✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

6

The thought of Christmas both delighted and sickened Will.

He had no family—his mother died when he was young; he killed his father as a teen—but his stray dogs kept him some semblance of company, filling the silence with rustling and barking.

Tonight, it was lonely in the Graham household—dark and cold. Every single holiday, it seemed a shade more sombre, like a filter draping itself over for the occasions. He didn't mind, though. Despite the loneliness he felt, holidays meant milling people. Milling people—buzzed and distracted—meant endless possibilities of murder. Murder meant Death's hopeful arrival.

Will shoved on his jacket, glancing down at his phone once more. Jack Crawford had called, asking for assistance with the recent murder. A possible lead.

It looked like he wouldn't be lonely tonight.

Will bid his dogs farewell, huffing out into the cold as he headed to his car and got ready. In roughly thirty minutes, he arrived in Laurel, Maryland, in the parking lot of Lifehouse Church. Lights gleamed from the old building, and singing bled from the walls.

As Will slipped out of the car, Jack Crawford came into view, approaching him with a newly-familiar face by his side.

"Jack," greeted Will, nodding at them both. "Mr. Lecter."

They nodded in return, gazes turning toward the church.

"Sure this is place?" said Will. "Seems ordinary just like the others."

Hannibal lead the way, and they slipped through the heavy doors, washed over with warmth. Singing swelled in the air, and lights twinkled about. Church members filled the pews and lined the walls, holding books with heads bowed or hands lifted in praise.

"Jack and I were discussing the probabilities of Pikes being here," whispered Hannibal, in the middle of Will and Crawford. "I've known him for years—he will be here."

Will gazed at the members, all singing with glee. "He wants a child from his home church," muttered Will, "to be his final kill."

The ghost of a smirk lingered on Hannibal's lips. "His final kill, you say," he breathed. "Interesting."

Will thought nothing of his statement, searching the people. What if he chose his own catch here, too?

No. He quickly silenced the thought, gazing at every face. All innocent, all praising, all but—

"There," whispered Will, leaning close so the others could hear. Jack and Hannibal followed his gaze. "Is that him, Mr. Lecter?"

The man vaguely reminded Will of how Death might look. Slicked-back raven hair, sharp features with gleaming grey eyes, and an all-black suit. His sly eyes glanced over the church, lingering on any children like a predator to its prey.

By his shoulder, Hannibal nodded. "Yes."

Will took a deep breath, the faint air of Hannibal's scent lingering in his nose. Still, just like when they first met, wafted that air thick with power. So much like Death.

Jack tore him from his thoughts. "It's unceremonious," proposed Crawford, "but we could catch him now. Before he finds a kid."

"And interrupt the entire service?" said Will. The singing swelled around them, and the candles seemed to glow brighter.

"Would you rather angered Christians glare upon you," said Hannibal, "or an innocent child to die in the hands of a murderer?"

"Both sound quite bad," Will muttered, but his amused air was quickly shot down with glares. He scoffed. "It was just a joke."