Four Suits (Book 1)

Day 39-1: Trapped

DAY 39-1: TRAPPED

"Spill the blood, tear the flesh, penetrate at good locations..."

"Y...your H-High...ness p-pleas—"

"Watch them writhe, kill as swift, without a moment's hesitation..."

His hums fill the air, tuning out the screech of the quack beneath him. Blood pools from their widened eyelids. They squirm against the serpents that hold him to the gurney, strapping each limb and suffocating him by the neck.

Avel's blade hits the flesh of the abdomen; softly at first, manoeuvring the sharp edge with vast familiarity and skill. Blood seeps from the steeled tip as he drags it across the abdomen, crafting a long, thick line of red. Prying apart the flaps of flesh, he exposes the yellow fat within, then slices through it. Working quickly, roughly.

The man has stopped squirming. His eyes lose all essence and he twitches; until finally growing limp. Physically he's ripped and destroyed, but he's finally relaxed. No more suffering, concerns. He can be at peace.

"Avel, why'd you stop?"

Her voice slithers in his mind, as always. He's always disliked how she can do that.

Regardless, Avel's mint eyes grow hollow. "He's dead."

"Already?" Zaire asks. "He was fairly weak."

For the first time in what felt like hours, Avel's senses rush back to him. The sickening smell of metal and rotting flesh infiltrate his lungs in a choking aroma, something he's grown so fond of. He has to swallow the undeniable pleasure every whiff surges through him. He unhands the knife, setting off to where the rest of his supplies sit.

He slips off his spoiled gloves and coat. Under the nipping chill of the mist that spreads over the night sky, moonlight illuminates the otherwise darkened room. He collapses into the window seat, leaning back and running his fingers through his shaggy purple hair.

A flask drifts from the fridge into his free hand and he downs a good gulp. With some remaining alcohol rolling down the corner of his mouth, Avel bends over his thighs. His hand over his face, he peers to the opposite end of the room, currently illuminated by the moonlight behind him.

There are more than he remembers being there, all lying like ghoulish mannequins. Corpse after corpse are strewn in a tall pile. But all are fresh— warm—blood thick but not yet dried on their waxy skin. One in particular dangles from the mountain, soulless eyes aimed directly at him; their mouth open, head almost cleft from the body. Severed vessels, esophaguses, and arteries stick out like corrugated rubber tubing. Ungainly as rag dolls, multiple of other heads droop forward as well, and over their slit chests and splayed organs and innards.

"You already completed the antidote last night, right?" Zaire's voice once again is like a hiss in his ears. The black serpent familiar of his twists her way over the couch, enclosing his shoulder. "Why did you go and kill more people?"

Avel drops his gaze, unable to stop the grin from stretching to his ears. "I couldn't help it. Just thinking about how broken Leda would be if I just killed that Spade gave me urges."

"But you still won't kill him," Zaire hisses. "For you to have gone so far for a human, maybe your madness has grown weak after all."

Avel chuckles, pressing his back against the cool window and drowning another refreshing gulp down his throat. "Zaire, don't go sounding like Mother. If she wants me to kill, I'll kill. I've always done so, haven't I?"

"Maybe so, but this is no time to be fooling around. You do realize it's past midnight. The engagement party is in twelve hours."

"Is it?" Avel laughs. "It's already the promised day? Leda will be mine in twelve hours, huh?"