‘ destroy the idea that i can be stopped. that i can be defeated by mortal hands. ’
Mathieu feared little that he couldn’t prove. As it was, he had no reason to cower from the intangible, to balk at colorful stories specifically told to intimidate and terrorize. For all he knew, the infamous Annabella Chaney was simply the protagonist of her own exaggerated Gothic novel. This wasn’t to say that Mathieu was foolish; he knew of the Chaneys, of course he did. But who was to believe the outlandish ridiculousness of the tales told? That a woman barely his senior was alone responsible for the current legacy of the Chaney organization?
In truth, this was the belief that Mathieu once subscribed to. That the stories told of the lethal woman with the doll-like name were just that: stories. And, at that, these tales of warning weren’t told for the likes of him. So, why should he care?
His truths had changed.
Sitting across from the woman now, he noted that she was every bit the legend that her mythologies told and more. And he was wrong to have told her that any of her plans would be impossible. Though he was able to school his wince from his features as he addressed her, his nails bit crescent moons into his palms beneath the table. “This next mark will be a challenge,” he ventured, hesitantly now, his tone pregnant with the diplomacy necessitated to such words. “Not easy to get alone. Not to mention, get them vulnerable enough to talk.”
He allowed himself only a moment of silence to stretch between them, not wanting her to mistake his words for argument or defeat. Mathieu simply nodded once. An acquiescence. “It’ll be done. As you wish it.”
With that, he stood, buttoning his jacket as he rose to his full height, still somehow diminished in her presence despite his added inches. Annabella was the stories that were told, folklore that would linger long after her death, her immortality terrifying others for many future generations to come.