Page 6 of Spitfire

Silence.

Click.

The sharp spark of my lighter somewhere in the shadows forces his head to snap around. For a fractured second, the orange flame illuminates a sharp, pale smile, and a sharp blade, before the darkness swallows it whole.

"No..." he whispers, the blind, frantic terror in his tone sending a jolt of pure arousal straight down my spine. He edges farther into the alley, fleeing deeper into the trap, away from the streetlights, and any hope of a witness. He doesn't even realize he is perpetrating his own execution. Such a cocky, untouchable bastard. He truly thought the debt would never come due.

Click.

Another spark breaks the quiet, this time directly ahead of him. The tiny flame holds a little longer, casting the silhouette of a cloaked figure against the brick, the shadows seeming to elongate and become even more menacing before vanishing.

A rat runs past his feet, and it has him darting away, his eyes too wide. His breathing shatters apart into short, desperate gasps as he shouts into the darkness, "You're sick! What the fuck is this?!" He fists his hands at his sides and puffs up his chest, attempting to look larger and tougher than he is, but we both know he's a coward.

I glide in behind him, leaning close enough to blow a wisp of warm air directly against his shivering ear. "No, Georgie. You are."

He recoils so violently that he crashes into a rusted dumpster. His body locks up in a violent tremor, the frantic chattering of his teeth filling the narrow space between us. He never heard my approach, so he thought I was yards away. He thought he was safe, just like his victims did.

I allow my gloved hand to drift into a sliver of meager lamplight. The tip of my blade traces a slow, screeching line down the rain-soaked brick, before disappearing back into the dark.

"I've watched you, Georgie," I murmur, my voice floating through the rain with a devastating, calm serenity that coaxes a pathetic whimper from his throat. "You smile at parents."

Silence.

I slide the cold flat of the blade down the contour of his cheek, and he flinches away. "You volunteer your time, you give your money generously to all these local charities." I press the edge just hard enough to nick the opposite side of his jaw, letting a single bead of dark fluid well up. "You know exactly how trustworthy you look. The perfect image of a good man."

His mouth hangs open, a breathless, hollow gasp escaping him. He shoves against me, a feeble attempt that gains him an inch or two of distance, but will cost him in the long run. His Adam's apple juts out and everything in me wants to stab it out of his neck. The fingers of my other hand wrap tightly around his neck, squeezing tightly. "You counted on the children never finding the words."

His knees buckle, but the sharp bite of the steel beneath his chin forces him to stay upright. "No... no, please, you've got the wrong..." His hand wraps around my gloved wrist in a pathetic attempt to stop me from crushing his airway. The feel of him, even through the leather, brings an overwhelming sense of disgust, and my skin crawls.

"I never have the wrong man." The absolute certainty in my voice is colder than anger, more terrifying than raw fury. There is no hesitation here, only holy conviction. The truth has always been an extension of this blade, and right now, it demands George Weston's blood. I release my hold, my grin hidden by the shadows that surround us. He instantly tries to back away.

One step. Two. Then the third. Run, Georgie. Give me a chase.

My blood turns to liquid fire, a hot, primal adrenaline searing through my veins at the prospect of the hunt. I want him to believe there's a fraction of a chance. I want his heart pounding at its absolute limit before I break him. Oh Georgie, you're already dead, you just don't know it yet…

He picks up a discarded piece of a broken wooden pallet and swings it recklessly at me, as his heel strikes a dead end filled with solid concrete and high, unyielding brick. There is nowhere left to run for him. He cranes his head upward toward the sky, as if the towering buildings might offer mercy or an escape. They won't. They are complicit in this cleansing. They want him punished. They urge me to bleed him for his sins.

"Fuck you! I'll kill you!" He swings again and again.

I step fully into the paltry light. My hood still shadows the features of my face, the heavy black fabric beaded with silver droplets of rain. My expression beneath it isn't wild or crazed; it's reverent, serene with the weight of my purpose. That absolute calm must terrify him more than hatred ever could. Do you see the monster now, George? Does he scare you?

I tilt my head forward, deliberately letting him catch a small glimpse of the sharp lines of my face. It doesn't matter what he sees now. Georgie won't be telling a soul where he's going. He lets out a harsh, surprised gasp, and his grip on the wood falters. I study the frantic twitching of his eyes with the cold, detached interest of a scientist pinning an insect under glass.

"I wonder, Georgie," I whisper softly, stepping closer to his personal space until his expensive, sweat-soaked cologne is entirely overwhelmed by the metallic, intoxicating tang of his fear. The weapon he's carrying doesn't frighten me. I'm incapable of the emotion anymore. Life has beaten it out of me. "Whether monsters recognize each other."

His lips tremble, his voice cracking into a pathetic reed as my hand darts forward and rips the wood from his grip, throwing it behind us. "I... I... don't know what... you're talking about. You have the wrong person!"

"No?" A faint, sharp smile graces my lips, and I watch him flinch before he looks for anything he can use against me in desperation. "I suppose pretending becomes second nature after a while, doesn't it? I can relate, Georgie." I watch with amusement as he bends and picks up trash, throwing it at me in an attempt to stop me, but it's no use. I won't be denied.

I take the final step, closing the chasm between predator and prey. The heavy, frantic heat wafting off his terrified body hits me like a physical wave, mixing with the cold rain, and the dark, violent desire to watch him split open begins to consume me entirely. He tries to strike out with his fist, managing to hit the side of my neck clumsily, with no finesse behind the movement, but pain is weakness, and I don't allow myself to feel any. My other hand rises, slowly, menacingly, as I grasp onto his wobbling, grotesque chin. I squeeze, the pressure calculated, before taking that final step to ruthlessly pin him flat against the weeping brick. There is no rushing. No desperate quickening of my pulse. True predators never need to hurry; the maze is already closed.

George does his best to fight against me, using his meager strength to shove, kick, and even bite, but when one is used to targeting someone half their size, they can't handle someone like me. I lean inward, the weight of my frame compressing harshly against his trembling body. He attempts a pathetic shift to push back, releasing his chin, but the sudden, cold bite of the steel against his throat instantly dissuades him. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, inhaling a deep breath of the freezing air, and his raw, concentrated terror. God, George now smells delicious.

I can hear it now, and the rhythm is beautiful. The frantic, erratic pounding of his heart against his ribs, and the jagged hitch in his breathing. Every tiny, involuntary whimper that vibrates against my body causes a shudder to slide down my back. I close the remaining distance between our similarly sized frames until the midnight shadows bleed us together, erasing the line where my silhouette begins and his ends. We are now only one.

I slash with the blade, cutting through his shirt until I can see it darken with his blood against the fine fabric, and his scream fills the alleyway. "HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP ME!"

Cold rainwater trickles beneath our shoes, then something warmer joins it. The sharp, pungent stench of fresh urine hits the damp asphalt, and an instant jolt of profound annoyance reverberates through me. So fucking weak. Utterly pitiful.