Late, 27th September, 1892 — An alleyway, London
Ishmael always knew what he was doing. That was who he was. He wasn’t a sloppy eater, and he was certainly not in the habit of making mistakes.
But – now that he was slumped against a wall in a darkened alley, with blood staining his mouth and his fingertips and the full weight of a corpse on his lap – Ishmael was having trouble framing this in any other way.
He was having some difficulty forming any coherent thoughts or plans at all, actually, because there had been a lot of heroin in that man’s bloodstream. It had tasted disorientingly good a few minutes ago, and the euphoria of the blood-drinking hadn’t faded as fast as it usually did. In fact, Ishmael was almost perfectly content just to stay here, a dead man on top of him, and maybe have a nap.
No, he considered slowly, maybe that was a bad idea. His hand went back to the wound at the man’s throat where he’d been drained dry, touching it ponderously; lightly, he brushed a loose strand of hair out of the corpse’s face. (It had been so long since he’d killed anyone – so long he wasn’t even sure how he felt about killing any more.)
The hand he’d just lifted was the one with the ring. The one he’d worn for years, inlaid with that sun design, and with its magical link to Monty. Ishmael smiled fondly at it and twisted it on his finger to signal him, and then lolled his head back against the wall again to wait.
(If he weren’t this high, he would have thought better of making Monty come. He would have cleaned up his bloody mess himself.)
But – now that he was slumped against a wall in a darkened alley, with blood staining his mouth and his fingertips and the full weight of a corpse on his lap – Ishmael was having trouble framing this in any other way.
He was having some difficulty forming any coherent thoughts or plans at all, actually, because there had been a lot of heroin in that man’s bloodstream. It had tasted disorientingly good a few minutes ago, and the euphoria of the blood-drinking hadn’t faded as fast as it usually did. In fact, Ishmael was almost perfectly content just to stay here, a dead man on top of him, and maybe have a nap.
No, he considered slowly, maybe that was a bad idea. His hand went back to the wound at the man’s throat where he’d been drained dry, touching it ponderously; lightly, he brushed a loose strand of hair out of the corpse’s face. (It had been so long since he’d killed anyone – so long he wasn’t even sure how he felt about killing any more.)
The hand he’d just lifted was the one with the ring. The one he’d worn for years, inlaid with that sun design, and with its magical link to Monty. Ishmael smiled fondly at it and twisted it on his finger to signal him, and then lolled his head back against the wall again to wait.
(If he weren’t this high, he would have thought better of making Monty come. He would have cleaned up his bloody mess himself.)
