A/N:
Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.
"Oh, crow! Go crow! Baby's sleeping sound,
And the wild plums grow in the jungle, only a penny a pound.
Only a penny a pound, baba, only a penny a pound."-Extract from "Without Benefit of Clergy", by Rudyard Kipling.
Blood creeps stealthily down the pavement, staining the gray a harsh fox-brown. It spreads like a cancer, tainting the ground with its grasping rivulets, holding and claiming and never, ever letting go. He loves the red of it, the way it boldly contrasts against his pale skin. He examines it, considering, before delicately licking it off his fingertips.
At his feet, his newest victim gibbers helplessly, weakly twitching as blood leaks from her jugular vein, emptying into a pool of red that forms a grotesque halo around her head. Her black hair is now stiff and crusted with blood, the once multicolored streaks in the black now indistinguishable from the rest of the mud-colored ensemble. She croaks, attempting and failing to scream for help.
Her name is Isla, he remembers from his research. Isla Fae. A student at a dentistry school, attempting to get a degree. Early twenties. Single, but was considering asking a friend of hers out for a date. Evidently, her plans had not come to fruition.
To be honest, he expected more fight from the girl (she was excellent at fencing in high school, or so his research says), but what can you do?
Shrugging, the teen wipes off his knife on the girl's turquoise dress, taking a moment to snatch one of her gold bead bracelets as a souvenir. Checking to made sure that no blood landed on his clothes during the deed (not that it had—he is too good for that, and he knows it), the boy nonchalantly waves to the dying girl before sauntering off.
Later, he washes his hands off at a public fountain, and throws away the knife in a storm gutter.
The body is discovered the next day, but no one finds the killer.
It is raining, and another victim has fallen at his hands.
It is a male, this time. Research tells him he's an Australian artist by the name of Aster Bunnymund (he snickers quietly at the name). Early thirties , workaholic, scared of heights and, bizarrely, greyhounds. Allergic to cats, and is obsessed with egg-related foods. Prolific in various martial arts.
He's also handsome and muscular, and he is sure that in another life, maybe the two of them might have become an item. He regrets briefly the death of such a charismatic young man, but then again, he would have died sometime anyway, so it isn't such a big deal.
He gazes down at the torn and mangled body, the rain washing the blood away. Despite the man's age, he already has gray streaks in his blue-black hair. Not for the first time, he marvels at the man's looks.
Impulsively, he bends down and hacks off a lock of the man's hair with the knife. Then he turns away and leaves.
As usual, the body is found next morning, but the killer never.
His next victim is a contradiction. A mute insurance salesman (and really, how did that even work?) by the name of Sanderson Aisling. Late thirties, Scottish, good with horses and excellent at calligraphy. Communicates through sign language (duh) and cannot tolerate hippos or anteaters. Has a fingernail-biting habit.
He can sympathize. He himself has a terrible nail-biting habit.
He is less careful with this one than with the others. While normally he gags his victims first to stop them from screaming, he forgoes this precaution when dealing with Sanderson. In a way, he supposes, he is mocking the man. Telling him that "oh, you could scream, you could get help, except you can't because you're mute." It is cruel, he knows, but he is not in this business in order to be nice.
Still, the little man did nearly break his kneecaps before dying. He will always respect him for that.
He takes the man's wedding ring before he goes.
His next victim is...strange.
Nicholas North, known for his little matryoshka doll shop at a street corner. Late fifties, Russian, has one daughter in her twenties who goes by the name of Katherine. Currently a widower, and likes fruitcake and cookies.
This one is disappointingly easy to kill, and he grins when the body is finally still. He snatches a locket from around the man's neck, and opens it to see a picture of North and his daughter. Humming, he pockets his prize and leaves.
The latest one is an author.
Jude Black, known by his pen-name of "Pitch Black," is one of the most intriguing men he ever saw.
Mid-thirties, British, divorced with one daughter who stayed with her mother. Cat aficionado (proud owner of three Persian, two Siamese, four Maine Coon, one Bengal, and multiple Scottish Fold cats), workaholic, and professional wine taster.
This one puts up a tremendous fight before dying, and he ends up with many bruises before he lands the killing blow. The blow itself is messy and sloppy, spraying blood freely over the white snow, but it gets the job done.
He waits for the light to fade from the man's golden eyes before claiming his prize, a pen from the breast pocket of the author's two-piece suit. The pen itself is sleek and shiny and black, with the initials J.L.B written on the side in silver. It is the most beautiful thing he ever saw.
He pockets it with a jaunty grin, and walks away, his feet making prints in the snow that are slowly covered up by the snowfall. He hums lightly to himself as his bare feet turn blue with cold and his blood-stained fingers gesticulate feverishly, twitching in the pale glow of the streetlights.
"Oh, crow! Go crow! Baby's sleeping sound,
And the wild plums grow in the jungle, only a penny a pound.
Only a penny a pound, baba, only a penny a pound."
A/N: I seriously need to stop writing stories when I'm depressed. Not only does my writing turn to crap, but it's disturbing crap, too.
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