6
She angled her head, twisting free of the vampire’s hold and stabbing forwards. Every single thing she’d read in the How to Kill a Vampire book went out of her head, as she blindly pranced forwards, hoping that her horn would do some damage.
There was a wet explosion and January opened her eyes.
Warren Duchamp had burst all over the basement. Blood and gore dripped from the walls and from January. Curses! She thought, over and over again, forcing herself to calm down and deal with what had just happened. Rational thinking was the only thing that could save her now.
“Boss?” A redheaded vampire poked his head around the corner, looking down the basement stairs.
There was a second of silence while he took in the blood dripping from the walls and then the impossible sight of a big black unicorn, standing in the midst of the murder.
The vampire ran.
January galloped up the steps after him, knowing she had to protect her identity, or she’d be dead. The unfortunate vampire exploded and was quickly followed to his grave by January’s second escort. Her horn pierced their hearts with surprising ease. It was nice to discover that amazingly precise aim was another one of her hidden talents.
January tried not to think about the long lives they’d led and the lifetime of experiences she’d just snuffed out. All she wanted to do was get free of the mess she’d walked into by acting so recklessly. Of course you don’t return to the scene of your crime! She chided herself when she walked back out into the alley. Everyone knew that, but she’d still done it.
Apparently, she was no smarter than your average criminal.
Beneath the streetlights, January galloped across Paris, not caring who or what saw her in this wild mood. She only slowed down when she was free of the big city and out in the country, where fields were all she could see.
It was there she stopped, her sides frothing with sweat. What had happened to her? She’d killed one shifter and three vampires in the space of a week. She shook her mane. That was a hell of a way to lose your innocence. She could already sense the way that killing for a living wore parts of you away. With every kill, some of your compassion for life also died. One day, there might be no more compassion left. She would be a shell – a cold-blooded killer.
She’d be the perfect bounty hunter.
January pawed at the dry earth of the cornfield and started running again.
She’d always been running from something. First from her parents and now from her new job.
She was running because it hadn’t been bad. In fact, killing the vampires had actually been kind of fun. It was adrenaline, not fear that had carried her in a headlong gallop through Paris, and she knew that the darkest part of her couldn’t wait to do it all again.
But what kind of person felt like that?
January walked into the rural French village the next morning, dressed in clothes she’d stolen from a clothesline in a farmer’s garden. Her mouth was parched and she wandered into the small café at the centre of the town square, hoping they’d let her have a glass of water.
She’d just settled down on a barstool, a condensation covered glass in front of her, when the bar telephone rang. She heard the barman mutter something and then he walked over to her. January looked up, surprised, when he handed the phone to her.
“For you,” he grunted and then walked away, muttering to a regular about being taken advantage of.
January lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?” She said, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Target is Lucille Mason, seven hundred thousand.”
END.