Initiated to Kill

First 15 pages of Initiated to Kill

Prologue

January, 1888





The solemn lodge hid from unworthy eyes, an unnoticeable forgotten place made of granite.

Two Sphinx-like granite lions with women's heads peered down from the entrance of the lodge.

An "ankh" adorned the lion's neck, entwined with a cobra. An image of a woman embellished

the neck and breast of the other lion, speaking of fertility and procreation.

Fervent men slowly make their way up the three levels of narrowing steps, passing under the

two Egyptian swords with curved serpentine blades, passing through the two tall bronze doors.

One man glanced up as he ascended the steps, silently mouthing, "the temple of the Supreme

Council Freemasons," made of brass letters and set in stone. His gaze fell to the plaque cut in

stone, "Freemasonry Builds Its Temples in the Hearts of Men and Among Nations."

Stone columns extend high above the entrance and partially conceal an image of an

Egyptian god, backed with radiating sun and flanked by six large golden snakes. He stepped past

the threshold of the lodge entirely made of marble, exotic wood, and statues carved from gold.

The ofting room decorated with many symbols, especially the serpent, and portraits of

famous and influential men, lined the walls. Illuminations flickered above the men, resembling

stars in the dark blue sky; the golden serpents silently watching in the blue heavens.

Slowly removing his clothes, wrapping the long black robe around him, placing a hood over

his head to partially conceal his face.

In the recesses of the ancient temple, an ornately decorated room filled with candles, lighted

the way for the men filing in. Dressed in long black robes, hands pressed solemnly together,

slowly the row of men trudge into the Temple room. Each with their face down, they instinctively

form a large circle in the room.

The room fell with a deathly silence; abruptly three knocks reverberated throughout the

room. The Worshipful Master spoke, "You will admit him in the name of the Grand Architect of

the Universe, and let him be placed in the West."

Gradually the door creaks open, a young man enters with a black robe and the left knee and

breast exposed. The young man's face is covered by a dark cloth and led around the circle by a

rope around his neck. The candidate is led to the oath of secrecy where the Worshipful Master

stands. A sword is pricked to the candidate's left breast.

"As this is a prick to the flesh at this time, so may the remembrance of it be to your

conscience hereafter, should you ever attempt improperly to reveal any of the secrets with which

you are about to be entrusted."

The group silently watch as the candidate is instructed to kneel with his left knee bare and

bent, his right foot forming a square and the body being erect in that square. The left hand

supports the Volume of the Sacred Law, compass and square and right hand placed thereon.

"'Vouch safe Thine Aid, Almighty Father, Grand Architect of the Universe, to this our

present conviction. Grant that this Candidate for Masonry, now kneeling before thee, may

dedicate and devote his life to thy Service, and become a true and faithful Brother amongst us.

To this end endue him with such a competency of thy Divine Wisdom, that assisted by the secrets

of our Royal Masonic Art, he may be better enabled to display the beauties of true godliness to

the Honour and glory of Thy Most Holy Name.' "

"'I do most solemnly and sincerely promise and swear to have my throat cut across, my

tongue torn out by the roots, and my body buried in the rough sands of the sea at low water

mark, where the tide ebbs and flows in twenty-four hours...should I ever knowingly or willingly

violate this my solemn oath or obligation as an Entered Apprentice Mason. So help me God.' "

The young man is then presented with white gloves and escorted to the pedestal in the East

to become an Entered Apprentice.

Throughout the ceremony another waited expectedly. Another man would join them, and this

man would be the one. He had done a lot to encourage them to allow this man to be initiated.

But he could never have foretold the events to come.



* * * *



A candlelit chamber houses a secret meeting where four men sit around a table, each

wearing the long black robes and only talking above a whisper.

"The time has come to make our stand and proclaim to our Brothers that it's time. It's our

time to cause such a panic, that people will not know whom to turn to. That the reliance on

religion and government will pass. It's our time to take control, and whoever does not stand

behind us will fall."

"Yes, we must give a sign to our Brothers that can only be recognized by them, something

that will forever change the world."





Chapter 1



London, 1996



"Mummy, mummy, wake up! Please don't leave me." A dark shadow appeared, as a man

advanced towards her.

"Mummy's not going to wake up, but Daddy will look after you."

"Please don't hurt me, I'll be good. I promise."

An arm went around the child, and darkness fell.

* * * *

Seville, 2010



A mixture of sounds and smells fill the streets of Seville. The reverberation of marching

bands, crying and laughing erupt through every street. Aromas of orange blossom of azahar,

incense and candle wax waft softly through the air. Closing my eyes, inhaling the fragrances that

blow by.

A crowd of onlookers watch the statues of saints on floats meander their way along the

streets. The image of Christ begins winding through the busy avenues, the people claw to get

near it, touching, kissing and confessing to the image as it moves to the church.

I relish the sights as the Madruga or processions bring to life the week before the

crucifixion. Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday each represents a day before Christ was crucified,

and pasos, or floats, carry the images of the Virgin Mary.

My thoughts wonder to the first time I experienced this unique event.

"Make sure you save your strength for Friday and Sunday, my dear," my aunt advised. "On

Friday morning we can travel back through time to the morning that our Lord had to carry the

cross through the shouting crowds up to Golgotha Hill.

"And in the afternoon you will witness many statues passing through the streets with Christ

on the cross, representing the Crucifixion. Our blessed Holy Mother Mary will also be carried

through the streets, as she represents the sorrow she felt when her son was crucified."

That day was filled with mourning. People cried and pleaded for forgiveness as statues of

Christ and Mary were carried on the floats. I could remember my aunt explaining to me about the

sudden explosion of instruments and songs that erupted all over the city on Friday night.

"It represents how God tore the land in two. How the temple curtains were torn from top to

bottom. The tombs broke open, and the bodies of many holy people were raised to life."

My heart beat as I remembered that dramatic night. How tears had filled my eyes because of

the suffering of Christ. I had told my aunt that I didn't want to return, it was so sad.

"Oh, my child. This is not the end. On the Easter Sunday it represents Christ rising from the

dead. It's the best part of Holy Week."

I had reluctantly attended. The day was full of light, color and energy. People celebrated in

the streets, crying and laughing at the same time. Vibrations erupted all over the city as the

church and cathedral bells rang out, celebrating the resurrection of Christ.

A hand gently nudged me out of my reverie.

"Come on," Celestina encouraged, "otherwise we will never be able to get home again."

I glanced back at the floats one last time, finally turning to withdraw from the celebrations.

Navigating through the busy crowds into the narrow, winding cobbled streets of Santa Cruz,

the whitewashed houses lengthened up on each side of us, sloping towards each other.

Entering through the iron-gated doors into the courtyard filled with century-old gardens and

aromatic orange trees, many could still hear Semana Santa travelling down the streets.

I welcomed the familiar feel of our Spanish-style apartment, the walls graced with white

paint and paintings that were collected by both of us. Splashes of maroon brightened up the

traditional earthy tones that decorated our living room.

Strolling through the dining room that led out onto the patio, I gazed out over the Alcazar

gardens. The variety of trees, flowers, ponds, fountains and terraces provided a view unique to

Seville.

Closing my eyes, leaning against the iron railing, inhaling the delicate aromatic scents of

rose, orange and frangipani that garnish each patio along the street.

The culminating aromas filling my nostrils, but the sounds that made the people laugh with

pleasure, I couldn't experience. The marching bands, the trod of the horses did not reach my

ears.

I subconsciously reached behind my head and fingered the scar crisscrossing along my

hairline. The scar that would daily remind me of what I lost, of what I could never get back.

Staring out at the deserted streets, I reluctantly entered into the humid confines of the

apartment. Celestina hummed along to some music, swaying her hips as she placed grainy bread

on top of a stacked sandwich. Her model-like height of 5'8 accentuated her thin frame, while her

long black hair cascaded down her shoulders and nearly reached her lower back. The intensity of

her emerald green eyes, matched with her sexual prowess, drew men to her like flies.

Her confidence was something I could never achieve. A weakness I could never let go.

Celestina handed me a plate and proceeded out on to the patio. We sat in silence, staring out

at the Plaza's gardens.

First making eye contact with me, she wiped her hands on her short skirt.

"So, do you want to hear about my latest conquest?" Her eyes held a mischievous twinkle.

Shaking my head in amusement, I couldn't help but smile. I didn't need to go out and have

fun; she did enough for both of us.

"Perhaps you should write a book. You have enough tales to fill a large novel."

I turned to her, waiting for her provoked reaction.

Smiling, she tilted her head back.

"Someone has to."

Shaking my head once again, I stood, making it clear I wasn't in the mood for one of her tales.

"While you daydream, I'll go for a walk to clear my head. Those smells are enough to

intoxicate anyone."

She didn't reply as I made my way out.

Standing for a moment in the courtyard, everything around me silent, I again fingered the

scar on the back of my head. The injury that caused permanent damage, an injury that left me

unable to hear.



Chapter 2



London, 1996



The shadows danced tauntingly across the walls. The twinkling of bells and music drifted

from downstairs. A slight breeze whistled through the trees, a lone branch brushed against the

windowpane.

A silhouette filled the doorway, it stood there for a moment. Seeming as if frozen in time.

Footsteps drew nearer, a hand brushed across her face. Whispers murmured in the silent room.

Fingers grazed her cheek. She held her breath, waiting, terrified if she allowed herself to

breathe, he would stay.

Moments passed. Crying in the distance could be heard. Then just as quickly as he

materialized, he was gone. The touch of his fingers burning her flesh.



* * * *

Seville, 2010



The large oval entrance, adorned with an angel perched on top, stretched along the expanse

of palm trees, filling the oval stone archways.

Seville University bespoke of times long past, of century-old architecture that still to this

day holds strong.

Celestina ambled behind me along the pedestrian crossing, heading to the university where I

took Art History, and she delved into archaeology.

"I didn't take it because I'm smart, I take it because of the cute guys that will hopefully be at

the digs," Celestina would claim.

Of course, I knew that wasn't true. Every time they unearthed a new artifact, Celestina's

eyes would light up with excitement. My first encounter with her at a museum when we were

sixteen years old foretold of her love for lost worlds. Her passion to unearth hidden artifacts.

Years ago, this old building housed the many women that toiled for long hours making

tobacco.

Large rooms on every floor occupies the two-level neo-classical structure, door-size glass

windows opening onto patios.

"You know, this place is seriously morbid," Celestina commented, approaching the faculty

that houses Philosophy, Geography and history.

"Every time I come here I feel like I'm entering medieval times."

A majority of the student population thought the same thing, but I found it perfect. What

better place to learn history, than a place that is enveloped by sculptures, stone alcoves, and wells.

Enveloped in oriental-Arabic history.

Students buzzed around the courtyard, encased with oval archways supported by large

columns, a student naively tossed a coin into the wishing fountain. Mini palm trees in pots

encircled the wishing fountain, the three levels allowing the rush of water to cascade down to the

bottom where a large basin sat.

Smiling to myself, I could just imagine the caretaker joyfully collecting his extra earnings at

the end of the day. Spooning all of those coins that students tossed in, in vain hope that their

wishes would come true.

Unfortunately for many, wishes don't come true. And hope was only an emotion that would

eventually turn into despair.



Chapter 3



"So, even though Nicolas Poussin depicted many Biblical scenes in his paintings, some

scholars say that certain works could actually mean something entirely different. Even depicting

Greek mythology.

"Take for example the Four Seasons, series 1660-1664. Even though he was commissioned

by Cardinal Richelieu, King Louis XIII's Chief Minister, Poussin's paintings could be

interpreted in an entirely different way than what the church would have wanted.

"Spring was supposed to be a representation of creation, but it can also be interpreted as the

Birth of Baccahus to denote Apollo.

"Summer can denote Ceres, goddess of grain and fertility. Autumn represents the grapes that

hung from the vine in the Garden of Eden, but can also depict a reference to Baccahus. And

Winter, the snake slithering over rocks, the tempter in the Garden of Eden, could be a reference

to the classical underworld and Pluto."

Professor Dickerman's face belied his passion in symbols, and how they can be found in art

and life.

Carefully watching his lips moving, I typed away on my mini laptop, finding the most

effective way of taking notes was to become extremely talented in typing away without looking

at the keypad.

"I would like you all to look at paintings in classical art and see if you can find some hidden

meaning in them. Research some paintings of your choosing to see if there's any information out

there that can back up your essay. Regardless if it's conspiracy theories or not. Remember, the

hidden meaning can be something depicting mythology, a code or other meanings that are not

widely accepted. Be creative, don't be afraid to go outside the box.

"Thanks, class, and remember, symbols are everywhere. You'll be surprised how many

surround us right now."

Smiles broke free from the intense concentration on everyone's faces. Professor Dickerman

always finished his classes on that note.

Smiling to myself, I closed my laptop, collecting my things.

Celestina stood in the doorway, her eyes lit up in pleasure, a flirtatious smile played on her

lips as she watched the professor nod goodbye to his students.

"A little past his time, isn't he?" I whispered to Celestina, as I squeezed past her and out into

the corridor.

"Oh, I don't know, his passionate proclamations may hide other passions elsewhere."

She raised one eyebrow suggestively, slowly trailing her finger along her lips.

I shook my head in amusement, "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

Giggling, she hooked her arm through mine. "Oh, I'm sure you'll think of

something."



Chapter 4



Laughter filled their private exchange.

At last Celestina had convinced him to have a drink with her. It would only be a matter of

time before he would fully concede to her obvious charm.

Moving in closer, she placed her hand on his thigh, seductively allowing it to travel further

up the leg. Her eyes held his as she placed her hand on his erect groin, leaning in to trace her lips

on his neck.

He furtively looked around. "We shouldn't. Do you know what would happen if they found

out?"

Leaning in and whispering, "How would they find out? Besides, I would make it worth it."

Trailing her tongue across her lips, her hand caressed his groin, enjoying the discomfort she

created.

"No!"

Aggressively pushing her hand away, moving to the other side--attempting to create some

distance.

Celestina was slightly taken aback. No man that she had set her sights on had rejected her.

But she knew he wanted her. It would just take a little more time.

Smiling, slowly curving her way up, placing emphasis on her hips, her tight skirt hugging

her butt.

"Fine. But I don't give up that easily."

With that she sauntered away. Even more determined to entrap him. His vulnerability could

prove very useful.



* * * *



His eyes skirted the small crowd, but people were so absorbed in their own problems, they

didn't notice his.

Downing the rest of his drink, trying to calm his raging hormones.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember his goal.

Yes, this may prove easier than he thought.



* * * *

Sinking back on the plush reclining chair, enjoying indulging in the purchases I made at the

markets. Every Sunday morning the markets would bring fresh produce from all over Spain and

beyond.

Local women would spend Saturdays and early Sunday mornings to bake a selection of

breads. Breads with olive oil and rosemary, sun-dried tomato and olives, white and dark

chocolate sweet breads, and the more traditional white or whole-meal breads displayed for

people to sample.

But people came from all over Seville to experience the intoxicating aroma of the

fermenting wine in barrels. The uniqueness of the fresh oaky smell, mingled with the fruity citrus

bouquet of white wine, or the rich berry tang of the red set taste buds on fire.

Dipping a piece of dark chocolate sweet bread into a strawberry champagne sauce, I knew I

made a perfect purchase. Snuggling into the sofa, I barely registered Celestina coming in, quietly

making her way to her bedroom.

Tapping my fingers on the glass of wine, I debated whether I should talk to her. But I knew

it was of no use. She would have to learn from her mistakes. Hopefully one of her mistakes

wouldn't land her in trouble that she couldn't get out of.



* * * *



In the shadows of the courtyard, a man stood behind one of the columns that supported the

many alcoves circling around the courtyard. Those dark eyes watched as Celestina climbed up

the stairs. The way her body moved caused him to ache, gritting his teeth against the rising pain.

She opened and shut the door, completely unaware that she was being watched. He knew the

time was coming; he would take whatever he wanted. He would make her plead. Her life would

be in his hands. For now he needed them, but the time would come when he would do this on his

own, again.

Leaning against the column, allowing the feeling of pleasure to arise.

Yes, her time would come.







Chapter 5



"Mummy, mummy, wake up!"

"Mummy's not going to wake up. Come with daddy."

"Daddy, please don't hurt me."



* * * *



My body slowly awakened, my mind feeling as if I had traveled back from another world,

another time. Glancing at the clock beside my bed, yet another early morning. My regular 4:30

wake-up call left me wondering why my sleep was suddenly plagued by dreams.

Sometimes the nightmare would feel so real, tears would slide down my cheeks as the deep

torment would cause over-whelming pain and sorrow.

Swinging my legs over the double princess-type bed with the long black poles at each end,

the clear white chiffon material delicately draped the bed.

Reaching across my maple bedside table, I turned on the little lamp with the purple covering

that my aunt gave as a house-warming gift. The bulb would routinely change color so the

covering would take on different hues.

Moving to open the curtains, revealing the windowpane that was just large enough to sit

sideways on.

Small flowerpots containing two mini herb gardens, one with lavender and the other with

rosemary, perched on either side of the windowpane. I loved how the scents would radiate

through my room and create a comforting experience.

This fragrance would remind me of my mother, she loved her herb gardens. Picking fresh

lavender and rosemary every day to scent the different rooms, a fan of adding different herbs to

dishes, experimenting with meals when my father was out-of-town.

I fingered one of the stems and inhaled the powerful aroma of lavender. Memories long

passed still lingered, trying to be set free. A niggling, an itch of some sort tried to push through

the recesses of my brain. But still remained hidden, unable, or unwilling to be set free.

Grabbing my work-out clothes, I headed for the bathroom. Knowing the only way to work

out my frustration was to go for a run.

Padding into the kitchen, I gulped down a glass of fresh spring water. Opening up the long

gold/creamy curtains to reveal the still darkened streets, I could see the lighted-up Giralda tower

in the distance. Lights twinkled in the nearby apartments.

I treasured this time of morning as I went for my early morning run. So quiet and still.

Increasing my speed, passing by the gardens, the many apartment buildings that housed lucky

contented sleepers.

A hanging fern brushed my shoulder as I wearily climbed the stairs to the apartment. After

taking a warm shower I drifted out to the patio, enjoying the glorious view and smells that we

were so blessed with.

My hand subconsciously traveled to the back of my head. The faintest of memory of how it

happened never left me. The events only a blur, but one day soon, my past memories would all

come scurrying back.





Chapter 6



London, 1996



The sun peeked through the shutters, attempting to block out the shadows of the night. The

young girl cowered in the corner, squeezing her prized teddy to her chest. Yelling echoed

through the walls.

A glass smashed, a door banged closed. Silence filled her ears. An unwanted tear ran down

her cheek. She peered at the sun, wishing the magic that would turn the moon to the sun would

take her away. But nothing would rescue her, and she could not leave.

Her eyes closed, and she prayed. Fervently hoping God would grant her wish.

"Take my daddy away."



* * * *



Seville, 2010



The warmth of the sun invited runners of all ages to join in its splendor. Another night of

dreams left a nauseous feeling in my gut. The sense of foreboding. That something was going to

happen. I never believed in psychics, never believed I had any ability. But the overwhelming

sense that something bad was going to happen intensified every night.

Grabbing my running shoes and clothes, I quickly changed and made my way to a place that

would be sure to comfort.

Across the university Parque de Maria Luisa is a welcome abode to spring. The paradisiacal

array of palms and orange trees, elms and Mediterranean pines created an escape from the busy

city life.

The San Telmo palace beckoned in the distance as I entered its vibrant gardens. Jogging

along the paved pathway, a rainbow of flower beds and ponds lined either side. A bouquet of

aromas wafted through the air.

Duck, peacocks and swans swam leisurely on the still waters. Birds prodded one another,

drinking from the fountains dotted around the park.

It is easy to forget where you are, easy to transport to another world, to get lost amongst the

colors and smells. Bordering the park, tourists can find themselves being led to the Plaza de

Espana, or Plaza de Amica--where the Art and Popular Customs museum pavilion lies.

And, of course, Celestina's favorite museum, and her place of work, the Archaeological

Museum.

My eyes couldn't help but drift to the bed of bright orange leaves; layers of flamenco pink

and ocean-blue spikes, the bird of paradise. A stunning flower, spreading in abundance,

surrounded by the red carnation and pink Spanish rose, garnishing the simple soil with vivid

pinks and passionate reds.

Refocusing my breathing, I picked up my pace. My pounding feet meeting gravel as I

entered into the Plaza de las Palamas or Plaza of the Doves, a family of doves beginning to

congregate as the area started to awaken.

Tourists are warned not to feed these small creatures, they may appear harmless, but have

known to rip clothes to shreds if people attempt to feed them.

Rounding back, I reluctantly started to head to the apartment, ignoring my screaming legs,

instead focusing on keeping my breathing steady, my mind decisive on finishing. Knowing that I

would be returning to a place I dreaded. Lately animosity had been building between me and

Celestina. My persistent past injuries and betrayal coming to a head, festering a mistrust I'd

never felt before. And the secrets she was keeping only fueled the gap that was growing.

Our unexpected friendship that began when we were sixteen at the Archaeological Museum

always made me question, what did she want from me? Surrounded by doting males, and

gossiping girls, her sudden introduction only left me waiting to see what she wanted.

Still, after all this time, she didn't ask anything of me. Instead she tried her best to

understand me, learnt sign language, and never pressured for an explanation. But now,

something was approaching. Something that felt like a train hurtling along the tracks, unable to

stop or slow down. A train that would end in a wreck, lives ruined, and lives lost.



Chapter 7



London, 1996



Animated conversation filled the petite gallery, casually dressed men and women excitedly

discussed the paintings on display, marveling at the excellent composition and color.

A little girl held tightly onto her mother's hand as they wandered throughout the art gallery.

Once in a while the mother would stop and explain a painting to the little girl.

The young blue-eyed, blonde-haired child stared admiringly at her beautiful mother. She

enjoyed coming here, this was where her mother was the happiest.

The little girl reckoned that her mother was the most beautiful mother in the whole wide

world. With her long blonde hair that subtly waved down her back. The way she held her fivefour

inch frame.

She remembered how her mother would hold her to her breast, rocking her to sleep when

she had a bad dream. How she had admired her mother's once voluminous frame, but lately

seemed to be a skeletal misrepresentation. The way her mother's skin usually shone, but now

looked sallow, the dark rings under her eyes belied the fact that she wasn't sleeping.

Yes, the little girl loved coming to this gallery. This was the only time, lately, that her

mother smiled. That her eyes sparkled.

But when they left, the darkness returned. Shadows mocked them, whispers spoken in the

night.

Even at a young age, she knew they had to get away from the shadows before it devoured

them.



* * * *



Seville, 2010



Fresh from a hot shower, but still filled with apprehension, I unwillingly padded into the

kitchen, the aroma of Roast Italian coffee lingered.

My gaze wandered to Celestina, the phone held tensely in her hand. Her lips tightened in

agitation, her jaw releasing and clenching every few seconds.

I stood in the center of the living room, unsure how to proceed as she slammed the receiver

into its cradle.

"Is everything okay?" I finally ventured, endeavoring to break the awkwardness of the

situation.

Startled by my presence, she nervously fiddled with her watch.

"Uh...yeah...everything's fine." Quickly averting her eyes, attempting to hide her irritation.

I nodded. A couple of months ago I would have pressed. But now, things were different.

Even if I had pushed, she would have withdrawn. She did things on her own, her trouble her own

making. Her trouble her potential downfall.



Chapter 8



7 August, 1888

George Yard, Whitechapel

The dark suffocating smog enveloped the man as he strolled down the grimy streets. The

smell from the raw sewage drifted in the night air, flowing through the gutters and into the

Thames River. Dressed in a navy uniform, with a white band around his cap, a fake mustache

pasted on his face, his thoughts traveling to the scene before him.

He was disgusted with this place. The onslaught of Irish and Jewish immigrants had caused

this place to fall to the hands of street vendors, pick-pockets, drunks, beggars and prostitutes.

Wrinkling his nose as a soft moan came from the deep recesses of a darkened street. A

prostitute at her trade. He desperately wanted to be back in his studio, paint all he had seen;

away from the disparity and disgust. But he was on a mission. He was not going to falter,

regardless of the smell that greeted him at every corner.

A loud shuffling brought his attention to a woman staggering out of the shadows. Resting

against the hard, cold building, he observed her as she tripped and righted herself before

continuing on her way.

She was an ugly woman. Quite overweight, short, and her bloated face spoke of her abuse

with alcohol. She continued to fiddle with her dark green skirt and black jacket, completely

ignoring him as she walked past.

Clenching his jaw, that sickly smell of an unwashed body filled his nostrils, coupled with the

vigorous act of sexual intercourse sickened him.

He silently stalked her steps as she turned from Whitechapel High Street, entering into the

narrow, dimly lit courtyard of George Yard.

Suddenly, she spun around and glared at him.

"You've been a followin' me," she slurred.

He stopped in his tracks, surprised that she would have noticed. For a minute he didn't say

anything, just stared at this grotesque creature.

"I know what ya want. Well, ya can't have it. I've had enough soldiers for one night," she

cackled, "besides, ya look like ya could use something more down there before tryin' anythang

with me."

Letting free a belch, continuing to approach the stairs.

Narrowing his eyes, an intense rage filled him. How dare that whore speak to me like that.

Instead of backing down, his anger pushed him on. Slowly he followed her as she began to climb

the stairs. Cursing under her breath, tripping on the hem of her skirt, knees thudding to the hard

cement steps.

He didn't hesitate. Adrenaline poured through his veins. He relished the feel of the strong,

sharp dagger, swiftly straddling her from behind. He didn't give her a chance to protest, yanking

her head up by the hair, slicing the dagger straight across her throat. Blood oozed over his

fingers, fighting the urge to vomit. The thought of what that whore might have repulsed him, but

he couldn't stop now. His anger propelled him, his need for vengeance like an addict in need of a

drink.

Pushing her over onto her back, the deep gash oozing crimson liquid, pale eyes staring at

him, as if accusing him, mocking him. In the darkened shadows of the landing, he continued to

drive the dagger into her throat, lungs, heart, liver, spleen, stomach and genitals.

Ignoring the stickiness that dripped off his clothes. The gaping wounds revealing his unique

masterpiece. He continued thirty-nine times to make sure he sent a message to those that would

view the events, viciously tearing her clothes as he did this.

Standing, he stared at her one last time. His anger had subsided, he regretted losing control,

he must do better next time. Dropping a small piece of leather apron, he slid into the shadows,

anticipating the one that was next to come.



* * * *

At 4:45, John S. Reeves headed out of the building. He frowned. A woman lay on the landing,

a dark liquid surrounding her body, clothes disarrayed. The smell that emitted from the

unmoving body caused him to run as fast as he could to locate P.C. Barrett.

Later, she was identified by Pearly Polly as Martha Tabram.



Chapter 9



Staring at her reflection, her cherry red lips spread into a smile. The man she was seeing was

like no other. She felt the pull, the need to control. His position could be used for her advantage.

She couldn't help but admit she would enjoy this. Seducing was her forte, winning was her goal.

And she would win this one. He wouldn't see it coming.