale as she felt, nobody would notice.

One of the miners suddenly bellowed with uproarious laughter, making her jump. Her tail slid around her ankles, its spiked tip cautiously poking around for the leather pouch she'd carried with her all day. She confirmed that it was still there, gave it a reassured tap, and resumed waiting, as much as it was torturing her.

I haven't got the time and place wrong, have I? she wondered to herself, the cold claws of panic seizing her chest. No, of course I haven't. The city of Myrn, in The Salamander Inn at dusk. That's what the messenger said. That's what he definitely said. She recovered the roll of parchment out of her pouch that confirmed the details in print, straightening it out across the table. There it was, written in jagged handwriting with black ink. So where is he?!

She was beginning to wonder whether the preparations for the festival outside had hindered his journey somehow, when a dragon the colour of blood slithered over the threshold.

His sharp amber eyes latched on to her immediately, as if he knew exactly where she would be sitting. A black forked tongue flickered out over his lips, and he began sauntering his way over to her.

Ophelia gripped the table with her claws, wishing a bottomless pit would open its mouth beneath her and swallow her up. Here he was, after all this time. The dragon that would stuff all of her torments into a haystack and set it on fire. He was here to deliver a closure that she had been due long ago.

This is the only way, she reassured herself for what must've been the hundredth time. The only way I can move on.

The assassin strolled his way over to her as though the growing crowd of customers weren't even there, earning a few scowls and huffs of disapproval as he muscled and shoved his way through them. His eyes never left hers, not for a moment. They blazed and churred with a fire that felt like they were burning straight through her scales and down into the depths of her soul. As he got closer, passing by the flickering lights of one of the lanterns, Ophelia noticed the muscles that outlined his powerful, sleek form, and the scars that crisscrossed his ruby scales. A leather pouch not unlike her own hung around his thick neck, bumping against the golden scales on his chest.

His gaze was intense, pressing down on her every scale as he stopped in front of her and grinned with all of his sharp, stained teeth.

"Hey there," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. "You must be Ophelia."

"Yes," the dragoness whispered, feeling as though she was shrinking, smaller and smaller, as those orange eyes pinned her down. Did he stare at everyone like this? Ophelia was beginning to hope that he did; at least she wouldn't have been the only one to feel like she was melting.

He blinked once, slowly, and his tongue slithered out over his lips again. "Good," he said. "Very good. I'm glad we were finally able to meet." He sat down opposite her, hoisting his big paws up onto the table. Ophelia swallowed at the sight of his sharp, wicked-looking talons.

"The usual, sir?" asked a young faun as she bustled past him with a metal tray in her hands.

He barely even nodded as she dodged and weaved her way through the crowd towards the bar. He tapped his claws on the table, shuffling into a comfortable sitting position as he leaned a little more towards Ophelia. The dragoness hadn't moved a muscle, still paralysed by the feel of unease his dragon radiated. But surely that was what these mercenaries and assassins wanted their clients and, indeed, their victims, to feel? They wouldn't get much in the way of business if they skipped around flinging rainbows everywhere. It was nothing personal, she told herself; merely a business tactic.

She hoped.

"So," said the mercenary, dipping his head towards her. "My name is Mort, as I'm sure you know. I'm the best in the business; anything you want me to obtain, or anyone you want me to dispose of, I'm your dragon. I have never failed a contract, and I never intend to. I never, ever leave a client disappointed."

"So. Let's stop wasting time and get right to business, shall we?"

That was it; that was her cue. Sucking in a breath, somehow bypassing the claws closing in around her chest, Ophelia reached under the table and fumbled around in her pouch until her talons closed around a second piece of parchment, this one rolled up and bound with thin string. She placed it onto the table between herself and Mort.

"This is everything you need to know," she told him hoarsely before clearing her throat. Why couldn't she just speak to him normally? The claws only seemed to squeeze tighter whenever she made any sort of eye contact with him.

He grabbed it eagerly, an almost hungry look flashing through his fiery gaze. With one flick of his claw he severed the string and rolled out the parchment onto the table in front of him, smoothing out the creases and beginning to read.

His expression changed almost instantly. The cocky, malicious glint his eyes had possessed was gone, replaced by something Ophelia found impossible to read. Confusion, anger, fear? She had no idea. She could barely keep track of the emotions on his face as his eyes darted from side to side, reading with an urgency Ophelia hadn't expected from him.

She wasn't sure if it was her imagination, but it took him an absurdly long time to look up again. Had he read it more than once? Unless he was almost illiterate, which she doubted, it wouldn't have taken that long to read, surely.

Mort's expression was still unreadable as he met her eyes once more. "Is this everything?" he asked slowly. He seemed to be working on retrieving his business face, giving her a wry look as he looked up. "This is all you know?"

"He isn't exactly an easy dragon to keep track of," said Ophelia, frowning slightly at him. "This is the most I could get without attracting too much attention."

"Hm," Mort said, giving her a small nod. "Sensible. Yeah, I have heard of this guy. Quite often, in fact. This wouldn't be the first time that someone has commissioned to have him killed, but none of the assassins sent to do the job ever found him. And if they did, they didn't come back."

Ophelia wasn't surprised by this information, but didn't find it reassuring either. "But that won't happen to you...?"

"What did I just say?" Mort swiped the metal tankard out of the faun's hand before she'd even placed it on the table. Ophelia watched her shoot a scowl at him before bustling away. "About being the best in the business? I'm not about to scurry off with my tail between my legs just because this one guy happens to be quite notorious." He plunged his snout into the tankard, and Ophelia could hear him eagerly lapping up whatever was in there.

Unless you happen to be drunk when you get there, she thought, but kept her expression neutral until he looked up again.

"Yeah, I can do it, no problem," Mort said, licking the froth off his lips. "I require upfront payment, by the way, so the sooner you cough up, the sooner we can get this over with."

Ophelia found herself searching the growing crowd of patrons again, looking for that familiar tangle of black hair. The human slave she'd seen before had her back to her, hastily washing dishes in the sink behind the bar.

Feeling emptier than ever, Ophelia once more reached down into her pouch and pulled out a small coin purse, then another. She placed them in the middle of the table and gave Mort a firm look.

"You get half now and the other half when the job's done."

"Oh, oh no," Mort said, shaking his head. "I don't work like that, swee'heart. I either get the full payment right now, or you can forget this conversation ever happened."

Ophelia steeled herself, and pulled out a third coin purse. "Three quarters now, and the final quarter plus a little extra when you're done."

Mort began to chuckle, clamping his teeth down on the rim of his tankard as those sharp eyes bore into her once more. Ophelia wanted to just slithered down under the table and pretend she wasn't there.

"You're a persistent one, aren't you?" he mumbled, still biting his tankard. "All right," he finally said, yanking his fangs out from the small indentations he'd made. "It's a deal. I can't pass up a bit of extra coin. Although..." His talons closed around the three little purses and he pulled them close to his chest. "Come to think of it, I have a better idea."

Ophelia tried not to look as eager as she felt. Was he about to make her some sort of deal, or discount? Would she be able to actually keep some of the coin she'd worked her tail off for several months to earn?

"How about me and you order ourselves a double room, right now, and by tomorrow morning maybe I'll have forgotten all about that last bit of payment?"

Ophelia felt as though cockroaches were crawling up her scales. She couldn't hold the growl in the back of her throat as her top lip twitched upwards, flashing her white fangs.

"Sure, we could do that," she spat, "but I'll be taking back every last coin and finding someone who has a little decency and respect."

"Whoa," Mort laughed, holding up his paws innocently. "Way to hit me where it hurts. All right then. Not one for adventures, I see. Whatever. It's your loss."

Ophelia felt her claws twitch dangerously as Mort twisted his head around to survey the noisy, rowdy crowd of customers that were filling in through the door. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her hammering heart. He had already unnerved her with his incessant staring, but now she wanted him out of her sight. She'd done what she had to; as far as she was concerned their business was over. She didn't want to lay eyes on him again until he'd completed his contract, and after his previous comments, especially wanted to throw chairs, mugs and whatever she could reach at him until she couldn't see his smug face anymore.

He turned to look back at her, grinning fiendishly. "Now you make sure you've got me that extra portion of payment by the time we meet again, all right, swee'heart? I'll contact you the usual way whenever I get an update. I'll be heading to his last known location that you've informed me of within the next couple of days, and I assure you that son of a vulture will be dead by my claws."

"Make it happen," Ophelia choked out, "and I'll make you enough coin to last you a month if I have to."

Mort blinked slowly, surveying her with those sinister orange eyes once more. His expression had changed again, though; he didn't look as though he was seizing her up like he was before. His brow had risen, relaxed, and there was something about his gaze that was ... curious? Skeptical? Sympathic, even? Ophelia didn't know. His jaws parted for a moment, and then closed again, and whatever he'd wanted to say to her was bitten back.

"Sounds good," he eventually smirked, pulling up his facade once again. "I'll be seeing you again, Ophelia. I sure am looking forward to getting to know you a little better ... or a lot better, we'll see."

Get out. Get out of my sight right now you foul, disgusting pile of BEAR DUNG.

"I was kidding!" Mort said incredulously, obviously noticing the look of fury on her face. "Good grief, people are so stuck up these days."

He gathered up the coin purses and the scrap of parchment she'd written the contract details on and stuffed them into his own pouch. As he got up to leave, he surveyed her over his shoulder. "You'd better get out there and enjoy the festival, if that's your kind of thing. Good things like this never last long." Within a moment he had shoved his way through the noisy patrons and Ophelia watched his bladed tail disappear out of the door.

I did it, Ophelia thought, all her energy draining out of her. She slumped forward across the table, barely caring about the tankards and scraps of food she was knocking all over the floor. I actually did it.

The kind faces of her family swam into her vision, and she shuddered out a sigh. This was what they would want her to do all along - to confront her demons rather than let them swallow her up; to stand up and be strong; to not let their deaths be in vain.

This is the only way, her mind recited. The only way that I -no, we - can finally find peace.

Ophelia wasn't sure how long she'd been slouched across the table like a great, drunken horse when a familiar voice spoke into her ear: "All done, miss?"

Her head snapped up and her eyes latched onto the smiling face of the human slave. She nimbly gathered up the plates and cups strewn all over the place and piled them on onto a tray. Ophelia watched her in silence, not moving a muscle, not daring to return the smile in case anybody happen to catch it.

"I'll go and fetch your bill," said the human, hoisting the oversized tray into her arms and staggering off with it.

Ophelia stared blankly down at her claws, glancing up long enough to notice the circular mark that Mort's tankard had left on the table. He didn't even pay for his drink, she thought numbly, slowly. Even her thoughts sounded drunk. The jerk...

Within moments the human was back, placing a little metal tray onto the table in front of her. Clipped to it was a small piece of paper with scribbled notes of what Ophelia had ordered before Mort had arrived; there was the jug of water she'd gulped down in one go, and the rare boar steak she had barely touched.

"Thank you, miss," said the human, smiling sweetly up at her. "See you again soon."

The moment she was out of sight, lost once again in the tangle of tails and wings, Ophelia yanked the paper out of its clip and turned it over. Just as she'd expected, a hastily scrawled note was on the back:

Meet me you-know-where. No ifs, no buts. I'll come down there and drag you up by the horns, if I have to.

-Lucy

Ophelia tucked the note away quickly, glancing around in case anyone saw it. Most of the customers had their attention turned to the group of miners, who were having a drinking competition on the opposite table. The entire tavern exploded with roars and cheers as one of them finished chugging down a small barrel in one breath.

There was no better time. Ophelia slipped off her cushion and edged her way through the crowd towards the stairs by the bar that led up to the guest rooms.

Hiring an assassin was nothing compared to being caught conversing with a human.

I've already lost a chunk of my soul tonight. What's one more piece?