They remained quiet. He could tell they didn’t believe him but there was no proof otherwise. He swallowed a smile. This was no time to gloat.
“Very well. That’s all for now,” Allinson announced. “But we will be in touch, Nigel.”
The two officers stood and left the room, slamming the door behind them.
Seconds later, Phoebe burst into the room and rushed forward. She dived across the table, her arms looping around Nigel’s neck as she kissed him. “You did it!” she screeched. “I knew you could do it.” She planted kiss after kiss on his lips.
Nigel pulled her onto his lap and pressed his lips to hers. He was on fire. He was untouchable. Standing, he cradled the small woman in his arms and sat her on the table. He pressed his groin into the groove of her legs and moaned. He had completed his trials. It was time to take what he wanted.
He took her right there on the table in the interrogation room, her screams filled with the pleasure he’d always dreamed he could elicit.
He had made it. He was finally the person he was born to be and he couldn’t wait for the next stage.
***
“I’m two ahead of you already,” Nigel said as Phoebe pulled her clothes on, hiding the flesh that had become his to taste.
She turned and winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up.”
Something knotted in his chest. No matter who she was, no matter how much he liked the woman, she couldn’t beat him. Nobody could.
“Does everyone have a patch?” he asked. He didn’t want to step on toes though he already knew what lengths he was willing to go to, to prove his worth.
“Not really.” She shrugged. “If you get there first it’s your kill. Don’t get caught and don’t spill the beans.”
“Never.” He shook his head. Now that he’d found his home, the one place he could be himself, there was no way he would give it up.
“Good luck, soldier.” Reaching up, she kissed him on the cheek and skipped from the room.
***
As he stepped into the corridor, Nigel found himself converging in a long line of people making their way into a room. It looked like the kill fest was about to begin. The line trickled incessantly and he danced on his feet, peering over the tops of heads and craning his neck forward. It wasn’t long before he got there and he soon realised why the line had moved fast. The weapons room was huge. Its ceilings were cavernous and it stretched on as far as he could see. Shelving lined the walls with an array of weaponry beyond his comprehension.
He stood in the doorway and looked around the room. This was his moment, the time he would pick his MO. It had been on his mind for some time now, since he’d completed his first trial. The knife. A simple blade but one that he would make his. He would be the Slasher. He would make his victims hurt, cutting open their skin before he killed them. There lay his art, his style, himself.
He headed over to the right, where knives of all shapes and sizes lined a shelf. His fingers ran across the blades and a tingle coursed down his spine. Yes, this was right for him. He would be the Slasher.
He finally settled on a blade of eight inches in length, the steel sharp. As he picked it up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the steel. The person staring back at him was a different man. He had changed. Nigel grinned and sheathed the blade in his jacket.
The room quieted and as he spun, Nigel saw the Boss standing in the doorway. His woman hung on his arm, the blonde wearing a painted smile on her face. He wondered why they did not take part in the revelry, why the couple didn’t want to enjoy the night as the others did.
“Ladies and gentleman,” the Boss addressed them. “Now is the time to perform your art. Now is the time to cull the population of the town and make them see just what we do.” His eyes scanned the room and came to rest on Nigel. “I expect complete honestly from all of you. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Come the morning, we will have our new champion. Good luck to you all.”
A chorus of cheers rocked the room, hitting the ceiling and echoing back. Nigel’s chest swelled as he sucked it all in. This was heaven, his home, and he would take the title of champion. He knew it.
The horde set out from the Guild as an army readies for battle. Silently they leaked from the doorway, parting ways and becoming individual in the night. As Nigel set foot into the alley outside, he took a deep breath. This was his town and he knew most of it like the back of his hand.
“Good luck,” Phoebe whispered, nudging him with her arm as she passed.
Nigel watched her leave. The woman of his dreams, off to compete against him. He gritted his teeth and turned the opposite way.
He made his way down alleys, across streets, skirting around houses. He heard laughter and watched the merriment inside as he passed them, but that wasn’t his forte. He wasn’t the type to break into houses.
He kept moving. This side of the neighbourhood was rough. It wouldn’t be a problem for him but it meant plenty of people around, plenty of victims. He slipped down the next dark lane and his heart sped up as he spotted a lone figure near the bottom. The person walked upright, albeit wobbling side to side. This was not one of his clan. He grinned. This would be his first.
Nigel crept forward, hand sliding into his jacket and pulling out the knife. It glinted in the dark and he held it close. On and on he moved, keeping his steps as quiet as possible while making his way towards his prey. He was gaining on her, a small brunette woman on her way home, he guessed. Not anymore.
He was feet away from her and caught the scent of cherries and smoke. He breathed it all in. He wanted to remember this.
Then he lunged. He caught the girl by her throat and slammed her against the wall, her yelp like music to his ears. Her eyes were huge and though fear lingered in them, he realised she was too far gone to understand the enormity of what she was going through. Lifting the knife, he pressed it to her face. She flinched and tried to back away but he held her firm. This little weasel wasn’t going to pop anymore.
Twisting the blade, he sliced it down her cheek, watching as the flesh opened. She strained against his hand, trying to move her face away from the weapon as small shrieks escaped her mouth, and it wasn’t until the knife completed its journey that the real panic set in. Her eyes were wide, tears dripping down her cheeks as she pressed a palm to the wound on her face and glimpsed her own blood in the dim light of the alley. Realisation was dawning. She knew she wouldn’t make it home.
He slashed at her skin again and again. Angry red welts ripped up her flesh, her bare arms, her neck and face. With each mark she lost a little of herself. She began to sag and he knew she was willing the end to come. He would give it to her. Nigel would make this woman his first official kill and she would be forever remembered in his mind.
Lifting the knife one final time, he pressed it to her throat. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I will always remember you,” he whispered as he drew the knife across her throat.
She drew her last breath and gurgled as her air supply was cut off. Then she slid down the wall, her body lifeless.
Nigel didn’t know how long he stood there watching her, looking at his first. He wanted to remember the moment forever. He wanted to recall the way her hand slumped on the ground and the way her head lolled to one side. She was a beauty and he had only just begun to perfect his art.
Finally he left the scene. It was time to find his next. Tonight was not only about new things and defying the world, but proving he could be a champion. He had to get as many kills as he could.
On and on he stalked, moving down alleyways and streets. Everything was dim but every now and again he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving across the darkness and he smiled as he recognised one of his own. As he came across his next victim he continued on his spree.
It wasn’t until the sky woke in a purple haze that he realised the time. He had to get back to the Guild and chalk his kills on the board. He gritted his teeth and ignored the bubble in his stomach
as he hurried back to his new home. He had no idea how he had done compared to anyone else. There was no way of knowing how many kills could have been totted up.
He finally made it, stepping into the old building and striding straight to the staff room. It was already full of people squashing their way to the board, clamouring for attention and pens. Once they cleared out, he made his way forward and made seven strikes underneath his name. Seven kills, including the two trials earlier that day. A quick glance at the board showed he was top.
His heart skipped as he moved away. He was top. He had done it. His kills outranked everyone else. He hid his grin. He couldn’t gloat, not yet.
A few minutes later the Boss arrived. He stepped towards the chart and tallied up the counts. He nodded and murmured under his breath, and then Nigel heard a sharp intake. This was it, his moment. He would be crowned Champion and he would forever be remembered as both the newcomer and the herald of the Guild.
The Boss spun on his heel and eyed his subjects.
“Well, it seems that this year you have all done me proud. These numbers show your dedication to our course, and as the sun rises and their bodies are found, our art will be known across the world. Of that I have no doubt.”
A polite round of applause ensued. Nigel knew everyone waited for that moment. They wanted to know who was being crowned the victor. He squared his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest.
“It seems that this year, something has happened that has never happened before,” the Boss continued.
Nigel’s shoulders sagged. That didn’t sound good.
“We have a tie. Congratulations to our two highest kill streaks tonight, Nigel and Phoebe.”
His heart stopped. He had done so well. He had taken it all on board, had accepted his personality and stalked like a hunter, and still he had not done well enough to beat her. His eyes found her in the crowd and he saw the same venom staring straight back at him. He caught sight of blood spatters on her face, on her clothes. The woman was a monster. Just like him.
“I simply cannot have two champions. It is not the done thing.” The Boss shook his head.
“We fight,” Phoebe hissed.
“To the death,” Nigel threatened.
All eyes in the room moved between the two. There was no sound. Nigel’s hands tightened into fists as he stared her down. He would win. He would take the title and he would be their king.
“You want me to forsake the one rule of the Guild?” the Boss asked. His gaze moved from Phoebe to Nigel.
“Yes,” Nigel replied. There was no question about it. It would happen whether the Boss allowed it or not.
“Very well. To the chamber.”
A huge roar went up and Nigel was swept along with the crowd. He had no idea what the chamber was or where he would find it but none of that mattered. What mattered was preserving his name and being crowned champion of the Guild. He moved with the crowd, at one with his people, but he saw none of them, felt none of the pats on his back or shouts of encouragement. All he saw was red.
They made it to a huge doorway and as it was pushed open, both he and Phoebe were ushered inside. Then it closed and he heard it lock. Thundering feet continued outside, and when he looked around the room he caught glimpses of faces above him. They were in an arena.
“Ready to die?” Phoebe asked.
“Are you?” he threw back. There was no way she was beating him. He pulled the knife out from his jacket and watched as the hammer came out of her belt. It was covered in hair and gore.
“Only one of you will walk out of this room,” the Boss’ voice came over a Tannoy, thick and metallic. “Good luck.”
Nigel hunkered down as Phoebe began to circle. He had to be ready. He had to watch. If she struck him with the hammer he would go down, and she knew it. His knife, compared to her weapon of choice, looked like a flimsy alternative. He would have to outwit her.
She lunged, her face twisting into a ferocious snarl. Nigel spun out of the way. The movement of air swished behind him and he knew the hammer had missed him by inches. He took a deep breath as he came back to face her. He held the knife out in front of him but he felt defenceless. He wanted a shield – something – to protect himself.
Pushing forward, his reach meant the knife entered her circle of defence and it slashed her arm. She hissed. Above, the crowd sucked in a breath. As he saw blood seeping from her arm, Nigel smiled. His first blow had hit home. It was just a matter of time.
“Think you can beat me?” she taunted him. “I’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember, newbie.”
Nigel grinned. “That’s what you think.” Until entering the Guild, he had never killed, but as soon as that knife had been in his hand it became an extension of his arm. He was finally at one with himself and peace with the world, and he knew that gave him the advantage.
She circled, arms wide. Nigel thrust again and caught her right arm this time, the flesh opening up in a red welt. She hissed again.
Two hits against none. He was on top of the world.
Just then the hammer came crashing down on his shoulder. Growling in pain, he backed away. He knew something was broken, or at least dislocated. His left arm throbbed with a dull ache but he knew he had to stay focused. Focus or die.
With a snarl, he made to dodge left, but as she spun he moved right. This time he caught her in the neck. Blood spurted from her pale skin and dripped down her cape. With wide eyes she pressed her hand to the wound. It could be fatal if she kept bleeding out but he knew what she was thinking. She planned to kill him, get it over with now, and then get patched up. He couldn’t let that happen.
While she was still stunned, he made another move, this time ducking beneath her arms and coming up under her stomach. He rammed the knife home. It went through ribs and lungs and up into her heart.
Her jaw dropped as a feral moan escaped her lips, spittle dangling from her mouth. The hammer fell from her hand and she became limp in his arms. Cradling her body, he eased her onto the floor, where she stared up at him.
“I knew you had it in you,” she whispered. The light faded from her eyes and she became still.
Suddenly, his heart dropped. He had killed her. The woman who had rescued him from the mundane. The woman who had walked by him through the trials and the one he’d taken as his own. She was dead.
A roar went up in the crowd as the Boss named him Champion and promised him the ultimate prize, but all he could thing about was the loss of the best thing in his life.
Revenge Exactly by Tamara Fey Turner
Her fingernails caught skin and blood under them as she raked the tender neck of her assailant. His hot breath brushed her face and her breasts. His large hands pressed on her throat, crushing her beneath him, stopping her screams and tears. She did not feel him penetrate her skin, peeling it back, spraying her blood, and putting his face inside her to take a bite of her heart.
***
The waiting room is shiny and smells bleachy. The middle-aged woman sits. The doctor will be with me shortly, she repeats in her head. Three times. Six. Nine. Multiples of three keep her calm. The phrase is suddenly purged as her mind is riveted to another thought, a flash of memory causing physical jolts, as if she is being struck by lightning. Or perhaps something worse.
The memory takes her back more than 15 years to her life as a younger woman. “Malachi, please tell me what happened! Tell me now, so I can help you.”
“You will help me, Mother. You will.”
“I need to at least try to understand.”
“You understand enough.”
The police had questioned her then. And Malachi.
“Mrs. Andersen…”
“Ms. Jacoby, officer.”
“Uh, sorry. Ms. Jacoby, when was the last time you saw your son?”
“I’m not sure, officer. I must have been distracted somehow.”
“May I speak with your other son?”
“I’m right here, Officer Jor
dan, sir!”
The high-spirited voice had seemed to catch the officer off guard. “Son, were you out with your brother today?”
“No, sir. Michael has a bad habit of wandering off on his own. I always tell him something’s bound to kill you out there if you don’t watch out.”
Clearing his throat, the policeman had looked at her. “Well, ma’am, thank you. We’ll do everything we can, and keep you posted, of course.” Tipping his hat, Officer Sam Jordan had then exited the tiny wooden shotgun home without looking back.
In the years that followed, in the states and towns that changed all too frequently, the police would knock on her door often. Always questions without answers.
Karla Hughes. Jolene Perry. Laura Minks. There were others. Many others. The police did not believe she had no knowledge of the girls, or of Malachi’s involvement with them.
For years, Ruth had kept newspaper clippings of all local deaths in her area, whether she thought Malachi was involved or not. Just in case. In case of what? That, she was unsure of.
In truth, she knew very little; she had no more proof than the authorities. But she had her feelings. Her gut. Her instincts about her only remaining child. She knew he must be the serial killer he was accused of being. Although, no one ever put it together quite like that. One suspicious circumstance after another seemed to be connected by no one except her.
At four years old, Malachi had killed the family cat and concealed it in his room. She’d tried to talk to the boys’ father, Sean, but he left soon thereafter, thinking she was crazy in the way she felt about the boys: one dangerous, the other in danger. He’d accused Ruth because her mother was a self-proclaimed witch, but Constance was also mentally ill. Could one or both of their children be as well? Sean had said it was she who was mentally ill, but left the boys with her anyway.
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