You Must Fall In Love

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Nimrod Weathercock was an eminently practical man, even by his own admission; he never resorted to murder unless it was absolutely necessary.

The interests that had called the Hunters Three on this mission had made clear that it was absolutely necessary for him to remove Rob Slade and August Jordan from the Hart Princess's side. The interests had not stated their identities or purposes, which was a shame, but Nimrod understood very clearly the need for secrecy. It wouldn't do, after all, for the authorities to stop the killing before it started. A mysterious letter was simply how his employers preferred to operate.

The money was what mattered, and money there was; a considerable sum, enough to set the three of them up for the next five years, transferred to a cryptocurrency wallet which had the key written in invisible ink on the back of the letter. A mmemonic: The Fool Wakes Up With A Donkey's Head, Without Wondering Why.

High-tech, and faintly alien, but definitely confidential — or at least it was when sent through the mixer that the letter had recommended, some sort of byte launderer.

So he had spent the better part of six months in slow but dogged preparation; researching the airport, trapping the prayer room, drawing as many silencing spells and locking spells and spell-hiding spells as he could across its walls and floor, until the entire room hung lax and flushed with magic, like a feverish woman in a spider's web. He had chosen the prayer room because it was small and relatively private, but also because Nimrod Weathercock was not without his own pointed sense of irony.

It was fitting to kill a werebeast with a crossbow; in the same way, it was appropriate to capture a goddess in a prayer room. He had thought this would be difficult, or at least a fitting challenge.

He needn't have bothered. This was easier than he'd imagined. The hardest part would be cleaning up afterward.

In general, it was extremely easy to commit acts of violence out in the real world, in the modern world of the twenty-first century, simply because people were so used to the fictional kind that they had absolutely no point of reference for the real version. Sometimes his targets whined and died from quite survivable wounds, like a knife in the arm or a bolt in the thigh, because that was what happened in the movies.

Rob Slade was refusing to whine and die, which did make Nimrod question how many movies he had actually seen, but that was neither here nor there; here being the knife in his hand, there being Rob's neck, which the knife was in. The regenerative properties of his kind were being suppressed by the silver-tipped crossbow bolt, and while quite out of the reach of a feudal yeoman, silver was not particularly difficult to obtain in this day and age.

The fact that everything was going to plan gave him a warm glow of satisfaction. He pulled the knife out of Rob's neck and smiled at Christine Lam, even as the bright arterial blood spattered his trenchcoat pockets like rain.

"Well, that was entirely unnecessary," he said. "You should have freed your fairy prince from his bonds instead."

Christine choked, then reached out for Rob. He considered breaking her hand for a moment, then decided to be nice and let her do it. The terms of his employment involved bringing no harm to either Christine Lam or Jennifer Travers.

Physical harm, at least. He wasn't aware of the precise consequences on their mental states, although he could surmise their debilitating nature. It was a shame that people were so soft. Then again, no-one in this age had much of a stomach for the necessary thing.

Nimrod removed his handkerchief and wiped his face. The Lau family magic was exorcist's prattle, designed to combat ghosts and spirits. Against a real hunter, a stalker of men and beasts, it was worse than useless.

He wondered what he would have for dinner that day.