Dedicated to J. Rush
The train whisked down the tracks cutting through the night. Only blurred blackness now passed across the windows, perhaps an occasional glimmer of light reflected from somewhere outside. The car rested in near silence. All but a few remaining sallow, sleeping, and weary faces remained within. The train was headed home, to the end of its line. Only one final stop left in which to vacate those remaining strangers. Outside against the metallic bulk of the beast the wind whispered as air slid along its sleek sides. The wheels upon the rail rocked in a steady rhythm. The clatter became a source of comfort through the passing hours of the night. There is something oppressive about the feeling of the darkness outside. It hangs like a heavy pressure against the glass of the windows. Skin pricks beneath the presence of it, and it makes those unfortunate enough to still be out long for the comfort and sanctuary of the walls of a familiar house around them. There is a feeling of security within the train keeping the nighttime outside at bay and causing a tingle of excitement to stir for those who sit and watch, feeling the power of the metallic beast beneath them.
Vicki was among those cradled within on the last ride home. Her head pressed just against the cool glass of the window. Moth-like eyelids fluttered closed, burgundy red lips parted open just so. The touch of the fingers of a black velvet glove rested softly against her cream white cheek, her other hand hung placidly across her lap. It was perched atop an angled knee with her gazelle legs crossed. A tumble of curly dark tresses fell against her and spilled over flowing off of her shoulders half veiling the side of her face which was turned away from the window. Settled upon her head, gently as a bird’s nest upon her hair was a pill box hat of rich dark sapphire trimmed in raven feathers and pinned with a silver broach. She wore a straight black dress which clung against the curves of her body, born of a day when a woman knew how to reveal more by showing less. Deception was the game and it was ruled by sophisticated elegance that put all the mini skirts and halter tops to shame. A slit ran along one leg of the dress, seeming to ride dangerously high, yet offered nothing but suggestion, denying the traveling eye. Who was this creation of the night that seemed to have stepped off the silver screen into another era? Yet, still even in her sleep she held herself with self-assurance and almost angelic poise.
This lovely, eccentric creature has not passed unnoticed. Though there remained few to observe her within the car, there was one who had followed her with a steady gaze since her first appearance upon the train. It is no wonder that she should attract some attention. In addition to her peculiarities in dress there was an allure like a lingering exotic perfume which followed her and she was inexcusably beautiful. A beauty of the classic period which she seemed to emulate, a beauty that is so very rarely seen today. How easy it is to become lost in her, but as to the other, the watcher he must be given due attention now. He sat a few benches behind her, but unlike her own repose he was coiled like a cat preparing to pounce, all tension and anxiety. His hands moved restlessly between his knees and his eyes held a fixed and almost hungry look. The features of his face struggled to stay under in control. He was no cool customer. But if it were not for his agitated manner, within a crowd he could have passed without notice, yet that is not to say there was nothing outwardly remarkable about him. The close observer would recognize something within him, something they would walk away from in a baffled state. Something they could not have named or explained, but would not soon forget, and perhaps by the time their mind finally retrieved what it was that unsettled them it would be long too late. On the street, in a crowd, within the public, to the average pedestrian or passenger he was inconspicuous. Just another working Joe.
His clothes were unimaginative, but that perhaps is not a fair statement, in contrast to the sleeping beauty who would not be unimaginative? His clothes were but a reflection of current trends and fashion. The middle ground which was neither too trendy nor outdated. A plain gray hoodie sweatshirt, so much in vogue, particularly thanks to Jack Bower, and the clothing of choice for a wide age and social range, from hoodlums to college kids, loose fitting blue jeans with wide dragging cuffs that hung over what looked to be three year old sneakers. He was not what one might consider traditionally handsome, but nor was he repulsive. There was a ruggedness to his appearance, perhaps he would not turn any heads, but under the right circumstances, with the right personality, he could fair rather well if he put some effort into it. His features were sun dark and his hair looked as if it would benefit from a good washing. It consisted of chaotic strands of dark brown which spilled from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. His hands were rough and had known in their time physical labors which may also explain his complexion. One might judge him to be in his mid-thirties. Perhaps it was because of his mode of dress, or a heaviness in his body, not a heaviness of size or weight, but of physicality. Something about him that seemed much more corporally connected to the earth compared to the fair creature who obtained his attention. Even so there was an element of abstraction which hovered around him and withdrew him from the world at large.
The train continued to roll onward to its final destination of this inky night oblivious to the occupants which resided inside. Dead to their secrets and their inner and outer lives, it was on the vessel to transport their bodies across terrestrial distances, but in this, innocently also heading either toward or away from the workings of fate. The blessed or cursed few who resided within that car with those two strange souls who have been placed in each others way remain inconsequential, as well as whatever other activity might be stirring throughout the rest of the train is of no importance to the two destined passengers.
Vicki stirred within her seat. Her eyes flicked open as she began to rouse herself. Lifting her head from the cool press of the glass she cast a glance around the near empty compartment. Gloved fingers delicately touched her lips as she concealed a passing yawn. Boldly her eyes turned to face the outer darkness looking through the window into the great vast nothingness. It is a strange notion held by so many cultures, that the eyes are windows into the soul, while windows themselves seem to be thresholds which allow us to peer into other worlds beyond, while at the same time acting as barriers. Humanity has a fascination with portals and a fear of reflections. So much myth wrapped up into windows, mirrors, eyes, cameras, clear pools of water….anything that captures images of ourselves and the world beyond us and freezes them into place, or distances us from our surroundings. But there is something perversely appealing about private voyeurism. Sometimes it can be taken too far.
The watcher was achingly aware of every movement which his object of attention began to make. He shifted in his seat with new found disquiet sparking in his hunter’s eyes. It was as if an invisible cord ran between the two of them and he was connected to her. So attuned he was to her presence and every change within her demeanor but behind the apprehension lurked a deep inexplicit fear. The fear that haunts and excites all voyeurs, the fear of detection. The dread that all she had to do was by chance turn her head and catch sight of him and everything, all of his inner thoughts, his untold desires, would be writ upon his face. It is one of the difficulties of the guilty, at every moment they anticipate that someone will look right into their eyes to their very soul, cliché perhaps, but no less true, perhaps this is the meaning of myth and supersistion. It is based on some simple truth. The things we wish to hide, or those we are most aware of on the continence of every face we pass. Just consider the misfortunate figures that haunt the pages of Poe’s work, alas how many perfect murders may have been committed if only the narrator did not already convince himself that his crime must be known by all. The ever beating heart of our victims, or the yowling of the furies.
To return back to the fay, for quite the reverse of her admirer, she was the picture of pristine calmness. One might wonder about this, if one can forgive some ghastly stereotypes (which to be fair often proven truer than some may like to admit), her complete serene self-confidence may be more unsettling than the twitching eagerness of the nameless stranger. For one might question how so peculiar a woman traveling alone at night in such desolation might remain so self-possessed. Her timing was impeccable; perhaps it was an act of habit, an inner clock which activated from practiced routine. Shortly after she awakened the breaks of the train began to squeal disrupting the peaceful, if unsettling quiet and calling into the night. The metallic beast rolled into a halt. The last stop had arrived. The doors slid open now letting the night in, disrupting the barrier, but it offered a welcome of being able to return into familiar territory. The ultimate sanctuary of home. Once the train settled itself Vicki rose from her seat balanced expertly upon a pair of her break neck heals.
She made music all of her own as she exited the train. Her heels signing upon the ground with every step she took. Folded just beneath one of her arms she carried her evening purse. Her long graceful legs carried her in an even, determined glide to one of the stone pillars which stood as silent sentinels in the darkness casting long shadows. Vicki leaned back against the cool solid rock with a definitive snap the purse clicked open. Her gloves dived within as her fingers picked out a package of cigarettes and elegantly drew one out to place against her lips. A secret smile graced her face and in her eyes was a look miles away from her angelic repose during her easy slumber. She turned with perfect precision just in time to stand face to face with her pursuer.
It should come as no surprise that he, who should be called Thom, perhaps that sounds too sophisticated for this elusive but ever present figure, but one does not always get to choose one’s names, be it the names others give us, or the names we give ourselves, it seems the names choose us more than the other way around, so it is Thom, because that is the name which chose him, was not far behind in rising after her and not once lost sight of her. With predatory care he slid out of the train and prowled through the shadows. It was evident he was not new to this game so it fell as an appalling surprise to find her eyes looking into his own with shocking electricity.
From a distance one might be led to believe she arrived at this very spot, at this very moment for no other purpose than to meet him here. “You don’t have a light by any chance do you?” Her voice was direct and fluid with a sultry air and caressive effect. Her gaze never wavered. A disquieting smile of clandestine understanding poised upon her lips. Thom was rattled and his senses began to elude him. He had not prepared for this moment. Perhaps he was not so clever a hunter as he fancied himself, or his history of easy prey began to weaken his senses, but when faced with something so unprecedented he stumbled, and lacked for an instant, an instant which can be the beginning or end of a person when the stakes are so high, the ability to regain control over himself and the situation.
His previously nervous hands fumbled within his pocket before producing a book of matches. One might not peg him for a gentleman, and that would not under most accounts be an inaccurate presumption, but now he found himself striking one of the matches and touched the flame which sparked through the darkness between them against the tip of her fag. During this reception her eyes took the occasion to drink him in steadily and unwavering. “Thank you dear!” She spoke smoothly as the smoke filled her lungs in guilty delight before being released back into the atmosphere once more. “I know you have been following me.” She stated it with such simplicity, without question, and without accusation, but as if it was only the natural order of things. “You look like you could use a drink darling. What do you say?” She offered the faintest shrug of one of her shoulders. Her question laced with understated demand, she did not wait for an answer, did not expect one, but clearly she had every expectation of being obeyed. She pivoted without looking black, and in her slinky dress her hips sashayed as she began to weave through the emptiness of the train station. But each ring of her heals against the stone floor appeared as a command of a master calling his dog to heal.
What was Thom to do? A wise hunter knows when to give up the chase, and how to avoid a fight, but they say some wild animals once they have the taste of blood, become insensible. It grows into an addiction, a need, which surpasses reason and teeters upon madness. Perhaps he needed a new thrill. Whatever derogatives one may wish to prevail upon him (and not unfairly) he was still a thinking, relatively intelligent (as much as we humans ever can be) being, and all thinking beings that live on the edge of danger become bored with too much success and crave the next elevation. It is the same old story of the big game hunter who becomes too much the master of his prey and begins to loose that edge, becomes too confident, and feels he has conquered all there is in the wild kingdom. Seeking something new, a worthier challenge, he turns to human game. So what happens when someone starts out preying upon humanity? What is the next step from that?
A few words should be said about Thom now. Thom is a sociopath. Did his mother not love him enough? Or did she love him too much? Was his step father a pervert who got off on little boys? Whatever other typical reasons that seem to most commonly drive those like Thom are irrelevant. What is important in is the fact that he is a predator and a killer and has been preying upon women in gruesome and grotesque ways for a long time now. He is clever and vicious, though perhaps not want one might call a genius of the art, he has developed the instinct and skill of an animal. He has learned to cover his tracks and to move under the radar. He has become quite good at what he does. Now a wise hunter knows when they encounter circumstances that are unknown to them, when they sense inexplicable danger, the best thing to do is to retreat but Thom is as mentioned an addict. He has had it too easy for too long, desperation has set in which leads to sloppiness. A conscious sloppiness, which usually eventually leads to capture. It is born out of the need to feel that thrill of danger again which starts to fade. So Thom was compelled, by the enigmatic danger that hovered around this woman who seemed to defy all logic, sense and basic nature. A new thrill was born within him and he felt alive in a way he had not since his very first kill. There was nothing he could do but follow her command. In part driven by the infernal desire to command and dominate the woman who so boldly defies him and in part to conquer over the self-hatred that he allows such women to arouse him.
By an act of good timing which seems to defy all reality and perhaps bends the laws of time and space itself, be it through well practiced precision, or perhaps a simple fluke of luck which conveniently showed itself at the very moment that Vicki exited the train station a black Cadillac appeared before her. “Our chariot has arrived.” She spoke without sparing a single look behind her. One can suppose she must have heard his footsteps behind her for that is much more likely then the suggestion that she does have eyes in the back of her head, or perhaps she has a particularly deep and assured understanding of human nature. Of course if this were the case it leads to question why she was bringing Thom home like a stray dog, but it has already been established that there is something fey about her and she does not obey the typical laws of reason and logic, but works upon her own agenda. One might even venture that she herself was no armature and all eccentricities aside it would be difficult to peg her as a naïve fool. Her eyes spoke of things that even Thom could not imagine.
Now one might think that the presence of a personal chauffeur ought to be the last and final straw to bring this charade to an end. After all witnesses are generally considered to be detrimental to one’s health for those who are in the business of death and depravity. It is understandable if the idea of applying any sense of reason or logic to a cold blooded sociopathic murder might make one uncomfortable at best, but they are called serial killers for a reason. It implicates more than one, more than even a few, and once when does make the ranks of a serial killer you can count that it is not all luck that gets them by. So they must use some form of deductive reasoning and basic common sense in their degenerate minds. At the very least, it should go without saying not to kill a woman when there is someone else who has seen your face and can directly link you to the victim and places you as being the last person she has been seen with while alive.
Thom unfortunately seemed now beyond the ability to consider this element, or perhaps it added to the exhilaration. He did not even hesitate at following her into the back of the car the black leather seats groaning beneath him, but before preceding a word should be said about the driver. Even the most genuine and innocent of people would have been reluctant to trust themselves to this most singular figure. There was nothing about him which may suggest that he is inept behind a vehicle, but after stepping into the car one might be left to wonder at the chances they might in fact be led to an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods. He was a tall lanky figure with rather gaunt features and deep set dark eyes. He did not appear to be a man who has ever smiled in his life and carried a rather dour expression. His brows were alabaster bushes, and his own flurry of white hair could put Albert Einstein to shame. He had a long hawkish beak of a nose and thin tightly compressed lips and one might wonder if he ever in his life spent a day in the sun for his completion. In fact he appeared to only be a few shades away from translucence. His fingers were long and slender twigs, one might say he was born to play the piano, but apparently circumstances have dictated otherwise. He was dressed in a black tailed coat over a pressed white short and a pair of black slacks, driving gloves fitted over his hands. For those flighty fingers one can imagine the gloves were custom ordered. He was quick to exit the car, and for his form moved with a surprising spry grace as he opened the back door to allow the entrance of his client offering a formal bow in the process. He said nothing of her guest and displaying nothing on his face. Once he saw the pair well seated he closed the door to retain his seat as the driver.
“Charon has been in the family for years” Vicki spoke to an unasked question as well Thom had yet to produce a single word, a fact which Vicki seemed oblivious or unaffected by. The declaration came almost in way of apology for Charon’s manner, and she put a particular emphasis on the word “years,” as if to suggest a passage of time beyond the normal human understanding of the word. Yet there was nothing of sympathy within her voice. It was not a suggestion that it was only some familial pity which induced her to keep him on, but rather that his services were deeply respected and valued.
The hearse like funeral car pushed its way down near empty streets. Its tires made a gentle hush against the pavement as its lights cut through thick blackness which surrounded them. There were no other lights along the road; one might wonder that the abandoned cabin idea might not be too far from the truth. Nothing to be seen outside of the windows but vague outlines. Vicki sat back within her seat, once again with a subtle movement which spoke volumes one of her legs crossed over the other. Her gaze remained fixed ahead of her. On occasion her eyes trailed toward the windows. She seemed to admire the shadowy scenery with appreciation; perhaps it was the elation of knowing she was on the stretch home. During the journey she appeared to have forgotten about the presence of Thom. She was in her own reflections and had the atmosphere of a contented cat. Those he were at all familiar with the feline race generally know this is often cause for great concern and weariness.
What can be said of Thom at this time? What could he possibly say? It may be understood that serial killers the a whole are not great conversationalists, they do not on the whole spend a great deal of time among human society. He was thrown in a situation of which he was completely unprepared, quite out of his element, and bursting with the need. He could all but smell her. It took every bit of whatever rationale he still had left to control himself from striking right now, but he could not rush it. Too long he has savored this moment. Played it out in his mind, he couldn’t risk a critical err now. Though things were not progressing according to his own plans, there was still the opportunity to regain dominance over the situation. Sweat collected upon his brow and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously between his knees. He could not prevent himself from stealing infrequent glances towards her. He tried to restrict himself and fix his thoughts out into the darkness, but with every fiber of his being he felt her presence close to him.
How long passed was unknown. Time gave the impression of no longer existing within the distinguished car. But as it were after this unmarked period of time the vehicle began to pull into the drive of the house, correction the use of the word house here is a gross understatement. It was at worst a mansion, and at best a palace all its own. The grounds cast now within concealing darkness, but the driveway was at least a mile long. In silhouette the building provided a rather eerie spectacle, a classic haunted house. It loomed up within the darkness almost as if it grew right out of the ground to climb toward the sky. The architecture appeared to be straight out of medieval Europe, with a touch here and there of classic Victorian. Strangely enough this synchronism worked. In the front was a pair of high arched windows. The doorway consisted of a pair of heavy towering wooden doors with an arch curved over the doors which was intricately carved with the scene of Dante’s first ring of hell. A twisted whirlwind of souls which are swirled together indistinguishable, ever passing each other, never able to grasp hold. Within the etching occasional grotesque limbs emerge trying to break free. A screaming face, pain and torment, bodies twisted together. Just above the door was a wooden plaque with the words etched within gothic letters that read “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.”
At her approach to the door before Vicki even thought of rising her hand the doors swung open and they were greeted by a handsome youth. His skin had a rich dark complexion and his eyes were intense brown. His age could be placed around thirteen years, but there was an unwavering seriousness about him. Dark brown hair hung down his back tied with a crimson ribbon at the middle in a gentleman’s tail, if that gentleman happened to be from the 17th century. He wore a fine, elaborative vest of blood red with silver buttons lining each side, beneath of which a crisp white shirt, and a pair of black slacks. A sash to match his hair ribbon and vest wrapped around his waist. He cut quite the fine figure. When Vicki entered the house a smile flushed with pleasure upon her lips at crossing the threshold. Her fingers graced the top of the young butler’s head, as a master offering affection of a loyal dog come to eagerly greet its master. “He was an orphan when I found him the poor thing, half-starved living in the streets, surviving as a pick pocket. He shall never forget how lucky it is that I was the one who caught him and not someone else.” At these words a private smile graced her lips, as if at some covert joke shared between the two of them, though the lads face never wavered or reveled anything.
Down the passage of the hallway only dim light flickered from candles mounted upon the walls, until opening into the parlor. The parlor was a vast open sitting room. The walls were lined with works of art that would leave one to question if they truly were authentic, or prints. The fireplace was man sized, with a pair of great columns one upon each side holding up the hearth’s mantel. Grecian urns sat atop of the mantle, and above it upon the wall what looked to be a coat of arms hung. Within the hearth the fire cracked and popped emitting a warm glow throughout the room. From a ceiling as high as vaulted churches, a great chandelier hung with what looked to have been thousands of lights. A beautiful Persian rug covered the floor within the sitting room which included an arrangement of plush comfortable chairs to sit.
Vicki walked over to the elliptic wooden table within the room as she pulled off her gloves with care and laid them aside before her fingers curled around the cool crystal of a decanter, pulling out the plug she began to fill a glass than pausing she looked back to Thom. “How about a drink dear? I do strongly recommend it, it will help you to relax.” Thom of course is not to be forgotten though it seems he has been left within the shadows of this substantial building, given no choice but to follow obediently behind. It is time to return back to him for a moment. One can only imagine the impression all of this had upon him. Perhaps we have neglected to treat Thom like a human being but than, perhaps his stake in the human race has been compromised long ago, and it is only suiting to perceive him with the same regard as a wild animal.
It can be reasonably deduced that Thom has never stepped foot into a residence such as this, has not even dreamed of such establishments (perhaps it is best to stray far from the subject of what serial killers do dream about). It is a fair assessment that serial killers are not typically born out of wealth, not to say that wealth often ( does it ever really?) produces emotionally and psychologically stable environments, but it takes a very particular type of depravity to nurse the likes of Thom. While money cannot by happiness or a healthy outlook on life and relationships, it can buy drugs, and other outlets for eccentric deviations. Poor Thom was denied these advantages, and so was left to his own devices. Upon entering the house, there was something about the angelic and exotically beautiful Louis, the boy butler, that aroused a spark within Thom. His eyes devoured the boy, stricken by his own perpetual stare. There was something most singular in the boy, it was hard to imagine he had once lived such a ragged life upon the streets, yet at the same time there was a strange homogeneous quality about him between a rare maturity for his age with an equally rare purity. A purity that clearly is distinguished from naivety and innocence. Young boys were not generally Thom’s M.O. but than Louis was a most extraordinary young boy, and how could a ravenous killer turn down a two for the price of one opportunity. Fantasies of fresh young blood for the moment had to be repressed as Thom proceeded to follow Vicki further into the depths of the house.
To say the least one can understand why Thom would desire to keep a clear head and unclouded thoughts so with the offer of the drink, he spoke his very first word for the evening. “No!” Was his plain reply spoken in a deep ruff-edged voice, while he remained standing within the room, his eyes fleeting around before being drawn back upon the quarry. She gave a shrug of her shoulders as she started to drift toward the hearth turning to face him. “Suit yourself, but do take a seat.” Elegantly one of her arms extended as her fingers gestured to one of the chairs within the room, there was a subtle command in the action. Her eyes burned into him, as if to move him with the sheer force of her will. Thom resentfully obeyed and sunk into a deep velvet chair, it was quite the touch of irony that this scene paradoxes the train, now he appeared to be the one who was out of place and seemed not to belong. If the room were packed full all eyes would be automatically drawn to him. A thousand regrets played across his mind. Why was he here? What had gone wrong? Never had he before found himself trapped in such a situation. He should have done it back at the station, no games, no hassle, but he reasoned with himself that there was too much risk in the public place. Someone else by chance could have passed and interrupted his work. He fought the impulse to get it over with now, to end things before they went too far, but something stopped him. He could not allow someone else to take control over him, when he acted, he had to be of clear and focused mind, he could not act out of desperation. No! He would not let this strange woman disrupt his plans, now he had all the time to savor, they were alone (relatively) within the house in the middle of nowhere, nothing to disrupt him, he could take his time and wait until he felt the moment was right.
Vicki lifted the glass to her lips and tilted it back, tasting the liquid fire against her tongue before it slid down her throat. “Did it ever occur to you, that the act of taking another life is really a barbaric and perverse deviation of the grail quest?” She began to speak with one of her arms propped against the mantle of the hearth as she stood before one of the marble columns her eyes level upon Thom. “If you think about it, in its most primitive base form it begins with the need for personal sustainability, animals are designed by nature, or God, whatever you wish to call it to continue life through the consumption of other life forms. And as we begin to evolve, become more intelligent, more sophisticated, if you wish to call it that, more complicated, instead of seeking a way to end or limit this brutal cruel need, it is ritualized, integrated in religion. You know, some cultures believed by consuming the heart, and other vital organs and body parts of their enemies they would gain their strength, courage, power, knowledge. Have you ever heart of Elizabeth Bathory, poor dear that she was, she believed that she could preserve her immortal youth through bathing in and consuming the blood of young virgin maidens. It was all very gruesome and grotesque, the way she would torture and kill these young girls for their vital life force. Of course speaking of blood one must come to vampire lore, the idea that a once human creature preserves and continues its own immortality through the blood of its victims. Even the Christians are guilty of the temptation of blood rites.” A deep chuckle passed from her lips as it seemed to have purred up through her throat, and a smile of quick wit flashed across her features. “But what if they have neared the truth, in their misguided attempts? What if the true fountain of youth lay within the essence, the life force, energy, soul, whichever definition makes you happy, of life? If one could find a way to capture that essence, to extract it from these physical substances the possibilities may be endless.
She moved in closer to Thom standing just before him as her eyes looked directly into his own. “You cannot deny that feeling you get when you kill someone. It is as if in that very moment you are more alive then you have ever been before. Something deep inside of you awakens, in their death you can taste life’s sweetness, like the nectar of the gods.” She spoke without question, and without a flinch, there could be little denying now that she knew. She knew all along and yet she led him here, which brought the question, did she bring him here in spite of knowing, or because she knew? She leaned over him one of her hands propped herself against the couch so her eyes were level with his own and her words seemed to lance through him. “Do you ever look into the eyes of your victims during their last moments? Do you watch as the life goes out of them and the spark dies, have you ever felt the touch of the soul brush against you as it departed? Have you ever wanted to try and take a little something of them for yourself?”
For the first time in his life, since his childhood and that one defining moment that set his fate upon this gruesome path, Thom felt something close to real panic, bordering upon fear. He was stripped of all his control and power. Here before him was a woman, a would be victim completely misconstruing her role. There was nothing about her of begging or pleading for life, there was not even that bestial rage driven by the fight and flight symptoms. There was only a cold collectiveness pinning his soul against his spine with a pair of arrowhead blue eyes locked onto his own, and a smile of condescending mockery. Thom was emasculated both as a man and a predator by this solitary woman, who should be at his mercy. Perhaps he was taken back to that moment as a child again when he was first stripped of all that he was and forced to replace it with this thing he has now become, and he was forced into action.
The usual cold calculation which marked his killing was replaced by a burning hot rage and the need to reclaim himself through the complete destruction of this woman. Vicki recognized the frantic half-crazed look within his eyes and her voice tinkled like the sound of rattling glass in her laughter. The drink which was balanced still between her fingers within her right hand was tauntingly moved before him. “Perhaps you will reconsider? I told you a drink would help you relax.” Thom sprang forward from the couch, one of his hands swung up and sent the glass she held flying out of her hand. The clear liquid was sent in a spray across the priceless rug, as the glass hit with a soft thud and rolled away. Vicki was forced back a couple of steps by the physical presence of Thom appearing now in the spot where she formerly had been standing. His rough powerful hands closed around the delicate paleness of her throat. Her eyes flashed in nothing less than sheer delight at stirring the rise within him.
She brought one of her hands up and placed it against his chest just over his heart, feeling its quickening beat against her palm. Her eyes stayed locked onto his own, looking not at him but through him. His pupils dilated opening like small black portals which granted her admittance and she traveled inside. A rush of coldness ran through his spine. Her hand pressed against him and her nails pierced into his flesh, feeling the blood start to warm over her fingers before with the tear of flesh his chest cavity opened, her hand slid inside of him and she touched the warm pulsing of his heart beneath her fingertips. A smile parted upon her lips and she squeezed the life out of him, inhaling deeply as he released his very last breaths. She drunk the very essence of his life, feeling him grow weaker and weaker as the pulsing of his heart slowed. The fingers of his hand uncurled from her throat and dropped to his side.
It was not long before she stepped away and withdrew her hand and Thom’s body dropped to the floor. A contented smile rested on her lips as she watched his motionless body for a moment. She walked over to the table and picked up a cloth napkin as she began to wipe the blood away from her hand. “Louis!” She called out sweetly and when the boy protégé arrived she looked upon him fondly. “Please be a darling and take Mr. Thom to Henrick and tell him that Thom is to be prepped for the position of our new grounds keeper.”
Louis gave an elegant bow in compliance with her wishes. By the pulling of a velvet cord which hung near the mantle a loud gong was sounded within the house, and summoned forth a pair of goon like servants. Not so elegant or refined, they were like Igor’s; they were not intended to be viewed by the public but were put to menial tasks and grunt work. Under the direction of Louis the body of Thom was gathered up to be carried away to the chambers of the mysterious Dr. Henrick.