The house is straight out of Halloween swamp tours and trips through the so-called “Haunted New Orleans” that you see advertised in the tourist magazines around town. It doesn't help that we're seeing it all through the headlights of the car, the sun setting sometime while I was out. It's creepy really, and I shiver despite the warmth from the car's heater.

We're not in New Orleans specifically, but south of it near Lafitte, just on the edge of the wildlife preserve. I saw that from the street signs the past few miles. It's an older plantation house, the willow trees gnarled and heavy, gray-green Spanish moss hanging from their branches like a zombie's clothing. The grass is overgrown, and I can hear the mud squelching under the car's tires even as we drive up the barely recognizable driveway. I can smell the wet, heavy scent of the bayou nearby, and part of me, the artist, thinks that it's a great place to do a very intense landscape.

“This was a rice plantation back in the 1700s,” Peter says up front, still driving. For the past hour I've been awake, he's been chatty, like an overenthusiastic taxi driver or a tour guide. “They tried to make a go of it with indigo, cotton, and a bunch of other things during the 1800s, but never could make it quite work. The house isn't in the best of shape, but any port in a storm, right?”

Isis, who still has her gun out even though my wrists are cuffed and my ankles tied together, gives me a helpful poke in the ribs. “I suggest you comment.”

“It has a charm,” I say, trying to go along with it. “The house looks in bad shape though.”

“Well, I'd planned to turn this into a retreat house, tear down the main building and put up something better,” Peter says, and in his voice I can hear something that worries me. The good cheer, the glee in his voice sounds forced, like he wants something more than just my commentary. “Unfortunately, your brother and sister seem determined to make my life difficult. It's nice to know I have at least one halfway decent daughter.”

“Halfway... decent?” I ask, shocked. I want to say more, but Isis gives me a warning shake of her head, and I bite my tongue for the moment. Still, I can feel anger building inside me, and when the car stops, I'm slow to react, I'm too busy trying to not scream at Peter.

Peter ignores it though and gets out, tapping on the hood of the car. “Come on, come on!”

Isis looks over and gives me a professional look. “If you want, I can knock you out again and we can drag you upstairs, but I don’t think that would be good for you. Too many tranquilizers in too short a time, bad for the heart. If you behave, I will untie your ankles and you can walk up the stairs. Be warned, if you try and fight me, I'll shoot you in the calf or the knee. It won’t be fun.”

There's no mercy in her eyes, no taunting, just the dead even tones of a professional. “Fine, I can walk.”

“Wise decision. I warn you now, even though it’s useless, if you want to have a chance to live long enough to see your family again, do not agitate Peter. His temper is... short.” Isis pulls a knife and cuts the rope around my ankle. “You can open the door yourself.”

I get out, not moving as I see that Isis is already out and has her pistol on me, and I take a moment to compose myself as best as I can. I can feel Nathan's strength flowing through me as I square my shoulders and turn toward the stairs, acting as if I'm heading for a polite dinner instead of having a gun pointed at my back.

Mounting the creaking, sagging stairs, I stop at the door, turning to the side and letting Peter unlock the back door, where I go inside to find a house that's not quite as broken down on the inside as it looks on the outside. The walls are at least mostly dry, and the floor seems relatively safe. “Didn't think places like this existed anymore after Hurricane Katrina.”

“The pilings on the foundation were just enough,” Peter says, leading me to what looks like it used to be a bedroom. “The stairs to the second floor are fucked though, but I make do.”

“I can tell,” I reply, looking at the camp stove that's in the kitchen area. “Guess you're not into wood stoves?”

“Oh, we'll fire it up later,” Peter says, giggling like he's looking forward to a good comedy movie or something. He points at a wooden rocking chair in the middle of the room. “Sit.”

I do, and Peter licks his lips, his scarred face looking nearly emotionless even as his voice cracks slightly. “Now, hold still, and remember that Isis still has her gun on you.”

Like I could forget with Isis standing in the doorway, her pistol not pointing at me but still ready next to her leg. Peter gets down and uses Velcro straps to attach my ankles to the legs of the chair, running his hand creepily up my leg as he does.

“Keep your filthy hands off me,” I hiss, pushing his head away with my cuffed hands. “You don't have that right.”

“I don't have the right?” Peter says, backing up. He gets to his feet, then turns his back to me looking at Isis. “You hear that? Dumb bitch thinks I don't have the right. Like rights matter to her right now.”

Isis shrugs, smiling thinly. “She has spirit. I can see why Nathan likes her.”

“In any case, to think she has rights,” Peter says, almost softly before he wheels, his eyes burning with rage and insanity even as his face barely moves. His facial muscles are too damaged to show even this intense of emotion. “You stupid bitch! You HAVE NOTHING! You're going to stay right here, and if you think that your hero is going to come save you, you have another thing coming. The only, and I mean only way that you're going to have a chance to even see him again before I have Isis put a bullet in your fucking head is if you do everything I say!”

I roll my tongue around in my mouth and spit, falling short but still getting the message across. “You're pathetic. I can see why Jackson and Andrea turned on you, and I'm ashamed to be your daughter.”

“That doesn't matter,” Peter hisses, reaching for his belt and unbuckling it. “In fact, what matters is that I'm going to pull my cock out, and you're going to swallow it. You're going to suck your daddy until he blows down your throat, or else Isis is going to shoot you.”

It's enough, and somehow, even though my balance is all screwed up from my ankles being strapped to the chair, I'm on my feet, my fists clenched, my eyes burning in fury. “FUCK YOU! You sick, twisted bastard! You bring that toward my mouth, oh, it'll go in all right. Just enough for me to bite the thing off! You're scum! You do nothing but spread misery and sadness. You... YOU KILLED MY MOTHER! It was because of you and your lies, your taunting and drawing her along that she killed herself, that she stuck that syringe into her vein, you sick bastard! So go ahead, shoot me! Fuck it, shoot me!”

I jerk my foot, reaching for Peter who jumps out of my reach and I almost lose my balance, but before I do the Velcro gives way, and I have my right leg free. I lurch after him, dragging the chair behind me as he scampers like a rat away from me, fear and rage on his face. “Fine, bitch! Isis, kill her!”

“Non,” Isis says quietly, and everything stops, Peter and I both shocked by her reply. “Sit down, Melissa. I will knock you out, but I won’t shoot you.”

“What?” Peter asks, his face turning a dark brick red, I guess that part of his face wasn't hurt by the skin grafts. “What did you say to me?”

“I said no,” Isis repeats, putting herself next to me, pushing down on my shoulder. “I won’t allow your childish temper and sexual perversions to threaten my payday.”

“You arrogant bitch,” Peter says, stepping forward. Isis raises her pistol and he freezes, raising his hands. “We had an agreement. You work for me!”

“No. You hired me to kill your family and those other targets. You didn’t hire me to be your bodyguard or to sit idly by while you rape your own daughter. And your behavior is threatening the contract.”

Peter steps back and grins slyly. “What makes you think I'll pay you after this?”

Isis lowers her pistol slightly and fires, the round punching a hole in the floor directly between his feet. Peter looks down, and it's with a little bit of satisfaction that I see the front of his jeans go dark as he pisses himself. “You know what will happen if you welsh on me. I kill them, and then I kill you. If you think I’m lying, then I dare you to test me.”

“I... I won't forget this,” Peter says, backing up and fleeing the room. “Psycho bitch!”

He stomps down the hallway, slamming another door behind him somewhere in the house, and I give Isis a grateful look. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Isis says, her hand still on my shoulder. “Now sit. I wasn't joking about that either. I will knock you out again if you don’t.”

I sit down, and Isis drags the whole chair to the middle of the room. “Still, you didn't shoot me,” I say as she goes to the corner and gets a package of rope. “There is that.”

She opens the package of rope and lets it slither to the ground, doubling it up so that it is strong enough to resist any sort of fighting I might want to do. “If you stay still, I will undo your hands and use the Velcro straps to attach your hands, it’ll be more comfortable. If you struggle, I'll leave you in the handcuffs which I will bind to the chair tight enough to pull on your shoulders unless you sit forward in way that will pull on your lower back and waist.”

I obey as Isis works quickly, looping the rope around my waist before putting another loop around each knee before tying it somewhere behind me. I can bend forward, but that's about it, and when Isis brings the Velcro straps over, she undoes the handcuffs before attaching my wrists to the arms on the sides. It's tight, but not too tight, and I have about a half inch of movement in my arms, and can wiggle around some, enough that my circulation shouldn't go too numb.

“There,” Isis says, standing up and stepping back. She leaves the room and comes back in a minute with another chair and a book, taking a seat and opening it about a quarter of the way through. “If you need to use the toilet or require some water, tell me.”

I nod, leaning back. It's actually not that uncomfortable a chair, I've had worse in my life. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Isis asks, putting her finger in her book and closing it. “Sitting here?”

“Not just that. Why did you threaten Peter when I went off on him? No offense, but according Nathan, you’re a psycho bitch. And from what you’ve done, I’d say he’s right.”

Isis leans back and laughs lightly, crossing her ankles in front of her. “Ah, dear Nathan. I suppose he does have reason to not trust me, but what he doesn’t understand is that in some ways, I am the one person in all of this that he can trust.”

“How so?” I ask, wanting for some reason to know this woman's insight into his mindset. “You're trying to kill him. Me too, actually.”

“Which is what makes me trustworthy,” Isis says pleasantly. “You see, I'm not trying to kill you, Melissa. I am going to kill you. Nothing is going to stop that, you understand? So your fate is decided, that is for sure. But while I am going to kill you, I do not hate you, I have no feelings about it. You're a job, plain and simple. As such, you do deserve at least some respect and dignity in your death. What Peter wanted to do... no. It’s unacceptable. Besides, it risks my plan, and that is worse than your dignity in my eyes.”

“No feelings?” I ask, and Isis shrugs. “I don't believe you.”

Isis laughs lightly and leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “I will admit, your artistic skill is impressive. In looking at it, I could see the world through your eyes, and they are eyes I wish I could look through all the time. It's not enough to save your life, however.”

Well, at least she can appreciate fine art. “And Nathan?”

“The best man I've ever had in my life,” Isis says, leaning back. “It is... it is the one mistake I made in my career to shoot him back then. But, c'est la vie, non? I can’t rewind time, and so I live with the consequences. He’s a good man.”

“I know.” The words are out before I can even think about them, and Isis stops, a twinge of anger twisting her delicate features. She truly is beautiful, the best of her French and Kurdish heritage coming through in her face, and I wish I had a sketch pad to capture that face as it smooths out and gives me a sad little smile. She sees right through my words, knowing I have feelings for Nathan.

“Is that so? Well, now I see why he resisted my charms. I thought the memory of my sister would have kept him from being with anyone else. You must be even more remarkable than I thought to have swayed him.”

I nod, giving Isis an honest smile, although it's meant for Nathan. “I love him. He loves me.”

Isis nods, maybe a little more sadly than she was a moment ago, and reopens her book. “Then you have my congratulations, and my condolences. At least you were able to truly feel l'amour, count yourself lucky. It’s regrettable that it was for such a short time. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to finish the rest of this chapter before I send the message to your family. I’ll bring you some food in about two hours if you are awake still.”

Isis opens her book again and starts reading. A few minutes later, Peter comes stomping down the hallway, screaming over his shoulder that he's going out for dinner, slamming the door behind him. Isis gives it a glance and goes back to her reading, while I close my eyes and pray that Nathan, my knight in shining armor, can actually find me.