Green Eyes

By R. F. Gammon

This should be easy. I am an assassin. He is my target.

Why is this not easy?

Turn around.

I stand in the shadows at the corner of the muddy alley, staring at him. He stands with his back toward me in the dark doorway of a wooden building. The alley drips with sparse raindrops.

My knife is in my sleeve. My orders echo in my ears.

“Kill him,” whispered my master, Lord Markell. “Kill our greatest enemy, my greatest rival.” His memory-fingers brush cold against my cheek. “I know you won’t fail me, darling.”

It’s hard to refuse the man who owns my existence. He can order my death on a whim, for the slightest failure. I’m not afraid of much, but I am afraid of Lord Markell. He keeps me chained. He treats me like his lapdog, except that I am also his guard dog. I kill for him. I do what he says. I have nothing, and without him I am no one. This is the only life I’ve ever known, and the prospect of being a young girl on the streets alone is too frightening.

And I also fear Lord Firedark, my target. The most nefarious assassin lord our world knows. The man I am here to kill. Whom I cannot kill.

Something holds me back. Some strange desire tugs at my heart. I think it to him again—turn around. If I can see him, I can remind myself that he has thrown us into poverty. That he’s brought destruction and disgrace upon my assassin clan. But I can’t see more than the back of his cloak. And that’s not very personal.

I only kill when it’s personal.

I bite down on my lip and prepare myself for the moment he turns, because then I will have no excuse. My fear and my emotions can’t get in the way anymore. My conscience has to stop pricking—drown it, I remind myself.

Turn around. My lips move to form the words.

Rain drips from the building above, soaking through my clothes. If I wait much longer I’ll be drenched. I shake my head and blink droplets out of my eyes, wondering what he’ll actually look like. I don’t care, really. It doesn’t change matters. But he’s infamous, and I want to know what he looks like. He’s said to be the embodiment of power. What does that mean?

He turns around.

My breath catches in my throat. I can’t see him well, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s because he’s wearing a black cloth over the lower half of his face.

Above the mask, his shockingly electric green eyes pierce the night.

I stare at him, and by now he’s surely seen me, although he doesn’t react. He just stands there, unmoving, considering his own potential death. He has no fear.

My hand trembles on the chilly, familiar hilt of my knife.

I have never felt an emotion this strong, besides maybe hatred for Lord Markell—his control of me and my dependence on him. Markell told me I can’t leave, that I’m not capable of taking care of myself. For my entire life I’ve believed him.

But this man… what is it in those green eyes that suggests he would be different?

He takes a step toward me, and I hesitate. That same emotion stirs within me once again, one that I don’t understand. I don’t like it. I fight to stay in control of my own heart, even if I can’t control anything else.

Even so, something about Lord Firedark destroys any desire for his death. I’ve never hesitated like this before. I’m only fourteen—you’d think I would be less comfortable with the blood and gore of death, but it’s almost as natural as breathing.

I stare at Lord Firedark, who steps closer, and now, with a rush of trepidation, I recognize this phantom feeling. It’s wanting. No, yearning. Yearning for something more, something I’ve never felt. Freedom.

Freedom that perhaps Lord Firedark could give me.

I back away from him, and he doesn’t follow, although his green eyes track me as I continue into the shadows. The rain will wash away any trace of my presence here. I don’t understand what’s going on inside me. All I know is that I like it, this new feeling of wanting something more.

My knife slips back into place, along with my resolve.

Tonight, it will not be Lord Firedark who dies.

It will be Lord Markell.

Can you guess which song from the 1980's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. F. Gammon is a high school student currently residing in the wilds of Maine with her family. She has written a number of novels, but Havok is her first publication. If she isn’t writing, she’s listening to Fall Out Boy, petting her cats, or playing Chopin. Most importantly, she’s a daughter of the One True King.

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