Allura Allix was sat at a table in the dark corner of the club. A man slid smoothly into the booth.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked her over the sound of the music.
“I’d rather dance to be honest,” she replied, smiling sweetly, her green eyes and silvery hair glittering under the strobe lights.
The man grinned, took her hand and led her to the dance floor. In the crush of people, Allura pressed against the man. He put his hands on her bony hips. She reached up to talk in his ear.
“You know who I am,” she said.
Not long after that, the two of them were in a taxi, on the way back to his. They hardly made it to the bedroom. After a mass of giggles, they both collapsed back onto the mattress, breathing heavily, sweat coating their skin. The man – who Allura knew to be Richard Wilson – was her next victim. When his gentle snores filled the room, Allura carefully got out of the bed and dressed quietly.
She pulled the thin little vial out of her pocket and crept towards her victim. She poured a little of the white powder into his mouth. After a few moments, his breathing increased rapidly and the breaths he took became shorter. Within a minute, he was in a coma. Within a few hours, he’d be dead.
Allura considered waiting around to watch him die, but decided she had better things to do and it wouldn’t be satisfying enough to make up for the wait. He’d just pass away. She preferred the jobs she used to get, the ones she could complete however she wanted – as long as she didn’t get caught. They were the best jobs, getting to watch the victims slowly bleeding to death, or struggling as she strangled them. But now she got the ‘important’ jobs, the ones that had to look like an accident or suicide.
Sodium cyanide was the best poison for the job. She’d wanted some hydrogen cyanide but she hadn’t been allowed due to the fact it was a gas. Calcium and potassium cyanides were harder to obtain so she’d been landed with the sodium. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t obtained the others through more... non-commercial methods.
Allura sighed, slightly depressed that it would be boring to stick around and watch him die. She quickly left the house and walked down the dark streets, with no destination in mind.
Everyone knew who she was. No one knew her name, her past or her job but they knew who she was. She was the one who’d get with nearly anyone and not complain that she wanted a relationship. Allura Allix was every man’s dream. She didn’t want a relationship, especially not after what had happened between her parents.
They’d argued all the time. Mary Allix had always been terrified of her husband. He’d beat her and threaten her. She’d demanded a divorce from him and he agreed, after a bit more beating. And so, age five, Allura lived with her mother in a tiny, filthy flat in Liverpool. They couldn’t pay rent, let alone buy food. Mary Allix had resorted to prostitution, just so her little girl wouldn’t have to grow up on the streets. She did her best for two years, but it was never enough, so she committed suicide, slitting her throat.
Allura had to live with her father, Jasper Allix. He beat her and abused her for four years until – at eleven years of age – she killed him, smashing a bottle into the back of his head. She’d gone to live with her grandmother after that. She was so kind, giving Allura whatever it was she wanted. But she died shortly after Allura’s eighteenth birthday. She’d left the big house and the money to her. Allura didn’t want to live in the house, the good memories haunted her, but she didn’t want to sell it either, so it stood, empty, gathering dust.
She’d moved to London, to the very outskirts. She was recruited by a group of assassins and quickly became the best of all of them there. The slow trickle of jobs became a flood. She brought money and a name to the group. She used to get the best jobs, but she became specialised in silent, inconspicuous assassinations. Whenever a client wanted an enemy quietly out of the way, it was Allura who got the job.
But now, wandering the dirty London streets, she felt bored.