Chapter 79: Codename: Aconite Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Master of Ceremonies…” I say in disbelief, keeping the wobble out of my voice rather expertly, I must say.

“Aconite,” he says with a pleased smile. “So glad you remember me. I definitely remember you,” he says with a knowing smile.

Horrific images of mutilated bodies screaming and begging for their lives along with the smell of blood and burning flesh come flooding back as my mind replays the last Tournament I competed in. I push the memories back and focus on the here and now and the man in front of me.

The Master of Ceremonies – since we don’t know his real name – is as deadly as he is charming. He’s 6’2” and appears to be in his thirties with short blonde combed-over hair with blonde highlights, golden glowing skin with a large jaw covered in dark blonde stubble that is starting to show signs of age. His eyes shine with mirth, but there is a danger in their depths that I have witnessed firsthand is far from idle. His eyes are like two deep blue warning signs flashing with the pain they will cause you for no other reason than because they can. His charm and good looks, along with his muscular physique, lure you in. Almost seducing you; tempting you to trust him. But this isn’t a man that can be trusted, certainly not with your life.

He's dressed far more casually than I have ever seen, but of course, I’ve only ever seen him in an official capacity. He’s wearing a V-neck white T-shirt that shows off his reddening chest on his firm torso, fitted denim jeans, a dark brown sheep-skin jacket with sheep’s fur collar and fawn hiker boots. He’s not remotely dressed for the beach, but I don’t imagine he plans to stay long. Not even long enough to bury my body. No, he’d have his henchmen do that for him.

He nods for his men to get back into the car, and they oblige without a word, leaving us all alone. Even amongst the sea breeze, and palm trees giving us a warm and tropical backdrop to our rendezvous, I feel no safer, and it hasn’t stopped the chill running down my spine from just being in front of this man. Not much scares me, but this man… His is a face I’ve seen in my nightmares.

“Imagine my surprise when I got word that the fastidious Aconite was trying to reach out to The Tournament. I contemplated sending someone in my stead, but I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to find out what would have you going to such great lengths, so naturally, I had to come and see for myself,” he says with burning curiosity. He tries to hide it, but I can hear the Italian accent. I was raised around Italians, I myself am half-Italian. I’d know a fellow Italian anywhere.

“I’m honoured and humbled that you would come to speak with me personally, though the bag on the head was a bit much,” I say in annoyance as I smooth down my hair.

He chuckles. “My apologies, now what can I do for you?”

“Recently myself and another found ourselves being the targets of someone who seems to be manipulating people in our profession to end each other. I’ve found several cases of double homicides that are just chalked up to nasty cases of self-defence gone bad, but the causes of death in those cases all link up to assassins who all vanished without a trace. Of course, I now know what happened to them. I want to find the son of a bitch who put a target on my back and make him regret it. I figured if anyone would have answers regarding the disappearances of assassins, it would be you… Master,” I say reluctantly.

He smirks. “As amusing as it is hearing you call me that, let’s do away with pretences. You may call Ulrich, and yes, I am well aware of the deaths you speak of. I’m impressed you figured it out.”

“How long have you known?” I ask in mild surprise.

“Nine years. I didn’t figure it out until six years ago but was able to trace back the first occurrence to 1980.”

My eyes widen in astonishment. Nine years?! That’s four more years’ worth of deaths Silas and I haven’t even been able to find.

“You’ve known for six years and haven’t done anything about it?” I ask abhorrently.

“The Tournament doesn’t operate outside of The Tournament; the rules are clear, and we keep to the rules. The moment you step outside the rules is the moment chaos takes over and I can’t have that. The Tournament maintains order. It provides accountability and balance in a dark world where such things are hard to find. We do not concern ourselves with the happenings of assassins when outside of the arena,” he says, his voice dripping in piety.

“I take it that means you won’t help me then,” I say belligerently.

“On the contrary, I would be more than happy to assist you. You see, he’s bad for business. Hard to hold a Tournament when the competitors are all dead,” he says in amusement.

“So, this is about your bottom line. You can’t make money off our vicious deaths if we’re dead before your little game takes place,” I say in indignation.

“That’s a very crude way to put it, but not entirely untrue.” He leans back against a nearby palm tree; his hands in his pockets as he looks at me with a sardonic smile. “I find your moral stance highly amusing. You take the lives of people you don’t know into your hands every day and happily snuff them out in painful and creative ways, all for a profit. I do the same, but specifically targeting professional serial killers. So, with that in mind, I think you can cut back on the self-righteous indignation, don’t you?” he says, his voice deepening as his eyes harden, daring me to challenge him. And I know better than to do so.

I take in a silent breath and remind myself to hold my tongue. If I ever have a child and they join this lifestyle I’m teaching them to mind their Ps and Qs far better than I do. My father has always said my mouth will get me killed one day and he might be right.

“So, what can you tell me about the man I’m looking for?” I ask delicately.

“That’s better,” he says in a pleased tone, pushing off from the tree and walking over to me. “The man you’re after is an assassin just like yourself who used to go by the codename Sathariel.”

“Sathariel?”

“Named after the Angel of Deception: the 17th fallen angel of the Grigori. In all my years overseeing The Tournament, I’ve never met an assassin like him. He’s cold, calculating, and focused in a manner I’ve never seen. Exceptionally manipulative and his kill method was always changing. His claim to fame was studying the methods of other assassins and being able to mimic them, so his crimes would be traced back to them and not him. Textbook Machiavellianism.”

“I’m starting to understand the codename now,” I say grimly.

Realisation hits me like a brick to the head. I suddenly remember back to the day I got the letter telling me of the meeting in Paris. The seal on the back of the letter was of a set of angel wings, with the tip of the wings holding a halo, if I remember correctly. The motherfucker actually signed his codename from the very beginning, and I was completely oblivious. Had I the faintest clue this man existed I would have taken one look at that seal and thrown the fucking letter in the trash.

Ulrich gives me a wicked smile and continues, unaware of the giant revelation I’m experiencing. “Up until 1979 he’d won two consecutive Tournaments and was looking at a potential third when he vanished. It wasn’t until I noticed other assassins vanishing in unusually frequent numbers that I went digging. I keep track of everyone, it’s how I know who to extend an invitation to. Some assassins were, as you discovered, turning up dead. Others were just disappearing.”

“As in, their bodies never turned up?” I ask curiously.

“At first I thought so, but I’m a tenacious man and so I dug deeper. Sathariel always had an inflated sense of self. Considered himself the greatest assassin to ever live; that no one living, or dead could match him in skills and intelligence, and maybe that was true. But in my experience, that level of ego can topple an empire,” he says wryly.

“So, he’s a narcissist as well. He sounds like a psychiatrist’s wet dream,” I quip.

He chuckles nodding, but quickly stops laughing, his forehead wrinkling in displeasure. “What I came to learn is that Sathariel went off the grid because he had begun forming his own syndicate. Recruiting assassins he considered worthy of joining his cause, or perhaps just the ones he felt he could manipulate – which is more likely. I don’t know what his endgame is, and I’m not sure what he’s gaining by taking so many players off the board, but I do know he’s been at it for the past decade and his numbers are only growing. So, if you have taken it upon yourself to be his executioner, you’d be doing me a favour,” he says happily.

I stare at him gobsmacked. “I’m sorry, you just finished telling me that this guy is the ultimate assassin who has an army of assassins at his beck and call and your response is to what? Pat me on the back and wish me luck?” I spit flippantly.

He takes in a slow deep breath while pinching the bridge of his nose, “Need I remind you that you sought me out? It’s you who has decided to take up the mantle of bringing him to his knees as retribution for his attempt on your life. Now, naturally, I hope you succeed as it would benefit me greatly, but I have no concern about your life one way or the other. I’m giving you information, it’s up to you what you do with it.”

I clench my jaw and remind myself once again to watch my fucking temper. “Do you at least know his real name?”

“No. I make it a business never to know the real identity of the assassins I monitor. I prefer plausible deniability wherever I can find it,” he says in a glib manner.

I sigh. “Is there anything you do know that can help me?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I recently learned that Sathariel had recruited an assassin by the name of Haruspex into the syndicate. According to my sources, he’s in Paris for work. He has a drop location for communication, you should be able to catch him there. I can provide you with the location,” he offers.

“I’ll take any lead I can get right now,” I say, taking a deep breath as I realise this might bring me a step closer to finding the son of a bitch who tried to kill me. But after everything I’ve learned about him, am I even sure this is the path I want to take? Silas was right, this is suicide. Nevertheless, this is the life I chose and if Sathariel is as lethal as he sounds, he won’t stop until me and Silas are dead. It’s only a matter of time. So, if we don’t want to die, we need to kill him before he kills us.

Ulrich nods and retrieves a cell phone from his pocket and steps away to make a call. His voice is low so I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s soon pulling out a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket and jotting something down. He ends the call and puts his phone back in his pocket before walking back over to me and handing me the small strip of paper.

“This is the address for a phone booth in Paris that he uses as a drop site. He should be in Paris for a few more days, so if you want to catch him, I’d hurry,” he says pointedly.

I take the piece of paper and commit the address to memory, then place the paper in my back pocket. “I don’t suppose me taking Sathariel off your hands would earn me early retirement from The Tournament, would it?” I ask with fake optimism.

He chuckles. “If Sathariel doesn’t kill you, I’ll be seeing you again soon. Best of luck to you, Miss Aconite,” he says politely, gesturing behind me.

He watches unperturbed as his henchman once again put that bag on my head and escort me back into the car, where they proceed to drive me back to my car. The drive back seems twice as long now that I have all this information weighing down on me. I was prepared to go after one psycho with a pension for killing assassins. I didn’t expect to be trying to topple an entire criminal empire. How the fuck did I get here?