Page 113 of The Darkness is Calling

Next comes their complete division, which will

culminate in rivalry. Soon, desperation will turn them into competitors.

That is exactly why idiot number two curses under his breath when idiot number one drinks his share of alcohol without a trace of remorse.

I piece together the information I have. A British man and an Albanian…

I know, it sounds like the beginning of a good

joke. Besides money, they were motivated to attack me by racist reasons. One is British and seems willing to sell his soul to escape torment, and the second is an Albanian who doesn’t want me in England.

Something does not fit, until a small light switches on in my head.

“Yaroslav, put the money back,” I say, smiling.

“Why?”

“Because this bastard is British too, but he’s pretending to be Albanian to mislead us.”

The idiot who played actor looks away, confirming my theory.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, furious that I caught him.

His curse doesn’t impress me, but it’s time for serious things, and that immediately shows on my face as it transforms beneath their outraged stares.

“Now I want to know who is the Englishman who hired you.”

“I’ll tell you again. Go to hell!”

“You wish. But I can’t. I have far too much work here in London. Guns to sell. A wedding to prepare.”

I lean toward him and breathe into his face, finishing in a whisper. “Blood to spill.”

I straighten before he can make another filthy gesture toward me, then hand the pliers to Dima, because the smell of popcorn has awakened an appetite almost as strong as my appetite for blood.

“Right hand. Index finger.”

“I might need a screwdriver too, to loosen it from the flesh if the nail is too small.”

“Even more beautiful.”

I let him handle that part while I join my brothers. I slip my hand into Sasha’s bag and take a fistful of popcorn, helping myself without a care in the world.

“Hey,” he scolds me.

“Quiet, or I’ll take your chocolate. Or would you rather I help myself after I get my hands dirty with their blood?”

A scream of pain interrupts our confrontation as it rings loudly through the room. But it doesn’t stop. It continues for long minutes, until Dima manages to loosen the nail and tear it completely from the finger of the future corpse.

A small pool of blood is already forming beneath his chair, and that is my sign to return to the stage. This time, I take a wide, very sharp knife from the table and approach the other prisoner. He already has two glasses of vodka in him, and he probably imagines the alcohol will truly help him endure the unimaginable pain awaiting him.

“An easier one. What was the mission?”

He refuses to answer, so now it’s time for me to play the way I like.

With the sharp blade, I begin peeling the skin from his forearm, accompanied by his agonized screams. Blood flows in warm streams that calm my demons, feeding them with these red-soaked images.

After barely two inches, the man starts babbling.