Chapter 32: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Thirty-Two

As my brain becomes alert, I’m aware of the unpleasant pounding in my skull and the disgusting feeling of cottonmouth. I slowly sit up and try to move my tongue around, hoping to get some saliva to appear and revive the dry state of my mouth that could give the Sahara a run for its money.

Looking around, I take in the lavish room I have woken up in. It’s even more exquisite than my room last year. Deep red satin king-size bed with a gold ornate bed frame. Royal blue walls with deeper blue velvet curtains. Opulent seating and an open closet, stunning silver-grey walls with gold detailing that compliment that stunning gold ornamental ceiling with expertly detailed cornices. I guess this is the treatment three-time winners get. Works for me.

I notice a glass of water by the bed and two pills, as expected. Same routine every year. Drugs to knock you out and then drugs to help with the after-effects. I quickly down the pills with the water and get up, stretching out my limbs. I walk over to the windows and draw back the curtains to see the bustling nightlife of the city streets below. I slowly press my finger against the glass and watch as the image becomes distorted, alerting me to the fact this isn’t a window view, but merely a recording of one. Learned this a few years ago too.

The windows are made of a highly advanced polymer that plays real-life views and even depicts the accurate time of day. It’s to create the illusion that you’re in a lovely hotel room, when in fact you’re in an expensive cell being heavily monitored by security cameras. Most competitors aren’t even aware the windows are fake. They’d never give us real windows; can’t risk us breaking out or trying to throw ourselves to our deaths.

A gentle knock sounds at my door, gaining my attention and I walk over and open it to see three women, dressed in identical skirts and blouses. They could almost be triplets, but I note the subtle differences in bone structure.

“Miss Blackheart, we’re here to get you ready for the party,” one announces with a kind smile.

“Please, come in,” I say, holding the door open for them as they walk in. Two carry-in suitcases while the other carries a large garment bag.

Without speaking another word or even glancing at me, they set up in front of the mirror. One woman sets up everything needed for hair and makeup, another sets up everything needed for nails, and the other lays the outfit I’ll be wearing on the bed. They gesture for me to sit in front of the mirror, and I do so without protest. For the next hour, these women silently work on my hair, giving it volume and subtle waves. My nails are painted a nude pink colour with diamond accents along the cuticles of my middle and ring fingers. My makeup consists of dark nude, ombre lips, gold and brown smokey eyes with a soft wing.

“Would you like us to cover this wound?” One woman asks, gesturing to my shoulder. That bullet graze is almost healed and doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I almost forgot it was even there.

“No, thank you.”

With their work done, they leave silently. I walk over to the bed, strip out of my clothes, and get into the clothes provided. I have to admit, they spare no expense on this thing. They’ve selected a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder, knee-length nude dress with cream lace across the bust, sleeves, and skirt of the dress. It’s figure-hugging – which I like – and is paired with nude, leather platform shoes with a seven-inch chunky heel. I appreciate the extra height these heels will provide me; means I won’t be staring up at people all evening. I finish the look off with a stunning pair of diamond-crusted earrings.

Once I’m dressed, I look myself over, impressed by the reflection in front of me. I look deadly as sin, and I love it. Now time to schmooze a bunch of psychopaths. I wait patiently until there’s another knock at the door, and I open it to find a man in a butler’s uniform.

“If you will follow me, I shall escort you to the party,” he says politely. I nod and follow him down a series of ornate hallways, past numerous doors with who knows what behind them, until we make it to the top of a grand staircase encased in red carpeting. “Please join the rest of our guests,” he instructs before walking off.

I make my way down the stairs as soft music and the chatter of a party in full swing fills my ears. As I reach the bottom, the grand room comes into full view. Red fabric covers every wall and is draped across the ceiling opposite a black-marbled floor creating a sensual yet ominous vibe to this soiree. Red velvet seating areas are scattered about the room and large pillars topped with ornate vases filled to the brim with deep red roses act as centrepieces around the room. Waiters are circling the room offering drinks to a well-dressed selection of guests.

“Heart!” I hear an Irish accent scream at such a high pitch I fear for my eardrums. I look over as the familiar redhead launches herself at me, pulling me into her arms, “I knew you’d be here. It’s so lovely to see you again!” she cheers.

A terminally delightful, 5’6” assassin who goes by the codename, Iolaire – Irish for Eagle – named after her exceptional talents as a sniper. Her real name and age are unknown and outside The Tournament, I only know her by reputation. The Tournament is the only time I ever see her. She is bubbly and irritatingly optimistic, which from experience, I’ve learned are the ones you need to watch out for. Often the people who present the happiest, are the darkest or most depressed. She’s survived the last few Tournaments, and definitely proved my assessment correct as she has shown she’s not only capable but extremely lethal. Where I am someone who keeps my emotions hidden and wears a mask of impassivity, she’s my complete opposite.

I politely return her hug, though I’d prefer she unhand me. “Iolaire, always a pleasure,” I greet calmly.

“How have you been since last year’s win?” she asks brightly.

“The usual. Contract here, contract there, people trying to kill me,” I shrug.

“No one can say we lead boring lives,” she chuckles, “What did you do with the person who tried to kill you?” she asks in delight, a disturbing twinkle in her eyes. Oh yes, she’s a sick one. I don’t dwell on my kills or take any delight in them, whereas Iolaire, on the other hand, does. She’s like a walking anime character. I half expect her to brutally slaughter someone and then frolic around the corpse.

“Nothing yet,” I say as I take a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

“What?” she gasps, “Why not?”

“Tournament,” I deadpan, taking a sip of my drink.

She pouts animatedly. “Oh, poo. What terrible timing. But I’m sure you’ll make them regret it once The Tournament is over. Well, if you survive that is,” she laughs with her tinkly laugh.

“I guess we shall see.”

I glance around to see some familiar faces and a number of new ones. I see one particular assassin whom I’ve competed against for the last few years. He seems to have healed very nicely after losing his ear in last year’s Tournament. You’d think permanent loss of limb or appendage would exempt you from future games, but nope.

“Oh! Did you hear about Blacktop?” Iolaire suddenly asks, becoming very excited. Iolaire is also the queen of gossip in these circles. It’s so juvenile.

“I can honestly say I’ve heard nothing about Blacktop,” I say emotionlessly. Blacktop is, of course, another assassin, known for killing his victims by running them down. He either makes it look like a simple hit-and-run or sets up a patsy to take the fall. Not the most creative way to kill someone, but it gets the job done.

“Well, he won’t be competing this year because he went and got himself killed,” she says in amusement.

I raise an eyebrow, “Did he now?”

She nods enthusiastically, “As I hear it, he was contracted to kill some guy’s wife, but he ended up bedding her instead, so the husband took out another contract on both of them. Their bodies were pulled out of a car that went off a bridge and into a lake.”

“Any idea who picked up the contract?”

She sighs, “No, and I’ve been dying to know who did it!” she groans in frustration. This woman should be on mood stabilizers.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the reigning champ,” says a familiar Kiwi accent that I absolutely loathe.

“Whiro. Still alive I see,” I say in a bored greeting.

“I’m a hard man to kill. Plus, I couldn’t die before stealing your title,” he says smugly. Whiro is a proud Māori assassin who named himself after the Māori God of all evil. Not sure it’s the best way to show cultural pride, but that’s not my business. He is the most arrogant son of a bitch I’ve ever met – well one of them. He has somehow survived the last dozen Tournaments, though he’s hated me more and more the last three years for beating him.

“The difference between you and me, is I’m not trying to win. So, the fact I keep beating you when you’re giving it your all, just makes your losses so much sadder,” I say with mock sadness, watching his jaw clench and eyes narrow.

Iolaire bursts out laughing and clinks her glass with mine, “Well said!”

Whiro steps up to me, his already large nostrils flaring even wider. He flexes his overcompensatingly large muscles as they strain against his shirt. A black long-sleeve button-down with a gold tribal design over the left shoulder and down the left sleeve, paired with gold and black brocade pants. It complements his otherwise beige-looking skin quite nicely. As he leans in closer, attempting to tower over me I can see a hint of the tribal tattoos on his body through the opening of his shirt. Is he trying to threaten me or flirt with me?

“I have a strong feeling this will be your last year, Blackheart. If I get to be the one who brings your reign to an end then I’ll consider myself lucky,” he says low against my ear.

I step closer, bringing us chest to chest, “You’re not the first to want me dead, Whiro, and you won’t be the last. If you want to kill me, then come and get me. I’ll be sure to have your grave ready for you,” I say coldly as I stare into his eyes, unfazed by his words. While all he will see in my eyes is the cold darkness that earned me my name, his brown eyes are alight with rage. I can see how much he yearns not only for my death but to be the one to snuff my life out. He craves it like the ultimate high. But he better take a number and get in line. Plenty want me dead right now, but from that list, Whiro isn’t even worth mentioning. That being said, I wouldn’t mind smashing this glass and slitting his carotid artery with it.