Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of god, tell a joke.

- Joss Whedon

I am no stranger to death.

In fact, if death were a person, we would probably be like family. Like the mother I never had, death has guided me through the years. Death has given me a purpose. I can always count on it. After all, everyone is going to die one day. I just speed up the process for some.

I sigh as I realize how much further this body needs to be dragged. A walk in the woods has always helped me relax and relieve tension, but tonight, I am doing it for an entirely different reason.

Yes, it is exactly what you think it is. However, it did not go as planned. The man who lay limply on the ground behind me is not as dead as he should be. I am not really sure how dead he is, all I know is that he is not quite yet. At least, if the soft snores coming out of his mouth are anything to go by.

This has never happened to me before.

Tonight, it did not work.

It all started earlier this week, when I met my client, a lovely lady by the name of Mrs. Herbert. It had surprised me at first, how she could have been driven to hire a hitwoman to murder her husband. She had seemed so nice.

"Ever since he lost his dog, all he does is drink at that ratty pub!" she had gone on and on. "A stupid dog!"

"Was it a very special dog to Mr. Herbert?" I had tried to reason. Who was I to judge a guy for mourning his pet? If Maleficent were to die, I might go off my rocker too.

She could be a pretty nasty little thing at times. All things considered, I might mourn her for a few days and then relish in the fact that I would finally be able to keep couches in my house.

Ignoring my question, she had continued, "He quit his job, stopped shaving and even went as far as selling our house for heaven's sake! All because everything reminds him of Rosy!" If Mrs. Herbert's face had not been this round I could only imagine how angry she would have looked.

I had remained silent as she enumerated all the reasons for which getting rid of her husband seemed like the best case scenario. My attempts at zoning her out were in vain, for Mrs. Herbert had a very lively and piercing voice. The kind which was impossible to ignore.

She had paused to take a sip from her tea and her eyebrows had raised at me expectantly. I was to participate in this mindless conversation.

"Ok... so you want him dead?" I had asked.

"Yes! He is worth more to me dead than alive now, anyway." She had produced a thick wad of cash from her expensive looking leather purse, smacking it on the table with her chubby fingers. "Can you do it?" she had asked with a hopeful look plastered on her face.

I had accepted. This was my job after all.

After having re-adjusted her curly blonde wig for the third time since sitting down at the small café table, she had slid out of her chair, clumsily knocking over the teacup she had been drinking from as she stood and sending it flying across the floor.

She had looked around the café self-consciously with reddened cheeks and frantic eyes as the waitress rushed to us with a broom and dustpan

"Oh dear! I am so sorry!"

Once she had regained her senses, Mrs. Herbert had turned to me before whisper-yelling, "I'll email you the details."

So here I am, a week later, dragging Mr. Herbert's 250 pound body across two miles of thick forest. He is not dead though.

I had arrived at the James Street Pub earlier this Friday evening, where Mr. Herbert was drinking more than his fair share of whiskey, exactly as his wife had said he would.

Fridays were usually my day off, but Mrs. Herbert had insisted that it had to be today, or else she might get cold feet. When I had first spotted him, using the picture his wife had kindly emailed me, he had struck me as your typical middle-aged guy, although maybe a little plumper than average around the mid-section. He had been wearing a grey suit with frayed edges and loose buttons, which made the whole attire look a little weathered under the dim lights of the pub. With the alcohol already working its magic, slipping a few tablets of GHB in his glass had been a piece of cake.

Waiting patiently in one of the booths for the drug to start working, I had been observing my surroundings for anything that could possibly disturb my plans when Mr. Herbert's body started to sway a little. The GHB had worked much faster than was normal for a man his size, but I brushed it off as some people were more sensitive to these things than other. He had gotten up, slowly dragging himself in the direction of the washroom, exactly as I had expected him too.

Silently but effortlessly slipping into the men's bathroom like I had done many times before, for work purposes I feel compelled to add, I positioned myself behind Mr. Herbert's crouching frame, my face reflecting in the toilet water for only a brief second.

"Sweet dreams..." I whispered in his ear dramatically, before sliding my dagger, which I named Janice, across his meaty neck.

I am a sucker for theatrics.

Things had gone as planned pretty much until that point. You see, instead of falling head first in the toilet bowl with blood gushing out of his throat, Mr. Herbert had turned to me with bewildered eyes. I had stared in horror as the sliced skin from his throat closed back up on its own, not one drop of blood shed.

"What did you that fooo-" he had slurred before passing out on the concrete floor with a loud thud.

"Shit."

I later realized Mrs. Herbert had failed to mention that her husband was a witch.

My first clue should have been his distress over Rosy's death. The dog had been his familiar. Witches were very emotional when it came to their animal companions. My second hint should have been the short length of time it had taken his body to react to the GHB. They were more sensitive to man-made drugs than other creatures.

If the fact that I had tried to assassinate a witch and that he would soon wake up pretty pissed off was not bad enough, the owner of the pub had heard him fall and had asked me to take him home, probably thinking I was his girlfriend for so kindly taking care of him while he was passed out drunk in the toilet.

Not really knowing what else to do in my panicked state, this really never happened to me, I had opted to take him to my place, which was, as it turned out, inconveniently located in the middle of the woods.

You may wonder why I have chosen such a place to live and the answer is a little more complicated than the question. First, there is the fact that I enjoy the quiet. Second, I kill people for a living. Being around them too often is awkward. Do butchers live alongside their cows? Do scientists live with rats?

I let go of Mr. Herbert's ankles, letting them fall on the cold ground while I try to regain my breath. Holding my knees with both hands, a loose strand of hair falls from my black hoodie, sticking to my face from all the sweat. Dear god, I am winded. Either I am out of shape or Mr. Herbert is.

The wings of a particularly loud crow flaps in the wind as he comes out of hiding with a few caws, before disappearing again. A few others follow him until I am met with silence again.

"As the crows fly..." I muter, looking back down at my burden.

"Come on, Mr. Herbert. We're almost there." I grab him by the legs again, resuming my course with a new found resolve. "I'll even give you Maleficent if you don't try to kill me when you wake up." I pull him over a large moss-covered fallen tree trunk with all my might, "She'll make a great familiar." I groan. Too bad unconscious men cannot hear jokes.

"Do you make a habit of drugging men to bring them back to your house?" I hear a low, yet penetrating voice I have never heard before behind me.

I jump high enough that I drop Mr. Herbert on the ground, again.

I look around in search of the intruder and it only takes me a second to spot the dark figure leaning on a maple tree no less than ten feet away from Mr. Herbert and me. I can barely make out his face under his black cloak, so I squint my eyes to see more.

Although his posture does not seem threatening, I do not take any chances. I pull out my dagger from my sleeve and take a defensive stance. What is this guy doing in the middle of the night, so deep within the forest?

I decide to humour him. "And do you make a habit of following girls to their house in the middle of the night?"

From the tilt of his head, I can see him looking down at the blade in my left hand. He chuckles lowly and takes a step forward. Crossing both arms in front of his chest, I get a small peak at what is under his cloak. No weapon.

"I hope you aren't planning on fighting me with that thing." He nods toward Janice and I detect a hint of amusement in his voice.

I narrow my eyes at him. He clearly has no idea who he is messing with.

"That's exactly what I'm planning. These are my woods," I take a defiant step in his direction, "and you're trespassing."

His hood shifts when a gust of wind blows in our direction, exposing his entire face without falling from his head. His black eyes are cold and lifeless as he stares at me and a small shiver runs up my spine. Perhaps he is no longer amused.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" He takes another step closer and I notice how his footsteps leave no prints in the mud. "But since we are on the topic of trespassing one another's territory-"

"Don't take another step, Shifty, or I swear to god I'll slide this right across your throat." I say, smiling, "And that scar on your left cheek, I'll make it look like a mere scratch."

I watch as his face morphs into a look of pure shock. I expected a reaction, but this is as if my words struck him more than they should have.

"My scar?" I almost miss the slight tremor in his voice.

"It's pretty hard to miss," I start with a smirk. It is too bad, this guy would be a solid ten were it not for that gash on the side of his face.

"What else do you see?" he asks, looking panicked now.

"What do you mean?" Confusion laces my words, mostly because I am starting to wonder why we are discussing my vision instead of getting to the bottom of why he is here.

Maybe I should tease him just to see how he might react. "I see that if Brad Pitt and Jason Momoa were to have a child, he'd probably look something like you."

It takes him a moment to process my words and I see confusion across his eyes. Then, I feel a change in air around us. It is subtle at first, a slight drop in temperature, a heaviness that was not there before. With a dark lock of hair obscuring a part of his forehead, the stranger's eyebrows knot together and he begins to stalk toward me. I recognize that stance. The fierce look in his eyes, the way his nostrils flare, his shoulders slightly bent forward, aiming right at his target. He looks like a god damn cat. Too bad I am not a mouse.

And although I never kill outside of a contract, if it comes down to him or me, I will not be the dead one tonight.

In a blur of black robes, he appears in front of me and before I can process the inhuman speed at which he moved, his large hand circles my throat and my feet lift from the ground. My eyes widen in surprise, but it is not from the pressure or the lack of oxygen. The area where our skin meets becomes incredibly warm and starts tingling. Almost...soothing. Decidedly not how it should feel to be strangled.

He freezes in front of me, dark eyes locking with mine, giving me a glance of the internal battle going on inside him. He does not release my neck, but the pressure is lessened until the smallest flow of air can pass through. Just enough for me to regain my senses. When he makes no move to finish what he started, I take advantage of his distraction and drive Janice straight through his plexus in one quick movement. Warm, thick blood begins to poor out of his wound and along my wrist and I know I got him good.

When he realizes what I did, his grip on my neck tightens again and he hisses under his breath. Instead of falling in agony like I expect him to, he grabs Janice with his free hand and slowly slides it out of his body, throwing the blood-covered dagger on the grass.

Oh shit. Another one. Two supernaturals in one night.

"First of all, you can't kill me. I'm immortal," he inches his face closer to mine until I feel his hot breath fanning my cheeks "And second, I look nothing like Brad Pitt," he spits, letting go of me as though I am nothing but a dirty rag.

I fall to my knees in a fit of coughs as I struggle to control the influx of air my body so desperately needs. My self-confidence plummets when my eyes connect with his murderous black ones.

How the hell am I going to get myself out of this?

I fully expect him to finish the job. To end my life right then and there. After all, I just tried to kill him.

Instead, he bends down and picks up Janice.

"Does this weapon mean anything to you?" He twirls it in his large hand, the moon light reflecting briefly on the blade. Before I have the chance to answer, he gets down on one knee so that our faces are at level. "I'm going to keep this for now." He tucks Janice into his cloak before continuing, "Listen carefully, little girl, all of this killing is going to stop tonight. I'm done competing with you. If you don't take this warning seriously, you will have a much bigger problem than Sabrina back there." So, he is not going to kill me after all.

As if on cue, I hear Mr. Herbert's body shuffling behind me. "Where am I? What happened..."

Shifty's eyes suddenly turn a blazing shade of orange before fire is reflected in them. I turn toward Mr. Herbert just in time to see the flames engulfing his large body, his cries of pain echoing in the night.

"For the record, the only way to kill a witch is burn to it," he smirks, "Not that you'll be needing this information now, right?"

I gulp. Is the fact that Mr. Herbert is a witch that obvious to everyone else?

Before I have time to fully process the situation, realization hits me.

"Shit!"

I run toward Mr. Herbert's quivering body, flailing my arms at him like a mad woman in the hopes of stopping the fire before he completely combusts.

Amber flames suddenly turn blue and he disappears in one loud poof. I turn back around to look at Shifty, who is now staring at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Great! Just great! I did not even get the chance to grab his I.D." I let my arms slump on each side of me in defeat.

"I'm not going to ask why you needed his I.D, but maybe a thank you is in order. After all, I just did you a favour."

I glare at him, "Right after you tried to kill me. Which, by the way, why aren't you doing?"

He pinches my chin and lifts my head up so that I am forced to look at him. The warmth from his fingers spreads through me, but I ignore it. "I've had a change of heart. Stop the killing and I'll let you live."

A change of heart. Something tells me this guy does not have a heart, but I decide not to press my luck and shut my mouth. He re-adjusts his hood above his head and turns away.

Before the shadows can swallow him, I see him grab something that had been leaning against the tree.

I frown. With its curved blade and floor-length handle, it could only be one thing. It looks a lot like a scythe.

But could it be?

I begin to piece things together, the wheels in my head turning a mile an hour as I look in the distance where he just disappeared. Him telling me stop killing, saying that he is tired of competing with me. His black cloak, the scythe which, being the outdated weapon that it is, could really only belong to one person.