The Raven

Prologue

It is often said that the worst things happen when the lights are out. For, we all know that monsters hide in the shadows – under our beds -, and the dark is where nightmares come to life. Parker Kent could agree, for her was one of those things; a monster was one of the nicer names he had been called. For a living, he ruined people’s lives;  as London’s most deadly and infamous assassin. People called him the Raven, for the black feather that he left at the scene of a murder. Those he knew would say that the name suited him; coal black hair and eyes to match. But they would never know, for during the day he was as amiable as they came. It was his alter-ego you needed to watch out for; he had never once failed to kill a target – which of course explained the name calling -, and he was what could be described as a ruthless killer. The whole of London waited in fear, waiting to see who he would target next. No one since Jack the Ripper had had such a reputation as he. He smirked at the thought.

In truth, he was on the prowl for a corrupt politician this chilly September evening. Dressed entirely in black, along with a black cloak and half-mask, he stalked down a neat suburban street, where the houses had neat gardens and white picket fences. It was a rich neighbourhood, he could see. He could see high-end cars parked on weed-free drive ways, and he could be sure that more than half of these houses employed a maid or two, even though it was likely that the woman of the house did not work. He could not imagine being idle all day; but that was just him.

It was close to one, and he lounged against a large tree not far from where he knew his target to reside. It seemed like almost too long before the final light in the house was switched off, signalling that the maid had retired to bed. He then waited half an hour for her to be asleep before he began to approach the house. He had been watching the household every night for the past four days, watching the habits of the family. It was how he knew that the man and his wife went to bed at ten most nights, and that the maid usually followed at midnight, after the work was done. She was late tonight. He also knew that the family kept a cat, which liked to spend the evening outdoors. It was for this reason that the maid always left a back door open for the cat to sneak back in. It would be almost too simple to get inside.

Pulling on a pair of black leather gloves, he eased open the back door silently. All was still in the house, except for the hum of a refrigerator. He already knew the way to the master bedroom; up the stairs, and the first door to the left. Their son was at a friend’s this evening, so their door was open. He almost laughed at how careless the family was.

He stalked towards their bed, listening to the soft snores of the man, and nearly silent breathing of the woman; he had near perfect hearing. He drew a slim, curved blade from a holster on his belt, handling it carefully; like a lover. He grinned madly as he lowered the blade to the man’s neck, pressing down lightly, barely enough to make the wound bleed. It was enough to wake the man up. Seeing the masked figure standing over him, the politician let out a yelp, before the knife was plunged into his chest: directly at his heart. Parker liked to see fear in his victim’s eyes before he killed them.

However, his noise had managed to wake his wife, and as he looked at her, her mouth gaped open like a dead fish. She had started to weep. Parker rolled his eyes; the women always cried.

“Shut up.” He snarled, pressing his blade to her slim neck.

The woman was probably twenty years younger than her husband, he noted, slicing her neck slowly. She groaned in pain, before he severed her carotid artery, and she fell silent. He face was still contorted in agony and horror. A work of art, Parker thought.

He wiped the blood from his knife on her face, not wanting to stain his blade. She was dead anyway, he mused, it wasn’t like it mattered. His work was done, but before he left, he pulled a perfect black feather from his pocket, laying it to rest on the dresser in the room.

He left the way he came in, through the back door, with the maid none the wiser. As he left, he noted a black cat slinking through the garden. He expected that in two days’ time, he would be headline news, if not sooner. The maid, of course, would find the bodies, and the police would be called. Then he would be sent in; Parker Kent, senior officer of Scotland Yard.

He smirked; it was beyond perfect.

As he began his walk home, he whistled a joyful tune to himself. It had been a good night, without a hitch. Idly, he pulled a small, yellowing notepad out of his jacket pocket, flicking to the fifth page in – the first four were full -, and grinned as he crossed off another name on the list.

John Fowler.

It had indeed been a good night, but he anticipated settling into his bed for a good five hours sleep before he would inevitably be woken by a phone call. It was a pain, but he was used to it, and he loved his jobs.

He was woken by a phone call in the following hours, right on time, but he was wrong about one thing.

The bodies were not found by the maid, as he had originally thought, but the cat.