Prologue

The blade shimmered with life.

It glimmered in the gloomy darkness, light from the single bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling next to the stairs danced hypnotically off the eight inch long blade. It captured his whole attention, sucking him in, drawing him away from the slender naked figure cowering in the corner of the cold dark cellar.

It seemed to breathe, to talk to him. He ran a finger slowly along the back edge of the knife, caressing it while the knife spoke to him of venomous secrets.

It told him of his power. It explained to him his Purpose. It spoke to him of love and desire. It planned grandiose schemes that promised acceptance and respect that had never been his before the knife.

But mostly it commanded. It demanded to be fed, to drink deep of dark sweet blood, to bite of soft flesh, to chew on the richness of life and leave only death.

He whispered back to the knife as his fingers stroked the hand carved wooden handle.

"All for you," he whispered. "All and more," he laughed gutturally as the blade winked light back at him, agreeing in it's own silent way.

And then he scowled as it reflected the image of the girl he had oh so carefully chosen running up the stairs behind him. A deep, ugly growl escaped his throat and he turned to give chase, clumsily stumbling over the uneven dirt floor.

She was almost through the door of the fruit cellar, the door that he had forgotten to lock this time. She turned, seeing him rushing at her, almost on the top step. She tried to slam the door on him but he hit it hard with his shoulder. It jerked out of her hand and smashed against her, driving her across the rough grass, clods of wet soil tripping her. She fell with a bone jolting thud, her head snapping against a rock. Another larger one was under her, jamming into her back and bruising her kidneys. Her head jerked again, leaving a wet smear of blood against the rock. She struggled against the pain, fighting to stay alert even as it tried to swallow her whole.

She battled the encroaching darkness and the waves of dizziness that tried to engulf her. She struggled to get back up, to get away. The soft ground gave under her clawing hands, shifted under her digging feet. She slipped and felt consciousness waver again. She had to stay awake and fight or she was dead.

She saw him reach for her and tried to scream, a hoarse, croaking sound escaping through her swollen lips. She hit at his hand frantically and gasped as it wrapped around her throat picking her up as easily as if she were a feather. Her hands wrapped around his fingers, nails digging in as she choked, trying to pry them loose as black spots erupted in front of her eyes.

She had almost gotten away from him. It was sloppy, not locking the door behind him. Sloppiness wasn't allowed. It could get him killed. Worse, it could get him caught. She wasn't his first, he had practiced his trade, honed it to a fine edge that was just as sharp as the knife. He had gotten good at picking and choosing among the ranks of the sacrificial. He knew the ones that wouldn't be missed quickly, the ones that were the easiest to pluck out of the horde and make his own. It was easy. A gentle smile. A questioning look. A first innocent meeting.

He was lucky. The knife had told him so. He had found his Purpose in life. A Purpose he was good at it. And better yet, he liked it.

His attention was drawn back to the bloody, abused girl in his hands. He carried her by the throat back through the door and down the rickety basement steps. Her fingers were digging into his hands, nails drawing bloody furrows, her bare feet were kicking at his legs. He didn't feel it. All he felt was the pull of attraction to the knife. The pull to the power, the omnipotence of having control over life and death. He felt his Purpose.