Apostasy: The Book of Ithaca

Prologue revised 11/27/12

The Ninth Son

Apostasy: The Book of Ithaca
A novel by J.M. Kraynak

Prologue



         He stared through the window to the lower levels of the basilica, and licked his lips as he watched his prey - the young Sister Deacon. She'd buried herself in old and dusty books for a good portion of the evening. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and stretched her arms, and he knew that she would soon retire for the night. He was willing to wait for her, no matter how long she stayed awake. He allowed himself no scrap of impatience, for rushing things would steal the thrill of the moment. His moment.

         He had rolled the plan over in his head for weeks and calculated all the methods of trespass. It would be unacceptable to botch this hunt. It was the highest he had ever aimed, and though the risk was high, his labor would be well worth it.

         The chilling breeze slowly began to build to a small torrent of howling wind, carrying with it, flakes of the first snowfall. His hair whipped at his face, but he ignored the stings. The black, mud stained cloak draped over his shoulders swayed in the strong wind, whipping at the frayed ends like a tattered banner upon a rusty mast.

         The blade, he could hear, was calling to him... crying to him. It too, was as much a hunter as he, and it had been famished for far too long. His cadre wasn't large by any standards. He preferred to travel in a small hunting group, accompanied only by his dirk, garrote, and gag. Each of them had their own tastes in prey, and they had found this morsel to be to all their liking. She was simply delicious. The more he thought of his plans, the hungrier they became. Each of them was eager to make the kill, but each knew that they had to be patient. Rushing things would only lead to disaster. Something they were quite unfamiliar with.

         Their hunting experience had been a long and successful one. However, until this moment, they had always considered themselves to be amateurs. Most of their time had been spent on the trail hunting the whores and unfortunates in the slums and brothels. The glory of the hunt had nearly vanished, for their prey was far too weak. It was far too easy. This one however, would be different. This hunt would be exciting.

         She was perfect; flawless. The whores and unfortunates had nothing to offer him compared to this morsel. Not even a single tear was shed for such animals. No one missed them, or cared for them. None mourned their deaths, or so much as looked twice at their lifeless bodies. The worthless folk began to bore them, and they needed a new excitement. She was it.

         As the sounds of the distant streets began to die out to a soft murmur echoing through the dark alleys, he began to quiver with rapture. He knew that it would not be long. Soon the light in her quarters would go out, and the fire in her eyes would glaze over. Then, she would be his prey. So innocent, so pure, so resolved, so helpless.

         His mind raced with all manner of thoughts and expectations, and he could feel adrenaline surging through his body. He could only imagine her delicious scent and taste. Soon, it wouldn't be his imagination it would be real. He would be alive, and so would she. His breathing grew heavy as he watched her close the heavy book and rub her eyes. It was almost time.

         This night was going to last forever, and it would be remembered. He would be feared, and exalted. He could only imagine as to the wake he would leave behind. She was too pure to not be mourned. Too innocent to not be noticed. This sister Deacon would begin a great endeavor.

         He had cased her quarters for days, and he knew, that in the lower cloisters he had little to fear. The walls were thick, and the doors were heavy. The locks were invulnerable to force. None would notice his trespass. Her faint whimpers would go unheard. Their feast would go unseen.

********************

         He waited outside the window for nearly two hours after the light in her quarters finally quenched. The moon loomed in the midnight sky, and its light burst through the occasional breaks in the oppressive clouds. The cold glow of the moonlight illuminated her room and revealed her in the small bed. Beneath the heavy woolen covers, her gentle breaths rose and fell in her bosom. She was sound asleep.

         Inspecting the window, he knew that it was certainly locked. His fingertips tingled as he focused his thoughts and emotions into a tangible energy, and placed his palm on the cold glass. Iron mechanisms clicked as he released the energy. Resorting to such methods on petty devices felt almost as if he were cheating. He preferred using his hands, and his tools.

         The unlocked window creaked in stone slots as he slowly lifted. He was silent as he slipped through it. His first foot touched the cold wooden floor, and his fingers were numb with anticipation. The dirk at his side, screamed with delight. His second foot felt the touch of the splintered wood beneath him, and with slow precision, he shut the window. Through his dark eyes, the fiery excitement was blinding. He was famished, and he had waited for this night too long.

         Her Deacon's vestment hung at the foot of her bed in a near perfect order. The dark gray cassock and tunicle were most likely still warm from the heat of her innocent body. Laid atop it, her white stole draped over in immaculate manner, as if she were still wearing it over her shoulders. It was an excellent binding.

         He crept to the side of her bed, melted within the shadows. His hand eased the garrote out of his deep pockets, and he bit his lip with pleasure. The soft touch of black leather caressed her scarlet lips as his gloved hands made their first strike. Death itself entered this room, and its chilling grip clasped over her mouth like a vice. She was now his prisoner.

         Her efforts to scream were little more than whispered yelps muffled by the cold hand of the wolf. The onslaught began as he ripped her out of the bed. With the precision of only the most experienced hunters, he was quick to wrap the thin metal garrote cord around her neck. As swift as the serpent's tongue, his hand went from the warmth of her lips to the grip of the hungering cordage. As his vice tightened, her breathing began to slow, and the weight of her perfect, naked body sunk to the chill of the wooden floor.

         He released his grip on his garrote and coiled it around her small wrists. As he watched her gentle breathing, wide eyes raced around the room. He snatched the white stole draped over her vestments, and bound her feet together. The gag came out of his other pocket, and as if it were something alive, it wrapped around her mouth like a snake around its meal. She was his.

         His muscles twitched with pleasure as he lifted her limp body back into the warm bed. The night was still so young, and he had all the time in the world to feast on his prey. He removed the leather gloves from his hands and stroked his finger down the soft skin of her naked body. Sighing with rapture, his eyes closed as he imagined his newest masterpiece. Like the slow flow of time itself, the dirk slid from its sheath at his side, and he began his reign over her. This night was perfect.