The killer stalked her prey through the dark and foggy streets of London.
She had been keeping tabs on him for weeks, and tonight was the night she was going to strike. She had thought through and compulsively checked every detail; nothing could go wrong.
She followed him round the corner to the building housing his studio, keeping just out of sight. Not that it was needed, as he never turned around; it never occurred to him that he might be being followed. The fog made this part a little harder – she had to stay a little closer in order to be able to see him, but it helped that her steps were muffled. Her rubber soled sneakers were another aid in keeping quiet.
Once he had entered the building, she waited outside while he checked his mail: as she knew he would, having watched him so many times before. When he had stepped into the antiquated elevator, she listened for the now familiar clanking which indicated he had begun his journey up to the fourth floor, then crossed the threshold, using the key she'd taken from his jacket pocket some time ago while he waited for a bus outside the building where he worked.
He had wondered at his absentmindedness at the time, in losing his key, but ultimately blamed his cleaner.
She chose to use the stairs, not wanting the noise of the elevator to prepare him for her arrival. Not that she wouldn't be able to carry out her task if he knew she was coming, but it might be a little harder to avoid the attention of the other tenants. She was glad that her line of business kept her in prime physical condition as she climbed the four flights of stairs, or else the ascent would have left her a little out of breath.
She did not meet anyone on her way, a testament to the attention to detail in her planning when she chose tonight. In fact if she'd been asked it was likely that she would have been able to say where each of the building's occupants would be this evening. Again, not that she couldn't have continued if she'd been seen, but it was always riskier if there were witnesses to her presence near the scene of the crime.
She entered his studio silently using the stolen key again, and was pleased to see that he had not deviated from his usual stance with his back to the door. After all, he had no reason to believe that there was anyone behind him. He was too trusting, she had observed, refusing to even believe his key had been stolen. Not that she would have been deterred if he had changed the locks.
She shut the door, twisting the Yale lock open so it would not click and alert him to her presence, then slowly twisting it shut once the door was snug in the frame.
She looked around for an appropriate implement; knowing that there would be plenty of suitable objects lying around in an artist's studio, she planned to use something that would not seem out of place if she left it at the scene. She might even be able to make the death look like an accident.
Just then she spotted a disorderly pile of pencils on a table by the door. Carefully selecting a #2, she drew closer and leant in for the kill. She was pleased to see that her approach so far had gone unnoticed, her previous reconnaissance visits having paid off, enabling her to locate every squeaky floorboard. He did not know she was there, until she jumped around him and plunged the pencil into his neck, expertly impaling his jugular.
Quickly jumping backwards to avoid the blood, she made her way past the easels and let herself out of his studio, making sure to lock the door behind herself. After heading down the stairs and out of the building, she swiftly made her way towards a pub close to the bed and breakfast where she was staying, remaining alert and watchful despite the air of light-heartedness she assumed.
On entering the pub, she sat at the bar, trying to catch the bartender's attention, and unobtrusively looked around her. She saw a decent looking young man seated on his own in the corner, nursing a beer with a brooding look on his face, and decided he would be satisfactory for tonight.
Making a decision about who to be this evening, she settled with Marianne. He looked the sort that would admire the sensitive romantic type, all literature and poetry quotes. Once the bartender had noticed her, she ordered a gin and tonic, and approached his table, gesturing at the empty chair. "Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked, "it can be a little lonely drinking alone."
"Be my guest," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm John, by the way."
"Marianne," she responded with a nod. "Are you from around here?"
"Not too far – I live in Camden, but I like the atmosphere in this pub, so I come here a lot. I've not seen you round here before though, are you a Londoner too or are you just passing through?"
"Just passing, I'm afraid," she said. Wary of giving away too much information, she changed the subject. Remembering that the English were always content with talking about the weather, she asked, "Is it always this foggy? I could hardly see a hundred yards in front of me."
"No, this is quite unusual. It makes the place seem quite Dickensian, don't you think? Like the graveyard at the start of Great Expectations, perhaps?"
And there was that literary reference.
She was getting a little bored of the small talk by now, besides which she'd finished her drink, so she cut to the chase.
"An attractive gentleman that knows his Dickens? That's so hot," she murmured seductively, raising an eyebrow, amused at the slight blush that crept onto his cheeks at her words.
"Um… uh… uh huh… thanks," he stuttered, running his finger along the inside of the collar of his shirt.
She was turned on by his slightly shy awkwardness, and it looked like he was interested too, so she decided to skip the awkward chat, grabbing his hand and getting out of her seat.
"Uh, do you want to get out of here?" he asked in surprise.
"Yes, let's go somewhere quieter. I'm staying at a bed and breakfast just round the corner, would you like to come back to my room for a coffee?"
He jumped up then, grabbing his jacket, and followed her out of the pub, keeping hold of her hand. She led him back to the bed and breakfast, keeping an eye open for the lady that ran the place, who would no doubt be displeased that she had a guest at this time of night, then took him to her room.
As soon as the door shut behind them, she was all over him, and as soon as he'd got over his momentary surprise, he was all over her too. She attacked his mouth with hers, using her tongue to part his lips and gain access to his tongue.
At the same time, she pushed him against the door, removing his jacket and running her hands down his chest then grabbing his shirt. He returned the kissing, then unzipped her jacket, pulling it down her arms while she let go of his shirt for a moment, then took hold of her and spun them round so that her back was against the door.
By this point they were both panting and gasping, and she was hoping there wasn't anyone too close.
"Marianne, is this ok?" John asked, clutching the bottom of her sweater.
It took her a moment to remember that Marianne was her name this evening, and then she felt a twinge of frustration. She should have known that he would be one of the polite ones, wanting to make sure that she didn't do anything she didn't want to, and she didn't want to talk right now.
"Yes," she replied, when she'd collected herself. "Yes, please."
He didn't need any more of an invitation, pulling her sweater over her head then undoing her jeans. She unbuttoned his shirt then toed off her shoes, while he pulled her jeans down her legs.
She could feel him hard against her as she leant against the door in her underwear, so she removed his jeans and jumped up then wrapped her legs around his waist.
She seemed to take him a little by surprise again, but at this stage she wanted to get to the good part. It'd been a while.
Pushing down his boxers a little, she could feel him hard against her ass, so she pushed aside her panties and lowered herself onto him.
It was a little uncomfortable at first, as she had expected after her dry spell, but as he filled her she came to relish the feeling.
He thrust into her faster and faster, with the tension coiled in her core growing in the process, until she experienced her release. He came shortly after, and they both collapsed onto the bed, legs giving out. It wasn't the best sex she'd had, but it met her needs perfectly adequately.
He fell asleep soon after, and when he woke up in the morning, she was gone.
A/N next chapter: we'll meet Edward