electra.

                                    

                                          


                          
[LOST COUNT]
                          
Blood filled the air, so thick that Greymark thought he might choke on it. The bend of magic on the wind led him down white picket fences and pastel houses. The streets had emptied long before he'd arrived, night signaling an island-wide curfew until Greymark's hunters found the witch that had been rumored to exist somewhere around here.
                          
Greymark wasn't looking for the witch.
                          
He was looking for Razo. His right hand man that hadn't responded to any nudge through the sigils or been found by any messengers Greymark sent. He wasn't sure if he wanted the blood to be Razo's. He rounded the corner, the reek growing stronger, and stopped.
                          
A little girl, no older than ten, stood with a shard of glass in her hand and two dead boys at her feet. Her eyes shot up when Greymark stepped into the alley. 
                          
She looked familiar. Her little face pudgy with baby fat and dotted with arterial spray. She tossed the shard of glass onto the bodies and wiped her hands on the front of her checkered blue dress. It was already soaked in blood.
                          
Greymark sank onto his haunches, leaning an elbow on his knee. "What are you doing?"
                          
It was the eyes. Narrow, dark as olives. Definitely of some Asian descent. And the look in them -- the dull amusement. No surprise or worry at being caught. It was what he felt every time he slaughtered just to feel something. She lifted an eyebrow. "Papa said not to talk to strangers. Even when they say they have candy."
                          
He blinked. Candy was not a regularly used term anymore. It tended to be more precise these past decades. Lemon drops, sugar canes, honey sweets. Never just 'candy.'
                          
"Well, I'm not a stranger. I'm Greymark."
                          
"Papa says you kill people. That you're dangerous." She seemed dubious of this statement. Less like she thought her father was lying and more in the sense that she didn't think he was who he said he was. He pulled his sleeve back, revealing the glossy tattoos.
                          
"He's right."
                          
"Why?" She cocked her head. She says as she stands over the two dead people she literally just murdered, Adam's voice immediately burst into his mind. Then it clicked.
                          
"Who's your papa?" 
                          
"Venetta Jianyu." She wrinkled her nose. "Venetta's the last name. His da told him that was how we used to do it in the old days."
                          
"And who's your papa's da?"
                          
"Me." 
                          
It had been decades, but Greymark's chest still warmed at the sound of that voice. Suddenly, he was Jonah again, watching bad TV with his roommate as their grades plummeted.
                          
He turned around. 
                          
Adam had aged. Not as much as Greymark expected him to, but he looked to be in his mid-fifties instead of the college student he'd been stuck as for decades. He looked good. Healthy. Nothing like the dull-eyed drone he'd become under Greymark's command.
                          
 Adam's eyes slid over to the girl. "Linna-babe. Go wash up. Your dad's gonna have a heart attack if he finds out I let you do this again."
                          
The little girl nodded, almost bored, and walked away. Her bloodstained dress fluttered as she skipped down the cobblestones. Greymark turned back to Adam, eyebrows raised almost to his hairline.
                          
"Serial rapists. There's no fucking law enforcement around here."
                          
"So you sic your granddaughter on them?"