Chapter 7:
Spencer's POV
With a sickening, wet sound, Wednesday pulled the butcher knife out of the assassin—and out of me—by dragging the chain. Without a moment's hesitation, she swayed it again and landed the blade right in the middle of the assassin's face, ensuring he would never get up again. Finally, she pulled it free.
I shoved the dead weight off my body, wincing as a fresh wave of white-hot pain shot through my side. My fingers touched my stomach, and they came away slick and red. My own blood was flowing freely through the cut caused by Wednesday's knife.
My eyes widened in pure panic. The metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils. Was I gonna die?
I felt dangerously weak, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated.
"Oops, sorry," Wednesday said, her voice unnervingly calm as she helped me to my feet. Her touch was like ice.
"You really had a great aim there," I grunted through clenched teeth, leaning heavily on her. "Just pray you didn't affect my internal organs, or I'll go dig up your grave and survey the ruins."
She rolled her eyes, completely unfazed. "That's if you know where my grave is."
I winced again, the pain exaggerating with every movement. We hurried out of the room, a macabre pair. I had one hand clamped over the wound in my stomach, and my other arm was slung over Wednesday's shoulders, her spectral strength the only thing keeping me upright.
We managed to get down the stairs, and the sight that greeted me stole the breath from my lungs.
Carnage. My male and female servants lay scattered in the hall, their bodies still and silent. It was a slaughterhouse. A horrible, chilling sight. I breathed out a shaky gasp, feeling my remaining strength fail me. These people had died because of me.
We got outside to the cool night air and stumbled towards one of my cars—a sleek, black Aston Martin Valkyrie.
"Wait," Wednesday said, her voice sharp. She slowly drew her butcher's knife from behind her back—I still wondered where it came from—and held the chain taut. She spun it, the blade whistling through the air as she aimed at a target I couldn't see.
Leaning against the car for support, I watched as she flung the knife. It darted through the darkness like a silver serpent, landing with a distant thunk in a tree house far across the grounds. A second later, a body tumbled from the perch and hit the ground with a dull crunch.
"That was the sniper guy," she stated flatly, retrieving her weapon with a flick of her wrist. It vanished behind her back once more.
That was the least of my worries. I needed a hospital, fast.
I got into the driver's seat, and she phased through the door to sit beside me. I ignited the Valkyrie's powerful engine and drove off, the world blurring as blood loss began to cloud my vision.
"I was bleeding pretty badly. I went too deep into the assassin," she commented, as if analyzing a failed recipe.
I grunted, pain lancing through my side. "Deep enough to almost damage my intestine."
"I wish I did. You can't even appreciate me saving your life," she retorted. She took out her bucket of ice cream, but it was now a soupy, melted mess. "Gosh!" she said angrily and threw the entire bucket out the window.
I exhaled slowly, fighting to keep my focus. After a while, I pulled over in front of a 24-hour supermarket.
I opened the car door and staggered out.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"To get you new ice creams," I replied, leaning against the car door.
"But you are hurt! You can't walk properly!"
"At least it's better than letting you kill me in a car accident or drive a butcher's knife up my throat for complaining," I said.
A slow grin spread across her face. "Fair point."
I went into the supermarket, moving like a zombie. A few minutes later, I came out, clutching two new buckets of ice cream like lifelines. I winced and staggered, resting heavily against my car. Dizziness washed over me; my face was undoubtedly pale as a ghost.
"Are you okay?" Wednesday asked, and for the first time, I heard a flicker of genuine concern in her voice.
"Come on, get in the car. I will drive," Wednesday said.
I looked at her, a fresh wave of fear cutting through the pain. "Don't worry. I can drive myself." Allowing Wednesday to drive felt like walking straight into a death sentence. I faked a weak smile, walked unsteadily to the driver's seat, and zoomed off into the night.
---
We arrived at a private hospital. A few hushed words and a large cash transfer later, my wound was stitched and dressed discreetly. That same night, we left for another of my secret penthouses.
I laid on the fresh, clean sheets of a new bed as Wednesday tended to my wounds, redressing them with a strange, clinical focus.
"It's a really deep cut you have there," she said, applying a mentholated liquid that burned like hellfire. The sensation was excruciating, but I dared not whimper like a kid in front of a ghost.
"Almost finished. This is going to hurt real bad," she warned.
What she did next—a sharp, precise adjustment of the bandage—made me scream, my voice tearing through the silent apartment.
"OMG! Ahh!" I mumbled, collapsing back onto the pillows, sweating and breathless.
She smiled faintly. "Done."
As she finished wrapping the bandages around my torso, I finally breathed out, the tingling pains slowly lessening. The one question that had been burning in my mind since the attack finally surfaced.
"Who would try to send assassins to kill me?" I asked, utterly confused.
Wednesday sat on the edge of the bed, her form shimmering slightly. "This one question has been bothering me from the onset. Do you have enemies? Someone you know or believe is your rival, competitor, or hater that will do anything to hurt you?"
"Well, yes," I admitted. "Basically, a tycoon like me must have lots—I mean, tons—of enemies. But I've literally gotten rid of most of them. The rest, I'm extra careful with."
"Any frenemies? Or home enemies?" she pressed.
I thought for a while. "No friend-enemies. Well, I do have one frenemy, but home enemies? I don't think so."
"There's a saying that your family could be your number one enemy. Your worst enemy." Her voice grew quiet, her face slowly turning pale. "I was killed by the people I love and trust the most."
I stared at her. "I thought you died trying to save your country?"
"Well, yes. But when I stayed in the underworld, I learned the truth. My death was planned. The danger that made me go into the war was all a set-up by my three brothers and a sister to get rid of me completely."
A heavy silence fell, and then she began her story, her voice distant, as if reading from a tragic scroll.
FLASHBACK - Wednesday's Story
"My name wasn't always just 'Wednesday.' It was Wednesday McClair, the youngest daughter of General McClair. My family was military royalty, and I was the most promising of them all—a prodigy in strategy and combat. My brothers and sister were jealous. They lived in my shadow, and they hated it.
The war was a desperate, bloody conflict. Our intelligence reported a surprise enemy attack on a civilian evacuation point. My squad was the only one close enough to respond. My brother, the intelligence officer, gave me the order himself. 'It's a suicide mission, Wednesday,' he said, his voice full of false sorrow, 'but those people will die without you.'
I believed him. I led my team into the canyon. But there was no enemy attack. Instead, we were surrounded. The 'enemy' soldiers spoke with our own accent. They were mercenaries, paid by my siblings.
We fought. Oh, how we fought. I took down a dozen of them myself. But we were outnumbered and outgunned. I watched my squad, my friends, die one by one, protecting me. I was the last one standing, cornered against a cliff edge.
The final bullet didn't come from a mercenary. It came from a sniper rifle positioned on a ridge. As I fell, my life bleeding out onto the foreign soil, I saw the glint of the sniper's scope. And I recognized the rifle. It was my father's prized possession, a gift he had given to my eldest brother.
They didn't have the guts to murder me themselves, so they plotted my death in a way that would get them medals and praise. A heroic death in the line of duty. They didn't just kill me; they used my death to burnish our family's legacy."
END FLASHBACK
Her ghostly form seemed to solidify with the pain of the memory. "They didn't want to murder me themselves because they couldn't. They wanted to plot my death so they didn't get their hands and reputation stained. And that is one of the main reasons why I can't kill them myself. The laws of the dead are clear: direct vengeance corrupts a soul. That's why I need you."
"Wait, wait a second," I said, holding up a hand. "So all this ghost stuff is to get me to help you kill your family? Seriously?"
"Yes," she replied, her eyes burning with a cold fire.
"Okay, this is what will happen. Let's make a deal," she proposed, leaning forward. "You will help me accomplish my mission, and I'll protect you from whatever danger is coming or will come, until you find your unknown killer."
I laughed. It was a harsh, disbelieving sound. She looked at me, clarity and seriousness etched on her pale face.
I stopped laughing. "You want us to make a deal?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Okay, first of all, my answer is 'No.' I can protect myself from whatever danger is coming for me. I don't need you to protect me," I said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I don't see any reason why you should still be here. You told me that if I gave you ice cream, you were going to leave me alone."
Her jaw dropped. "Seriously?" she asked, incredulous.
"Yes," I replied firmly.
"You want me to go? You know if I go, you aren't even going to survive this night! More assassins might come!"
I laughed again, my pride and ego taking full control. "I don't need your help or your protection. I can protect myself. I can fight them myself, not let some ghost fight for me." I rolled my eyes for emphasis.
"You know that if not for my help, you would have been long dead by now!" she said, her voice rising in pitch, clearly pissed off.
"I wouldn't be dead! I would have killed them all!" I said, the lie feeling confident on my tongue.
She gaped. In reality, if Wednesday hadn't been there, the sniper alone would have pieced my brain off. The assassins would only have had to butcher my body and mail it to the person who ordered my killing.
"I would have killed all of them," I continued, doubling down.
"You were struggling with only one man who nearly got you killed!" she shot back, angry.
"No, I wasn't struggling! I was strangling him!" I said defensively, my arrogance creating a wall she couldn't breach. "I don't need your help anymore. I've gotten you what you wanted. Now leave."
I said it again, finality in my tone. She looked at me, a storm brewing in her ghostly eyes. Then, with a swift movement, she slapped my wounded abdomen.
I winched, bending over with a sharp cry.
"You ungrateful, scandalous pig!" she snapped, her voice echoing with a supernatural force. "Look for your unknown assassinator yourself! You will need my help soon. I will go. And I promise you, I will be waiting for you at the other side. I'm sure you will meet me sooner than you expect. Then you will have to wait for a whole 17 years—until October 31st, Halloween—to come to this world, find someone to communicate with, and find your killer. And then, you will have wished that Wednesday had been there to help you!"
With that final, angry pronouncement, she vanished, fading from sight until not even a chill remained in the air.
"Yes!" I said to the empty room, a hollow feeling of victory settling in my chest. I finally felt like I had my life back....
To be continued.....