in the shadows, an ideal location to watch. He waited.
Cameron came first, insistent she have an opportunity to confront her sister before the assassin struck. She walked slowly into the building, entering the musty air. She came forward into the open area. Something in the floor creaked beneath her.
Trevor sucked in his breath.
Cameron stopped, brushed at her clothing, and took a pose rigid and defiant.
Shelley came a few minutes later, entering from the south side as Trevor had instructed. She walked up into the open space until the moonlight illuminated her face. She was smiling at her sister.
“Bitch,” Shelley said.
“Yes, you are,” Cameron responded childishly, as they must have done many times as sisters.
“Thief! You’ve always been a thief!”
“And you’re a low-life whore.”
Trevor suppressed a gleeful snicker. There was no assassin. He didn’t know those kinds of people. Both sisters thought the other was about to die.
They came at each other, dashing across the open warehouse floor, which shuddered and cracked alarmingly, like ice grown too thin over a frozen lake, but neither of them noticed, too consumed by their hatred for each other.
When they met in the middle, Trevor nearly clapped his hands, rocking where he perched.
They grabbed each other, clawed, pulled hair. They fought like sisters, neither with the courage to inflict anything more serious than scratches on exposed skin and bruises from thrown elbows. They twirled in a violent dance.
Trevor didn’t know if the floor would give way beneath them or not, but he did know that it was dangerously brittle. He’d sometimes come to this warehouse when he was a kid to play and explore. He’d always been fascinated with abandoned places. One day, the floor had given way beneath his feet and his body had plummeted into darkness. He’d caught himself just in time, and had managed to pull himself up. He’d discovered there was a large open cavity beneath the warehouse, cave-like, an eroded section of the subterranean Library of Halencia—flooded with murky water, just as were all of the tunnels beneath the city, but the drop was still far and he knew he would have perished had he not caught himself.
He watched the sisters fight. Perhaps they expected the assassin to intervene at any moment, for a stealthy figure to dart from the shadows, stabbing the rival sister in the back while the one still standing smiled at the other and spoke practiced words of triumph.
But already they were losing steam, their angers cooling, their eyes blinking back the intensity of their emotions, once more allowing rational thoughts to enter their minds.
As Trevor watched, a thought occurred to him for the first time: what conclusion would the sisters make if the floor failed to give way and they lived? When the assassin failed to appear, who would they look for? Their anger, perhaps united, might turn against him. If they now stopped what they were doing and began to communicate, to compare notes, they would both surely come to realize Trevor had been lying to them both, playing them for fools.
The smile began to fade from Trevor’s lips as he watched the sisters growing tired.
They pulled away from each other and sat back, panting, staring into the wild eyes of the other.
Trevor could hear the floor groaning, ancient wood protesting beneath the weight of the sisters, but holding strong. What could he do? As soon as the sisters began to catch their breaths, they’d begin to talk. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
He looked around, seeking something heavy to throw—a rusty chunk of metal, a piece of stone ornamentation crumbled from the architecture, anything—but all that surrounded him were the rafters and dust. He could climb down, but his position was precarious and there wasn’t time. All he could do was watch.
“You...bitch…” Shelley panted. “Where is...assassin…”
“Assassin?” Cameron replied.
The sisters looked at each
Cameron came first, insistent she have an opportunity to confront her sister before the assassin struck. She walked slowly into the building, entering the musty air. She came forward into the open area. Something in the floor creaked beneath her.
Trevor sucked in his breath.
Cameron stopped, brushed at her clothing, and took a pose rigid and defiant.
Shelley came a few minutes later, entering from the south side as Trevor had instructed. She walked up into the open space until the moonlight illuminated her face. She was smiling at her sister.
“Bitch,” Shelley said.
“Yes, you are,” Cameron responded childishly, as they must have done many times as sisters.
“Thief! You’ve always been a thief!”
“And you’re a low-life whore.”
Trevor suppressed a gleeful snicker. There was no assassin. He didn’t know those kinds of people. Both sisters thought the other was about to die.
They came at each other, dashing across the open warehouse floor, which shuddered and cracked alarmingly, like ice grown too thin over a frozen lake, but neither of them noticed, too consumed by their hatred for each other.
When they met in the middle, Trevor nearly clapped his hands, rocking where he perched.
They grabbed each other, clawed, pulled hair. They fought like sisters, neither with the courage to inflict anything more serious than scratches on exposed skin and bruises from thrown elbows. They twirled in a violent dance.
Trevor didn’t know if the floor would give way beneath them or not, but he did know that it was dangerously brittle. He’d sometimes come to this warehouse when he was a kid to play and explore. He’d always been fascinated with abandoned places. One day, the floor had given way beneath his feet and his body had plummeted into darkness. He’d caught himself just in time, and had managed to pull himself up. He’d discovered there was a large open cavity beneath the warehouse, cave-like, an eroded section of the subterranean Library of Halencia—flooded with murky water, just as were all of the tunnels beneath the city, but the drop was still far and he knew he would have perished had he not caught himself.
He watched the sisters fight. Perhaps they expected the assassin to intervene at any moment, for a stealthy figure to dart from the shadows, stabbing the rival sister in the back while the one still standing smiled at the other and spoke practiced words of triumph.
But already they were losing steam, their angers cooling, their eyes blinking back the intensity of their emotions, once more allowing rational thoughts to enter their minds.
As Trevor watched, a thought occurred to him for the first time: what conclusion would the sisters make if the floor failed to give way and they lived? When the assassin failed to appear, who would they look for? Their anger, perhaps united, might turn against him. If they now stopped what they were doing and began to communicate, to compare notes, they would both surely come to realize Trevor had been lying to them both, playing them for fools.
The smile began to fade from Trevor’s lips as he watched the sisters growing tired.
They pulled away from each other and sat back, panting, staring into the wild eyes of the other.
Trevor could hear the floor groaning, ancient wood protesting beneath the weight of the sisters, but holding strong. What could he do? As soon as the sisters began to catch their breaths, they’d begin to talk. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
He looked around, seeking something heavy to throw—a rusty chunk of metal, a piece of stone ornamentation crumbled from the architecture, anything—but all that surrounded him were the rafters and dust. He could climb down, but his position was precarious and there wasn’t time. All he could do was watch.
“You...bitch…” Shelley panted. “Where is...assassin…”
“Assassin?” Cameron replied.
The sisters looked at each
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