THE BLACK ROSE

PROLOGUE: NEW IDENTITY

DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters in House or in Twilight. They are all Ted Dekker's and Frank Peretti's and Stephanie Mayer's creations. This is purely fan fiction with no intention of making money whatsoever. Hope you enjoy it. 

The man was handsome enough on one side. He was tall and pale, with hollow cheeks and had dark curly black hair that almost fell to his shoulders, and piercing black eyes. Tonight, his curly black hair was matted and tangled with congealed blood. His skin was so pale it was almost white—it was far too pale to be considered healthy. This normalness was all on the left side of his face. On the right side of his face, however, was horribly scarred. The scars were raw and red. Any movement of his right facial muscles had to hurt. The scars were three long lines that began around his eyebrow and covered the entire right side of his face. When one usually glimpsed him on the streets, their first thoughts usually where that he was wearing a mask.

What fools they all were. He was dressed in a long black trench coat and shirt and black pants and boots. He donned a wide-rimmed black hat and pulled it low over his eyes to conceal his face. If they had any idea who he truly was, the people would be panicking.

He lingered in the shadows of the night, waiting by the streetlight, avoiding the light. Finally, he spotted a dark figure strolling towards him, taking its time.

"You're late," he whispered in his low, raspy voice.

"Oh, come off it. Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to be too punctual?"

He sniffed disdainfully. "No."

"It's possible, you know. I guess they have you pegged." The person smirked as they lit up a cigarette.

The man raised an eyebrow. "You should really quit, you know..."

"Not this old argument again, please. No. Not tonight. I have enough to worry about without listening to you bitch about my smoking habit."

"Such as...?"

The person didn't answer. The figure came into the light and the corners of the man's mouth turned up in a small half-smile. The speaker was a woman. She looked to be in her early twenties—only about twenty-two or so. She was tall, lean, with dark brown hair that was cut in short and spiky layers. Like him, she too was all dressed in black. She was dressed in a black tank top and black jeans and shoes. She too also sported a black hat with a wide rim that she had pulled low over her face to conceal her features to anyone other than him. But she could pull off the hat look without looking suspicious. She made hat wearing feminine and sexy, something he'd never be able to do. Around her waist she wore a holster in which she carried a small silver hand gun. Her hands were bandaged and there was a small scar on her right cheek. She'd never offered an explanation for the scar in the two years the two had worked together. It was something they'd had in common. He'd never let her see his face (he'd always remained in the shadows or worn a mask when they were in each other's company, which was surprisingly often) and she'd never explained the strange scar on her cheek.

"Such as where to plan the arena for the next game. You've done in six families alone in Alabama. You know the rules. Six families per state. We have to move on, before the cops catch us. Where to next?"

He smiled and donned a pair of black mirror sunglasses, despite the fact that it was the dead of night. "I was thinking of maybe changing my identity; add a little spice to my already-exciting life."

The woman gaped at him, but recovered quickly. "Why the hell would you want to change your name? What's wrong with the one you've got?"

"I want a name that the people of this world will remember me by!" he cried, exhilarated by the prospect of a new identity. "A name that will strike fear into the hearts of American citizens!" He glanced sideways at her. "And I can't do that with a name as common as mine."

She rolled her eyes at him and sighed. "The name doesn't matter, B. What matters is your ability to kill, and you've successfully proven yourself of your ability to do that. Your name doesn't mean shit."

With surprising speed, he threw himself at her and seized her by her shirt and pinned her up against the lamppost. "My name means everything to me!" he snarled, baring his teeth. She was amused to see that they were rather sharp and pointed, like that of a vampire. "And you are helping me change myself or so help me, woman, I will destroy you and send you to hell myself!"

The woman laughed at him then, and he relinquished his hold on her. "Why should I take you seriously? If you really wanted to kill me, you would have done it ages ago. You would have done it when I persuaded Barsidious to do the game here," she cried, throwing out her arms and gesturing at the land around her. "If it wasn't for that little girl, he would still be with us! His demise was his own damn fault!" Fuming, she narrowed her eyes and glowered at him, dark brown eyes flashing. "He should have seen that child for what she was! He chose to play with light, and look where it got him!"

The man was silent for several minutes. He squared his shoulders and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Very well. But this time I choose the state. You can choose the arena, just make sure no one willingly goes in this time like she did," he spat. He turned and began to walk away, hands in the pockets of his trench coats. But not before he turned around and said, "And you're still helping me to come up with my new identity. I am becoming too easily recognizable."

The woman smiled. "Deal. Later, D."

It was his turn to snicker. "Tomorrow night, Vickie."

Vickie nodded briefly before turning and walking away. She thought of something and turned to say something, but he had gone.

Vanished.

CHAPTER ONE: GOOD AND LOST

The stations on the radio flickered with static as Jim and Grace Dailey drove through the backwoods of Maine in their small silver Honda hybrid.

Jim drove in a state of irritable agitation while Grace tried to find a suitable station with reception.

A newscaster's voice erupted through the static, startling Grace and Jim and making them jump.

"A police report is in today that the serial killer known only as "White" appears to have vanished. Two were found dead yesterday in a bed and breakfast hotel in Alabama, a man and a woman, while another young couple survived, apparently unscathed but a good deal shaken up. A young couple by the name of Jack and Stephanie Singleton. The Singletons were unavailable for comment as were the owners of the establishment when our own reporter Jacob Smith showed up at the Wayside Inn. In the meantime, we are urging people to stay indoors. If you had travel plans for the weekend, you might be wise to reconsider, folks. Now over to—"

Grace quickly changed the station to rap despite her husband's raised eyebrow.

She shot him a look. "What? I for one don't want to have to listen to depressing news like that. The media today is so focused on the bad aspect of the world events occurring today, and—"

"I understand, hon, but rap? Since when do you listen to rap?"

"Since it's the only other station that's currently got reception," she shot back hotly, tossing her hair back.

Jim smiled in spite of himself. Her feistiness was why he had married her; it was her key trait that had made him fall in love with her. That and her gorgeous auburn hair and nice, slim figure. He glanced sideways at her and winked. She smiled at him and then turned her attention to the window. She was tall and lean, with auburn hair that cascaded in natural curls to her breasts and light green eyes that seemed to sparkle nonstop. Grace was dressed in jeans and a red top and currently her eyes were hidden behind huge celeb-style sunglasses.

She craned her neck to try and see over the hood of the car. "Where did Dad say the turn to their house was?"

"Grace! You should know where your parents' house is!"

She shot him an accusatory glare full of mock contempt and malice. "I haven't been to visit them since they moved! This is my first time to their new house as well as yours!"

He sighed and began to laugh. "Grace, has anybody ever told you that you have a terrible sense of direction?" She couldn't contain herself any longer. She swatted him on the arm and began to laugh as well, although more hysterically than Jim.

Grace squinted her eyes to see out the window. The sun was beginning to set and soon it would be dark. "I can't tell for sure, but I think someone's in the road..."

"I'm sure they'll get out of the way," came Jim's reply.

"Jim, pull over!" she shrieked suddenly. "I think they're hurt!"

Jim's right foot slammed on the brake and their car screeched to a stop on the side of the road. Quickly, the couple unlatched their seatbelts and had piled out of the car in a flash.

A young woman in her early twenties was standing in the middle of the road, halfway delusional and apparently judging from the looks of her hands, injured.

The woman's hands were bloodied up pretty badly, Jim could see that much. She had apparently wrapped Kleenex around them to try and stop the bleeding. An ambient attempt but at least she knew enough to try and stop it.

She was tall and rather skinny, with short spiky dark brown hair that was currently matted and tangled with congealed blood. Her dark brown eyes were wild and frantic with dark circles underneath them.

The woman clung to them like static. "Oh, thank God, someone's here!" she wailed. "The devil is after me!"

Jim put a hand on her shoulder and tried to calm the woman down. "Whoa, ma'am, back up a minute. Who's after you? What's going on?" he frowned.

She stared at him with frantic eyes, like that of a wounded animal. "He's after me, sir! We—we have to get away. Now. Right now, before he sees us!"

Grace stroked the woman's hair and squeezed her shoulder. "Calm down, miss. We're here to help you." Peering over the woman's shoulder, she glanced briefly at her hands. "We should probably get something for your hands, or take you to the hospital."

"NO!" she howled, causing the two of them to jump. The woman recovered quickly and cradled her left hand in her right. "He said if I do anything to heal them, he'll blow them off, and I won't have my hands anymore!"

"The man did this to you?" cried Jim furiously. "You tell us who the perp is, ma'am, and we'll call the police," he replied, whipping out his cell phone and flipped it open.

She eyed it nervously, eyes flitting from the phone in Jim's hand to Grace and then to Jim. "I'd really rather not get the police involved. The insurance company that covers my car would raise my rates and I just can't afford that. I—I was on my way to the Comfort Inn to meet my hiking group when my car crashed."

"Did the man who did that to your hands wreck your car as well?" snarled Jim, eyes flashing.

"Jim!" cried Grace in a warning tone.

"N—no. I skidded to avoid a dog in the road and wound up in the ditch." She glanced at their car parked on the side of the road in interest. "I hate to ask this, but...could you possibly drop me off at the Inn? I'll pay you for your troubles."

Grace glanced at Jim and gave a curt nod of her head.

"Of course," said Grace warmly. "But we wouldn't dream of letting you pay us anything. We're glad to do it."

The woman smiled, revealing bright white teeth. "Thank you! I can't tell you how grateful I am. If there's anything I can do—"

"Think nothing of it," replied Jim as he helped the woman into the backseat of their car. Grace clambered into the front seat and they drove off smoothly, unaware of the fate that awaited them at the hotel...

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