Fiona’s Story
Fiona lovingly nestled the bomb among the finest vintages of the wine cellar. Larkin had certainly done well for himself, despite not bothering to conceal he’d been Imperialist scum. Ah well, his arrogance made planning the destruction of his precious wine collection all the more fun.
Fiona bobbed and weaved to an unheard song as she grabbed a bottle at random and softly stole up the stairs. At the landing, she cocked her ear towards the parlor – the deep susurrus of Larkin and his cronies’ voices seeped through the door along with the burned-molasses scent of his favorite cigars. Fiona nodded to herself and looped a loose noose over the bottle’s neck before placing it on a small ledge above the stairs. She drew the string’s end through the window and carefully eased herself out.
Ducking below the window, Fiona slid it a centimeter open before yanking on the string so the bottle would shatter all over the stairs. She drew the remaining strand through the window and softly shut it before pulling another rope to allow the side door to slam. They would think the intruder went out the back while Fiona stayed safely across the wall.
Fiona skipped to the hydrangea bushes, which concealed a vent with an excellent view of the cellar.
Larkin had sent off a couple lackeys to follow the false trail while he and his best mate, Thaddeus, checked on his beloved wine. Stepping over shards of glass and spilled liquor, Larkin’s eyes swept the room. Searching for potential stolen bottles, he first looked to his favorites, where the crimson dynamite wrapping stuck out like severed fingers. A more subtle color would have allowed the bomb to remain hidden longer, but Fiona’s options had been limited. Larkin slowed as he recognized the bomb, but upon closer inspection, instead of running for his life, he laughed! Uproariously!
“Did you know I specialized in diffusing bombs during the war, Thad?” Larkin asked as he approached the device.
Thad shook his head, but Fiona nodded, closing her eyes as tears welled out.
Instantly, her memories sucked her back to that day when her father’s bear hug twirled her around his workshop, her bubbling laugh infectious and her hair ribbons streaming.
Then the bangs of Imperial soldiers shattering the door. Her father shoving her under the workbench concealing a bolt hole for this purpose. But instead of joining Fiona, her father turned back to the soldiers to give her time to escape. Fiona sat, frozen, unable to turn away as her father, one of the top scientists in the Gearhaven Tinker’s Association, was slaughtered and his life’s works methodically destroyed.
As the men destroyed the shop, Fiona glanced down at the object her father had shoved in her arms: Ayden MacKenna’s final gift to his darling daughter.
Fiona set the dial on the small device to sixty and placed it behind a small cask of nitroglycerin before ducking into the bolt hole.
She opened her eyes, returning to the present, glaring at Larkin. Six men had entered her father’s workshop, two escaped. It had taken her years, but she’d finally tracked down and perfected the demise of her final mark, and here he stood mocking her work.
“. . . I mean, look at this hackneyed thing, Thad! The detonators aren’t even covered! All I have to do is pull these two wires here and it’s harmless.”
Fiona smiled at Larkin’s confused expression as the “bomb” clicked upon removing the wires. She slipped out of the hydrangeas, removing her work jacket to reveal a flirty dress, imagining the way the clicking would turn into a hint of smoke and sparks as the fuses from the device Larkin himself had triggered made their way into neighboring bottles. A tattoo of bomb after bomb — 10 total, Fiona had wanted to be thorough — commenced just as she made it to the door of a pub.
She paused at the door, staring wide-eyed and open mouthed at the smoke and fire pouring from Larkin’s house while customers jostled her on their way out the door.
“Oh dear me,” she fretted, “Do you think anyone got hurt? Did their stove overheat? I’m always afraid my stove will crack from heat!”
A couple men sniggered at her, taking in her ballet flats and dress. “Yes, Lass, that’s exactly what happens when a stove cracks instead of a bloody bunch of bombs,” replied one particularly grizzled fellow.
“Bombs?!” Fiona squeaked.
The man rolled his eyes at her. “Go home Lass, this night’ll be bad enough without some vapid dame getting in the way.”
Fiona dropped her jaw in mock outrage before turning on her heel and flouncing off, her head held high.
After she turned the corner, she rummaged through her bag for a bottle opener and one of the wines she had stolen. Larkin’s cellar happened to have her favorite vintage, so this night was a double win.
Fiona didn’t slow her pace as she pulled the cork. The first swig swirled around her mouth as she took a deep breath of satisfaction, allowing air through her teeth to encourage a riot of flavors to course over her taste buds.
People were wrong, Fiona decided. Revenge wasn’t sweet. Revenge was like a fine wine, its sweetness never overcoming its acid heart.
