The Slayer's Apprentice

175 Pages·2016·0.98 MB·English

by  Priest Zathryn

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and
beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

The Slayer's Apprentice
TOP SHELF
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Copyright 2008 by Zathyn Priest
Cover illustration by Alessia Brio
Published with permission
ISBN: 978-1-60370-601-8, 1-60370-601-1
www.torquerepress.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For
information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
First Torquere Press Printing: January 2009
Printed in the USA

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Chapter One

Have you ever desired with passion? I don’t mean superficial passion yearned for by most
men. No, the passion I’m talking about comes from far deeper within one’s soul. Not an
aspect of one’s spirit, but its very core. It is not something you can switch off and on like the
light of so-called love. Passion so all-consuming it feeds off every breath you draw, growing
more powerful, seizing the soul in its embrace, never willing, or able, to let it go.

It’s that final look in their eyes. A final pleading look of confusion, which in that moment
erases their fear. A flash of questioning: ‘Why me?’ ‘Why you?’ ‘Why now?’ ‘Why?’ It’s the
final time their chest rises... falls... shudders... stops. It’s the final moment when, at my will,
everything for them ceases to be. It’s that final moment which makes the build up, the hunt,
the capture, and the deed, culminate into the exhilarating end.

So here you are reading this, surrounded by my work and impressed by it. Stimulated,
perhaps. It gets the adrenaline pumping, doesn’t it? Your mind is already ticking over; I
don’t have to be there personally to know this. You want me. At this one moment in time, you
want me more than anything else you’ve ever desired. It’s a rage building inside you. I won’t
stop and now you, due to my initiation, will not stop either. You can’t.

I know how God feels.

NOW you desire with the passion I feel, all because I, without even meeting you, have planted
the seed. I have the upper hand. I’ll do this again, and again, and again, and again. Ad
infinitum. You, and dare I say many others, are just along for the ride. In my hands, I hold
the reins; in my heart, I hold the lust; in my mind, I hold the key; in my thoughts, I hold my
plans; and in my deeds, I hold a captive audience.

You won’t trace me from this letter. You won’t find the blue-eyed, redheaded boy. You won’t
find peace. You won’t find me.

Until we meet again.

T.C.S

***

Detective Paul Somerset placed the paper into a plastic bag and handed it over to forensics.
“T.C.S.” He scoffed. “Kitsch.”

“That mean something?” inquired a uniformed police officer.

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Peering sideways, Paul lifted an eyebrow. “The Crucifix Strangler, The Crucifix Slayer, The
Crucifix Stalker, take your pick, Constable Lang. I highly doubt he’s been kind enough to
give us his real initials.” He sidestepped the officer and re-entered the master bedroom.
“Approximate time of death?”

“Coroner estimates between five and seven last night. You think it’s a ritual killing?”

“Because of the crucifix?” Paul shook his head. “I doubt it. This guy wants notoriety; he
wants the media attention, a name for himself. My guess is the crucifix image is nothing more
than a calling card.” Folding his arms over his chest, he craned his neck upward. “Drawn
upside down on her forehead to signify the Antichrist. But he didn’t compare himself to the
Devil, did he? In the letter, he made a comparison with God.”

Eight years working with Sydney’s Criminal Investigation Branch and Paul had never
personally encountered a slaying quite so horrifically bizarre. In the back, a German
Shepherd dog lay dead on the doorstep. Baited earlier and arranged on its back, its paws were
bound with the same thick nylon cord used to strangle the three victims, its muzzle taped
shut, its throat cut. In the lounge room, Colin Hilliard sat dead in an armchair, bound and
gagged in a perfect replica of the deceased canine. He’d been struck in the back of the head
with a blunt object, strangled, and then arranged in the armchair as though he’d died
peacefully with a cup of coffee at his side. In the bedroom, his wife, Vanessa Hilliard, hung,
stripped down to her underwear with no obvious sign of sexual assault. Her wrists had been
slashed with only minimal blood spatter near where the body had been found. She’d then
been taken into the bedroom and suspended from an exposed beam above. Unlike her
husband, her body showed definite signs of a struggle, with defensive wounds on her hands
and bruising across her face.

Most disturbing to Paul was a possible frightening connection between the Hilliard murders
and the abduction of thirteen-year-old schoolboy, Dylan Firth, earlier in the day. ‘You won’t
find the blue-eyed, redheaded boy.’ It could have been written as a taunt, taking responsibility
for another heinous crime in order to boost the killer’s own ego. Paul knew T.C.S. wanted to
be noticed. He wanted to play the law and flaunt his ability to elude it. A precursor, Paul
feared, for more to come. He’d slain an innocent young couple in their mid-twenties, possibly
abducted and murdered a child, boasted of it, and had plans to become Australia’s next most
wanted serial killer. The killer had already given himself a name Paul knew he’d fully exploit
at a later date. T.C.S. had arrogantly placed himself on a pedestal and likened his first crime
to those that had gone down in history as the world’s most notorious. He was intelligent; the
eloquent letter showed an educated man, a man who desired the police to immediately
recognize this intellect. The murders would not stop until he was caught. Of that Paul could
be certain.

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Chapter Two

Five Years Later

Melting with night shadows beneath dark clouds threatening a deluge, Phoenix pressed his
back against the bitingly cold bricks and turned his face away from the stench of a nearby
dumpster. Eyes firmly closed in a failed attempt to shut out his sordid surroundings, his ears
tuned into the rising aggravation in clearly audible male voices around the decrepit building’s
corner.

“Four hundred you owe me,” one voice snarled into the darkness. “Pay up!”

A momentary pause ensued, followed by the sounds of scuffling shoes on wet concrete.

“It was in my pocket!”

Phoenix’s heart thumped against his chest and his right hand clenched around a small plastic
bag containing eight fifty-dollar notes. Sweat beads gathered over his brow, intermingled
with the first drops of rain spattering onto his face.

“One hour!” came the furious reply, matching up with the dull thud of something falling
heavily to the ground. “Or I’ll spill your blood!”

Situated on the corner of an intersection, nestled in the midst of one of Sydney’s poorer
suburbs, Dale’s Bar catered to the drunk and belligerent. Violence reared its head night after
night, spurred on by too much alcohol, illicit drugs, racial conflicts, and oppressive poverty.

A large hand seized Phoenix’s arm, startling him into losing his balance. “Get your skinny
arse behind the bar where it belongs!”

Phoenix shirked it off and sneered a curt reply. “Fuck off, Dale, I’m on a break!”

Dale Richards ran a loose ship as owner of the seedy bar-and-restaurant; he was a boss
abusing employees and dealing in more than drinks. Mousy hair flipped in a comb over,
always drenched in sweat that formed wet patches under the arms of his T-shirt and down the
front of his protruding stomach, Dale asked for no identification, no employee history, and
paid minimum wage under the table.

Phoenix was approaching his fifth month in Dale’s employ. He hung around for the easy
pickings of wayward wallets and a dire need to keep a roof over his head. Phoenix squatted in
run-down apartments, stole handbags from women in the streets, and accosted easy prey at
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ATMs. He had taken part-time jobs as a kitchen hand until he had been able to find a
permanent position as a bartender.

Phoenix kept no friends. Eighteen years old, five foot six, slim, and he was blessed with a
beauty that worked both for and against him. From an early age, he’d been taught how to
coerce trust with an angelic appearance and how to portray severed emotions.

Doe brown eyes peered through a long, dark brown fringe worn as one would wear a mask.
The rest of his hair was cut short, showing off a piercing in his left ear decorated with a small
reverse crucifix. Soft curves flowed around a perfect oval face and full, blush pink lips. Long
eyelashes framed eyes others could drown in until they realized they drowned in a void.

“Break’s over! Bar! Now!”

It edged toward three in the morning, the bar’s busiest period. Phoenix passed by two other
bartenders; he ignored them and they ignored him. Staff knew not to attempt conversation
with him and had long ago given up trying to crack his dour exterior.

A drunken male gestured Phoenix over with a jerk of his head.

“What can I get you?” Phoenix asked curtly.

The drunken patron replied with a laugh and several mocking kisses in his direction. “What
are you selling, Love?” The drunk was with a group of men. All of them sniggered, each one
thinking it original to use the surname on Phoenix’s badge as a joke.

Phoenix’s skin instantly prickled. “Order a drink or I walk away.”

The instigator did all the talking. “Get us some beers, Love, there’s a good girl.”

Disregarding the glasses sitting washed in ready, Phoenix crouched down to retrieve four
glasses from a cupboard. Too busy congratulating themselves on their ridiculing, they didn’t
notice Phoenix spitting into each glass. He filled them with beer, set them down on the
counter, took the jerks’ money, and walked away. He barely had time to take two steps before
he caught sight of the dark-haired man politely grabbing his attention with raised eyebrows
and a smile. A peroxide blonde woman left the dark man’s side and staggered toward the
bathroom.

The man’s smile broadened. “Hi. Can I have an orange juice, please?”

Well-mannered, an asset generally lacking in the bar. Phoenix nodded, filled his order, and
placed it on the bar.

“Thank you.”

“It’s not free, you know.”

“I know. I’ll pay as soon as you give me my wallet.”

Phoenix’s stomach turned. “I don’t have your fucking wallet!”
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“Pass it over and we’ll say no more about it. Don’t and I’ll call the police.”

Pale green eyes watched him unerringly. Expensive aftershave wafted off warm skin,
momentarily distracting Phoenix’s senses away from the stale stench of the bar. If he denied
having the wallet, he had no doubt the man would call the police. If Phoenix admitted to the
theft, he could very well renege on his deal and call them anyway. Phoenix had deftness in
his actions akin to a magician’s sleight of hand: a flawless pickpocket with skills honed to
perfection. Flawless, until now.

The man folded his hands and leaned in closer. “My name’s Daniel Hart. If the police find
my wallet in your possession, it’s going to have my identification in it. I don’t want to
involve the police, I only want my wallet.”

With no other alternative, Phoenix removed the wallet from his pocket and placed it on the
counter.

***

Phoenix rented a two-bedroom flat in a nineteen twenties era apartment building costing him
his weekly pay. Money for groceries and bills depended on what lined stolen wallets. The
apartment represented safety, a place he felt secure, surrounded by belongings he’d collected
since moving in; the furniture belonged to the landlord. The front door was fitted, by
Phoenix, with a line of five deadbolts and every window hid behind security grills.

Phoenix walked quietly from the kitchen, through the lounge, and to a slightly ajar bedroom
door. He peered inside, stepped toward the bed, and bent at the waist to kiss through mussed
up blond hair, whispering into a sleeping Echo’s ear, “I’m home.”

Going straight to bed after a night working never resulted in falling asleep. Phoenix needed to
wind down and watch television. He glared at the screen, focused fully on the early morning
news telecast. A horrified expression on the young reporter’s face mirrored paranoia already
ingrained deeply inside the public’s collective soul. A notorious serial killer, who’d evaded
capture during a year-long spate of sixteen gruesome murders and then suddenly ended his
macabre spree, had left his calling card on the latest murders. Four years of keeping a low
profile had come to an end.

Phoenix left the sofa to clean the bathroom.

Half an hour later, he kicked off his shoes and wandered into the bedroom. When sleep took
him over, so too did the nightmares, recurring without fail whether he slept deeply or dozed.
Swirling with images, making no sense, they left him murmuring into his pillow, "Infinitum.
Infinitum. Infinitum."

***

Phoenix curled tight in a fetal position, shaking, sweating, crying, and panting in his sleep.
The bedroom door flung open and a child dressed in flannelette pajamas ran to Phoenix’s
side. Sweat poured down Phoenix’s face in sheets and he trembled with enough force to
shake the bed.
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Echo lay against his brother’s back and wrapped his arm around him. “Shh. Stop crying,

Phoenix. Please stop crying. Shh.”

Bypassing the terror and hitting Phoenix’s subconscious, Echo’s soothing finally made an

impact, breaking through the vicious nightmares, the burbled words, and violent trembling.

Echo pulled the covers up and held tight while Phoenix slept.

They were all they had. Each other, in a world of solitude enforced by Phoenix and nurtured

by his obsessions and compulsions.

***

Weekends drained Phoenix physically. He couldn’t spend daylight hours sleeping when
Saturday and Sunday were days he took Echo to the park. Catching the same number bus
every time to the same quiet suburb, he kept a hawkeyed vigil while Echo played. No school
meant teaching Echo himself within their home, but it also meant denying Echo peer contact.
At the park, Echo made new friends and he caught up with old friends. Phoenix stayed away
from other adults watching their children, never letting Echo wander far from where he sat
alone on the grass, looking on.

Thursday mornings, they caught a bus together to a shopping mall. Echo held tight to
Phoenix’s jacket while he purchased groceries and then chose one new book they would read
together over the week. Once a month, Phoenix handed Echo thirty dollars to spend in a toy
store. Unable to carry everything home on a bus, they caught a taxi to their apartment block.

Echo loved his outings and Phoenix despised them. Anxiety swallowed Phoenix whole from
the moment he stepped outside with his brother until the moment he had Echo safely inside
the apartment. Phoenix, Echo, a black and white rat named Shakespeare, and a goldfish
named Fin-Fin were the only living creatures allowed within the walls.

Phoenix needed order. Everything had a place and stayed in its place. He needed to keep to a
schedule. A lost item, or lost time, signified a lapse in concentration Phoenix dare not tempt.
He needed cleanliness, something not offered in his work surroundings, but that consumed
his personal life. He would use an entire bottle of cleaning agent to scrub a bathroom already
at hospital grade sanitation. Phoenix never used the tub; it was off limits to Echo also, and
they only used the shower. Yet he scoured the bath every day before leaving for work and
again when he returned. The bleach ate through rubber gloves and took skin off his hands.
He’d learnt to switch off the sections of his brain dealing with physical pain and reroute it
inside his mind. It left his body numb and his personality fractured.

As Thursday drew to a close, Phoenix took his eyes off Echo and stared at his sketchbook. He
was a talented artist; most of the page had been filled up with the sketches of a faceless man.
He tossed the sketchbook aside and stood, alerted to take dinner from the oven by the sound
of the timer and Echo’s squeals of excitement. On Thursday night, Phoenix fixed lasagna,
Echo’s favorite.

Phoenix rolled his eyes and smiled. “Anyone would think I don’t feed you! Put your cars
away and wash your hands.”

“Trains.”
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Nodding, Phoenix waved a hand toward Echo’s bedroom. “Cars, trains, whatever. Put them
away, please.”

Echo made a pouch with his sweater and piled the trains into it, trotting off to his bedroom to
place them inside a large green toy box.

A bowl of fresh salad sat in the center of the table and Echo climbed into a dining room chair
with his knife and fork in ready. Phoenix laughed quietly and placed a plate of lasagna in
front of him. He then sat on the opposite side of the small table and peered at his plate with
little appetite.

Forkfuls of lasagna vanished into Echo’s stomach before he broke the silence through a
mouthful of tomato sauce and cheese. “Are you gay?”

The question fired out of the blue and resulted in the lasagna on Phoenix’s fork missing his
mouth and splattering onto the plate. “Echo! What made you ask me that? Do you even know
what gay means?”

Phoenix could hear Echo’s chubby legs swing back and forth under the table. “Jayden told
me.”

“Who’s Jayden?”

“My friend from the park.” Another fork of lasagna met its demise and Echo continued
unruffled. “I saw your pictures. You drew a different man. With a face.”

Pushing the plate away enough to allow room to fold his hands on the table surface, Phoenix
replied with a blank expression. “If you dare look at anything personal of mine again, I’ll dig
your eyes out of their sockets with a fork and then I’ll douse them with petrol and set fire to
them with a match. Then…” He leaned even closer. “…once they’re cooked, I’ll feed them to
Shakespeare and you’ll be blind for the rest of your life.”

Echo smiled a cheeky grin, pushing his dinner from between his teeth like a human pasta
maker. “Will not! What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have a name. I made him up.”

“Did not!”

An insightful five-year-old: there could be nothing more frightening.

Phoenix relented, glancing away. “Daniel Hart. He comes into the bar, that’s all.”

“Have you kissed him?”

“No! I’m not gay and you shouldn’t be talking about shit like that in a playground! You talk
about things you don’t understand and then you think I’m gay because I drew a picture of a
guy!”

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Food generally diverted Echo’s attention and Phoenix leaned over to pile salad onto his plate.
In this instance, it didn’t work.

Echo stabbed his fork into a slice of cucumber, pushed it into his mouth along with chewed
pasta, and continued. “You drew hearts around him.”

This time, Phoenix staged a false laugh. “I was being artistic! I drew hearts because his last
name’s Hart. Nothing gay about it! Just a picture of a guy called Hart with hearts. Eat and
talk about something else or else I’ll cut your tongue out and feed that to Shakespeare as
well.”

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