3 of Fame, Dagger, and Blood

Lavina stalked the man.

She stalked him.

She saw him look uncertainly behind him.

She was camouflaged in the shadow.

She was the shadow.

And the man suspected nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He hadn’t even the time to scream when he felt soft hands and a gleaming dagger at his throat, the metal singing wildly in his ears.

He fell softly, collasping in Lavina’s arms.

She lay him gently onto the floor, rearranging his limbs, turning his wrists against the sky.

Lavina slid her bloodstained dagger into her black leather sheath.

Turned her face toward the sky.

And smiled.

*****

“There’s been another murder,” Wolf heard his father say on the phone, “Same murderer. When are we ever gonna find her?”

Wolf’s heart hitched, but said nothing. Another one?

“Who?” He asked, after his father hung up.

“Mr. Rantala.” He said.

‘The librarian?” Wolf was numb all over. Mr. Rantala would often forgive him for overdue volumes, even the most popular ones.

Without answering, he left, leaving Wolf drowning in dibelief.

And slowly but surely quiet fury rose and filled him. What cruel world snuffs lives out like sputtering candles?

He would catch this person.

No matter what it takes.

Wolf rolled his eyes as the Avengers theme song played in his head.

*****

Anathea drummed her hands impatiently on the table. She had planned to meet Wolf in her favorite coffee shop to dscuss this “killer”. Personally, she didn’t feel like it was anything to worry about. A random serial killer had nothing to do with her.

5:41

They had planned to meet at 5:30, but she had watched the door the whole time and carefully searched for the tall silhouette, but he hadn’t came yet.

Her forgotton frappucino stood next to her. She grabbed it and took a tiny sip, just as she heard the mockingly cheerful bell ring, signaling her that he had finally came.

“Wolf.” She said, without looking at him.

“Anathea.” He aknowledged, taking the seat in front of her.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk about?” She said, ignoring Wolf’s sheepish smile and his long slender fingers drumming the wooden table.

“Um,” Wolf hesitated, “Mr. Rantala was killed.”

“Who’s he?” Anathea said, her stomach plunging in a horrible swoop, but strangely, no sympathy.

“Librarian.” He replied, as Anathea took another swig of her coffee.

“So, what was it about him that you wanted to talk about?” She asked, self-consciously aware of her knuckles whiten and a flush creep up her neck.

Wolf inhaled sharply and look straight at her as he said,

“Do you know who the serial killer is?”

Anathea was momentarily stunned. The room spun and finally focused hazily on him. Her fingers tightened around her cup of coffee.

“Um, I don’t know? Could you describe her?”

“She has blond hair, likes to wear black. That’s all we know. ”

Anathea frowned. “That’s not very specific.”

“Yeah, because whoever got to see the close up of her face died within 3 seconds.” Wolf said dryly.

“Well that’s just fantastic.”

“Mmhm.” Wolf stood up and pushed in his chair, “I have to go. I have a class.” He made a face.

“‘Kay. I gotta go too. Should I give you my number?”

Wolf seemed surprised. “Sure.”

*****

The phone rang.

Wolf’s father took three giant strides and swiftly answered the phone. “Hello?”

Wolf prayed, prayed to the trees and the wind and the grass that this wasn’t bad news.

Of course, he was wrong.

He didn’t even bother listening to the voice on the other end. He could only hear the frantic chanting of the name of the woman who had caused all this mess in the first place, hammering into his skull and roaring in his ears.

Lavina Bathery. Lavina Bathery. Lavina Bathery. Lavina Bathery.

“Wolf?”

His father’s soft, rough voice brought him back to his senses.

“Earth to Wolf!” His father tried joking, but it ran dry on his tongue. And then came the Chance:

“I want you to come inspect the body with us.”

Wolf momentarily didn’t realize what his father was trying to say. “Yeah, okay, whatever.”

And then the Chance slowly dawned on him.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, yes, yes, yes! Of course I want to come!”

Wolf’s father’s lips lifted in something that could have bloomed into a smile. “I wasn’t asking your permission.”

“The body is at Stonefield Lane. In the alley.”

Within a few minutes, he was hovering behind his father, staring down at the body.

It was a man, a man of great age, with whitened hair and eyebrows, a balding patch beginning to start on the top of his head. His eyes were blue and glassy, staring at the sky he could not see. His skin was becoming paler and paler as blood seeped steadily from the slit in his throat as though the thick, crimsom liquid were his actual presence, draining away his life and soul. Hands, upturned, cupping the blood-red clouds in his lined palms.

Wolf felt bile rise up in his throat sickeningly as he stared into those blue eyes.

He bent over, fighting the vomit that threatened to pour.

It was a good thing he was nauseous, good thing he bent over.

Because if he had not, he might had missed the tiny shred of evidence, the smallest hint.

He scooped up the evidence, for it had blended with the blood, it had camouflaged and melted into the gore.

But he wiped it on his pants and held it up to his eye level.

And confirmed his suspicion. Sent a nasty swooping sensation to his stomach.

The piece of evidence.

It was the petal of a red dahlia.