Sympathy For the Devil

For a few lingering seconds, he paused in the middle of the thoroughfare, allowing the world to pass him by. People flocked from one corridor to another, wheeling luggage behind them as their eyes shifted from slips of paper in their hands to the signs hanging overhead. None of them seemed to notice him and the thought did more than please him. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end with sadistic pleasure.

He couldn't deny it. He needed a little wickedness in his life. In recent years, he'd embraced a different world; a different point of view which enriched the man once known as little more than a cold-blooded killer. He could now boast of a reality where he slept in one lover's arms, curled beside the man whose ring he bore on his finger. He could offer a crooked smile to the family surrounding him and embrace his other lover, the beautiful, brown-haired girl he had the pleasure of calling his immortal child. For a vampire, life couldn't be more complete.

Yet, there was the hunger.

Flynn Mason licked the tips of his fangs, not aware of the action until his lips pursed together again. Not one to dwell on the past, still he'd been confronting the skeletons in his closet a lot lately. Something about inhabiting his own body – walking in a set of shoes he could boast being his alone after years sharing real estate with another personality – also forced him to mull on existential inquiries. Who was he? What portions of his years tethered to Peter encompassed his life and not his alter ego? "Only in this bloody family would such a question be necessary," he muttered on more than one occasion, normally with a lit cigarette poised between his fingers and his eyes fixed on the cosmos. The Fates had granted him what he wanted all this time. His own existence.

At times, it leant itself to moments of pain. Being rejected all those years until his husband came along and saw a diamond in the rough. Other moments, it confused him. How many people he slaughtered and how hard it was to summon the guilt he was certain he should have been experiencing. He remembered staring Matthew Pritchard in the eyes – a man he had once claimed as a victim – and Flynn could do little more than admit he held no remorse for what he'd done. Matthew gave him credit for being honest. Flynn could hardly be anything else.

He knew he enjoyed the kill. He felt it in the marrow of his bones. Yet there stood before him the dichotomy of both experiencing emotion and remaining detached from it at the same time. Victor, he loved. Lydia, he loved. Peter and Robin he embraced as brothers, and John and Delilah, he held affection for in levels he hadn't quite figured out how to explain just yet. Thomas, he embraced as though he was his own son, and even the mortal caretaker hired for the small boy amused Flynn. Anybody else, though, he stared at as though attempting to evaluate if their life held any meaning and if he should give a shit. Humans were humans and only on rare occasions did he care for anything but the blood running through their veins. The more he came to realize this, the more a truth emerged through the darkness of his soul.

Something was missing.

Flynn felt horrible confessing this. Some distant portion of his psyche reminded him that being loved and able to love should be fulfilling enough, yet everyone seemed to have something to claim for themselves. Victor had his politics and Peter, his writing. Robin had his studies and Delilah, her business. Lydia even used her skills in sorcery and John often paired with her for their various expeditions as watcher and seer. This left him the sole member of the family without a purpose. Until several weeks ago.

He remembered sitting across from the vampire king of Oregon, Mitchell Livingston, speaking candidly with the dark-haired, elder man.

"I've heard you once were an assassin."

"Yes, I was. Although, I must be honest. It was quite some years ago."

"How many?"

"Approximately twenty-five. Give or take a year."

"I see. And have your skills diminished over time?"

Flynn slipped a hand in his suit jacket, then paused. He raised an eyebrow at the vampire monarch. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Mitch shook his head. His hands remained folded on his lap, his piercing eyes never wavering. "By all means."

"Thank you." Flynn fished out a metallic case and plucked a cigarette from inside. Both case and lighter settled in his pocket again by the time a steady stream of smoke rose from his lips. A cold grin settled on his face. "Have my skills diminished?" He chuckled. "No. In fact, they are faster and more fluid. I do not know how much my husband explained to you, but this body is six hundred and fifty years old."

"Fascinating." Mitch crossed his legs in a loose manner. "And how many of those years were spent as an assassin."

"Five."

"Only five?"

"The most notorious five years of any man's life."

"How do you figure?"

Flynn's smirk widened, a sadistic glint dancing in his eyes. He enjoyed recounting his reputation far too much to be anything but smug about it. "If you travel to Philadelphia," he said, "Or anywhere else in the Northeastern United States, to this day my name is spoken of in shadows, and always with a tinge of fear. Even those who knew Peter would look at him on occasion and wonder if the devil followed somewhere in his footsteps."

"So, you knew Peter, then, before you knew Victor?"

"Intimately."

Mitch grinned. "You speak in riddles, Flynn."

"A man has to have a few secrets," Flynn said with a shrug.

"Indeed, he does." The vampire king rose to his feet and smoothed out the creases in his suit jacket. "Care to show me, then, these skills of yours?"

Flynn drew from his cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke before allowing the cold smile back onto his face. "The pleasure would be all mine." He stood as well and extinguished his cigarette. Flynn followed Mitch out of his office, stealing a deep breath when he was sure Mitch wouldn't notice.

As they disappeared to a larger, more secluded room, Flynn loosened his limbs, feeling that small rush of euphoria he always experienced before a sparring session. Knowing what it entailed only made him more excited. The dark-haired vampire king plucked a set of swords from the wall and tossed one over to Flynn. "One of the prerequisites to crossing swords with me is your promise what you learn does not leave this room," Mitch said as he removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "I am very covetous of my secrets, too, and one of them involves my sword skills. If I catch wind of any rumors, it'll be you on the other end of an assassination contract." His eyes met Flynn's. Mitch raised an eyebrow.

Flynn nodded. Having caught the sword easily, he swung it around in languid, practiced motions. "You shall find I am more than capable of keeping secrets."

"Good. Because you'll be forced to keep a lot of them from now on." Mitch smirked, his expression something of a dare. "That is, if you're as talented as Victor claims you are."

A slow, devilish grin crossed Flynn's lips as the movement of his sword abruptly ceased. Both hands settled on its hilt and his blue eyes sobered to the point of severity. "Give me your best shot, then, your majesty."

Mitch nodded. Within a few paces, he closed the gap between them. With one fluid arc, his arm swung upward and Flynn barely had enough time to deflect the intended blow. While Flynn had inherited the body of a sexcentennial-old immortal, Mitch eclipsed those years by at least two centuries. This would be a challenge.

Flynn relished challenges.

The clang of metal and the blur of movements too swift to be human marked the exchange from that point forth. Flynn gritted his teeth and poured every ounce of himself into each swing, each parry and each thrust, stopping short of several death blows only by a hair's breadth. Each time Flynn caught the monarch off-guard, he capitalized on it and sent Mitch to his knees three times in a row. Each time, the vampire king looked up at Flynn and nodded. "Again," Mitch said, until he landed on the ground that fourth time.

All Flynn received in recognition was a nod and a thank you, promising him Mitch would be in touch. The response unnerved him, his confidence wavering in a rare moment of self-doubt. He returned to Las Vegas and didn't speak much about the interview, thinking Mitch had been offended at Flynn's lack of decorum. When he received a phone call a week and a half later, it came as a genuine surprise.

"You passed my test. Now, you'll face the guild. If they like you, you're in."

Flynn celebrated when the guild gave their final nod and embraced Victor after receiving his first commission. His husband laughed and patted his back, expressing his happiness on Flynn's behalf. It was enough to force Flynn to pull away enough, just so his eyes could meet Victor's. "I will not place myself deliberately in harm, my lover Victor. I promise you I have sobered since my earlier days."

Victor chuckled and nodded. "I know you have, my lover Flynn. I would not have said anything to Mitch if I thought otherwise."

"Good." Flynn laughed and kissed his husband, then rushed off to their room, to pack his things before dawn broke. A piece of paper rested on the bed beside his suitcase, a confirmation Flynn would be on a flight to Phoenix the next evening. As he approached airport security, he glamored the human guards and made it past with several knives tucked away in his carry-on suitcase. Nobody seemed to notice.

Flynn's eyes rose to the sign above him at last, mirroring the other travelers in his scrutiny of which direction he needed. A fork laid before him, one path leading to the gates and the other to the baggage claim area and the exits. He could deny that fundamental need he had to kill, that part of him which screamed inside for blood to be spilled by his hand. But wasn't it a mortal who once said, to thy own self be true?

He chuckled. Pivoting away from the path of escape, Flynn chose his destiny with a spring in his step and a carefree feeling passing through his body. Nobody could have known what had him so delighted and he savored, once again, being seen, but not seen all at once. Humanity ebbed and flowed around him, a cavalcade of faces unaware of what was happening before their very eyes. After twenty-five years, Flynn was now officially out of retirement.

The Black Rose Assassin made his way to his departing gate.