Page 8 of The Darkness is Calling

The reason why I came here with the girl.

Who I am.

And how much I know.

I wonder if his life flashes before his eyes in that half second it takes the bullet to reach his forehead. Were they pleasant memories, or a parade of the sins he committed?

His panic-filled eyes go empty. I don’t spend more than a second admiring the blood beginning to trickle from the hole in his forehead, and I turn my back, before the old women can see my face.

There are no cameras inside the building, but even so, I know very well that I took a risk by coming here in all my glory, ignoring my brothers’ advice to cover my face with the balaclava printed with a white skull.

But today, I wanted the priest to see the face of his executioner clearly.

To know that Death forgives no one and comes when you least expect it.

Death has one gray eye and one half-brown eye.

The red shade of the sinner’s blood still haunts me like a ghost, my mind ravenous for that color.

At last, there is silence again after the monster has been fed.

Now I wait for dessert, which comes after barely two steps, with the dull thud of the priest’s lifeless body hitting the floor.

The first scream.

Let the symphony begin.

One second later, the shrieks and panic take over. But to me, it sounds like a slow song, one that steadies my heartbeat and gives me the calm I crave.

Who said perfection doesn’t exist?

Blood and screams.

Color and music.

Death is an art, and I am very talented, thank you very much.

Outside, the light rain from earlier has stopped, and my brothers are waiting for me beside the black Range Rover like two guardians of hell.

The contrast between them is striking. While Yaroslav stands out because of his massive build and thick arms covered in tattoos, Aleksandr is the beautifully made one, but leaner, the only one with golden hair like our mother’s, while my older brother and I inherited our father’s black hair.

“I thought some little old lady had seduced you in there,” the youngest grumbles, opening the driver’s door.

Today, he wants to play with the car.

“Jealous you didn’t come in to meet them?” I ask him dryly, walking around the vehicle to climb into the passenger seat, while Yar takes his place in the back, choosing to sit there comfortably.

“I don’t really have a thing for geriatrics.”

“Did anyone see you?” Yar cuts in, his voice deep and stern from the strong cigarettes whose scent follows him everywhere.

“Only him.”

“That was your whole idea,” he says, a note of dissatisfaction in his voice, because he also supported my younger brother’s balaclava suggestion.

“That’s all we needed, for some little old lady to see you and for us to add ‘old-lady killers’ to our resume,” Sasha huffs as he quickly disappears into the traffic of the crowded streets.

“It’s handled,” I cut them off, closing the subject. “Now let’s move on to serious matters.”