Adella's family dies and her new life begins.
|All characters and plotline ©NiaWaters
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The assassin seemed to not have his work cut out for him after all. The man of the house was thick and dark. His skin was hardest to break, but with the concern of his beloved family slowed him. The assassin moved on to hush the woman, who spoke the Lord's Prayer softly under her breath. The second man who had entered the house took the silent babe from the mother’s now still being. Quickly he left to let his partner finish the rest of the family off. All that was left was a petite girl, huddled in the nestle of her mother’s breast and shoulder. She was shaking with soft tears that streamed down her flushed cheeks.
The man’s cold hand caressed the girl’s face, leaving a trail of blood across her plump cheek; her wide-set green eyes filled with panic and confusion as his threatening expression changed suddenly to that of excruciating pain. The father had driven a dagger into the man’s back and they both fell. The killer grabbed the knife he had just dropped and sliced at the girl, making her cry out in pain. With gasping breaths he spat out to her,
“Crasseuse métisse...” He turned his eyes behind him to the father that was struggling for breath, “Traître.” Then he collapsed on the floor.
The father dragged himself over to his wife’s body. His daughter clutched her stomach tightly as her blood started to soak her light ivory nightgown. She looked to her father and held out a hand as if to touch him, but cried out as her body protested the sudden movement. He managed to pull himself up, wiping away her streaming tears and whispered,
From her mother’s teachings, the small girl wrapped her deep wound; with mind over matter being her only source of energy, she started to walk. It was windy outside which tore at her raw cheeks and teary eyes. For a mile to two she kept walking in the brisk, cold air that November brought until she came to the city she lived just outside of. There were street urchins and vagabonds; all of them were watching her bleed and fall over and over again. Finally a man stopped her and brought her to one of the small groups of misfits that surrounded a large fire pit. The girl nearly fainted when she was laid down, and had her bandages unwrapped and her wound examined. A gypsy tribe came to the huddle and began to chant and dance voodoo magic around her.
Another few hours passed when a man came running up the alley way, stopping just short of the cluster of misfits. He tapped the elder gypsy lightly on the shoulder and asked to take the girl. The elder looked upon the man with milky eyes and spoke sharply to him,
“Protéger sa. Font se que c'est juste.” He nodded, accepting her warning and threat. Slowly, he scooped her small frame into his arms and ran off into the night.
The girl woke often, crying heavily and coughing up blood. The man flustered about trying to heal her, but the wound was too deep. Eventually she gained enough consciousness to open her eyes and talk to the man. She was frightened and confused as he explained her only alternative to death.
“But there has to be another way!” She whispered again—tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
“You’ll die if I don’t do it, you must live.” She squeezed her eyes closed, holding out her hands in defense, but he was strong and easily pushed them aside. His warm breath played across her neck as he murmured sadly, “I’m so sorry, Adella.” She began to scream. Then he pierced his sharp fangs into her delicate, virgin skin.