Chapter 23: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Twenty-Three
After we’re both packed we get in a cab and head to the airstrip, having already alerted the jet to prepare for my arrival. The ride is pretty silent. Something is on Alec’s mind, but I can’t tell what. My mind, of course, is on a million things. The invitation is currently burning a hole in my purse, the idea of introducing my would-be prey turned lover to my parents – they’ll be laughing till the day I die at that one – then there’s the fact that this stupid Tournament comes at the worst possible time. I had everything planned to deal with this Grigoras situation and now this has thrown a spanner in the works. But I’m capable of adapting so that’s just what I’ll have to do.
The car arrives and pulls up in front of my jet. Alec is looking at it in surprise and then looking at me with silent questions.
“Crime pays well,” I say with a shrug. He rolls his eyes. I pay the driver and we get out. To my surprise, I see Marcel stepping down from the jet as Alec grabs the bags out of the car. “Marcel, what are you doing here?” I ask, switching to Romanian.
He walks over and pulls me into a tight hug. “Your parents got their invitations as honoured guests and knew you’d be getting yours, so I came to meet you. I was going to head to your apartment today but when the pilot said you were on your way, I decided to meet you here,” he says, cupping my face. His features are relaxed but I can see the worry in his eyes.
“I’m fine, Marcel, but thank you for being here,” I say gratefully. He kisses my forehead, glancing over as Alec walks over with our luggage, looking between us with confusion and jealousy. Really? Again? This is getting old real fast.
“Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” Marcel asks eyeing Alec up and down.
“Change of plans.”
“Do your parents know you’re bringing him?” he inquires. I shake my head. “Now this, I have to see,” he laughs.
Alec huffs crossing his arms. “I don’t speak Romanian; think you can switch back to English?” he says in annoyance.
I chuckle. “Alec, this is Marcel. He’s my right-hand man and practically my uncle. Marcel, this is Alec. The man I was sent to kill,” I introduce in English.
“Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but when it comes to killing him, I think you did it wrong,” he says in mock concern, making me crack up.
“Oh, I know,” I tell him. The two of them extend and shake hands, sizing each other up and I can see their grips tightening. Oh for God’s sake. I grab my suitcase and board the plane not wanting to watch their stupid display of testosterone. I walk onto the jet, placing my suitcase on the bed before plopping down on the couch.
A moment later, Marcel comes in followed by Alec who is looking around in awe.
“Wow. Nice jet,” he compliments. I nod in thanks as he puts his bag next to mine on the bed and then sits down next to me. “You didn’t tell me where we’re going.” I see Marcel give me a look while he heads to the front of the jet to tell the pilot we’re ready to take off.
“We’re going to Moldova,” I tell him.
His eyebrows shoot up, then he sits back, shifting to get comfortable. We buckle up and Marcel takes his usual seat closest to the exit. After about twenty minutes, we’re in the air and there’s that familiar sense of relief that comes with knowing I’m going home.
***
I’m walking down the centre of the jet carrying some drinks and sandwiches for myself and Alec. I sit down in one of the single seats opposite the couch and turn it to face him as I place the items on the table next to me then distribute them between us.
“Thank you,” he says, and I nod in return as we both start eating.
I pick up the envelope that I grabbed out of my purse, take a deep breath, break the seal on the back, open it, and pull out a thick, gold card with black calligraphy.
Dear Miss. Blackheart,
You are cordially invited to the 56th annual Tournament. As our guest of honour, we expect your compliance and discretion. A car will pick you up at Milan Linate Airport at 6 pm, Wednesday, September 15th. We look forward to seeing you.
Sincerely, The Master of Ceremonies.
I read the words over and over, but they remain the same. Two weeks. I have two weeks to prepare for this. Maybe I should have spent more time training than relaxing like my parents wanted. Two weeks isn’t enough time to get ready, but who am I kidding? You can’t get ready for The Tournament. You can just hope to survive it.
“So, what exactly is The Tournament?” asks Alec, pulling me from my thoughts.
I put the card down and look up at him. “In simple terms, it’s a battle royale. Kill or be killed,” I say impassively. He freezes mid-bite into this sandwich.
“I’m sorry, what?” he asks in agitation.
“I don’t really know how it started. I assume a bunch of rich guys were bored one day and decided, ‘hey let’s make some killers fight to the death’. Over the years The Tournament has become more and more elaborate. It’s now the bloodiest social event of the year. Every year, for the last fifty-six years, assassins from around the world are brought to a single location where they compete over four gruelling rounds until one comes out victorious. It’s become an occasion meant to thin out the herd, so to speak, and to show off your skills to potential clients. That and a reason for people to network, I suppose. Not to mention the gambling on participants. A lot of people die during The Tournament, others are just badly injured. Some people are desperate for victory; others are just trying to survive. Getting knocked out of a round but left alive afterwards is considered a win for most people,” I explain, and his face looks almost sick.
“Can’t you just not go?”
I shake my head. “To reject an invitation is to welcome a bullet in the head. You don’t really have a choice. Fucked up, I know, but over time everyone has just accepted it as a normal tradition in our fucked up world,” I say with a shrug.
He sits back taking in what I’ve said. “How many times have you competed?”
“Youngest you can be to be invited is nineteen, so this will be my tenth year,” I tell him, and his eyes nearly bug out of their sockets.
“I don’t know what’s more shocking, learning you’ve survived this nine years in a row or that you’re a year older than me,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.
I smirk. “You must be into older women,” I tease.
He smiles at me. “Just one woman,” he says, and I blink in surprise. I didn’t expect him to say that. He keeps doing that! Saying things that catch me off guard. I hate it. I take a sip of my drink, so I have something to do, but Alec has more questions. “Has he ever competed?” Alec asks nodding his head towards Marcel. I nod affirmatively. “Your parents?” Again I nod in reply. “Have any of them won?” he asks.
“My mother won once,” I tell him. Mum was three months pregnant with me when she got the invite that year. Dad didn’t want her to participate but they knew they had no choice. They couldn’t openly announce that she was pregnant or let it slip that Scythe and Aconite were married. Mum was fully prepared to lose me during The Tournament. You just learn to go in expecting the worst, but instead, she ended up winning and I was born a few months later, healthy as can be.
“What about you?” he asks curiously, and I can’t help my smug smile.
“I’m the guest of honour as I have won the last three years in a row,” I tell him. I’m the only person in the history of The Tournament to survive more than one year.
Alec gapes at me like a fish. “Bullshit,” he says in disbelief.
“She’s not bullshitting,” comes Marcel’s voice, sounding hard and demanding respect. “I’ve watched her win the last three years in a row. Last year nearly killed her.” His voice has turned pained with that last remark.
Alec gulps and now he’s looking scared. He reaches out and takes my hand squeezing it tight. “So, let’s make this your new record, okay? Because I’m not ready to see you die,” he says with so much force as if there is an invisible command in his words forcing me to obey. All I can do is squeeze his hand and give him a gentle smile.
“I can’t promise not to die. But I can promise to fight like hell.”
He thinks that over and then nods with worry still evident in his eyes. “I’ll take that.”
How did we get here? Just a week ago I was plotting his murder, and now he’s here in my jet, and he’s begging me not to die. Just when I think my life can’t get more interesting it manages to surprise me.