handle on a cumbersome suitcase. Soma’s head fell back, snapping against the rim of the tub.
He screamed—squealed really—even as his eyes flew open, their dreamy expression replaced by one of concentrated horror.
He saw the blade in her hand.
“No! Por favor, no!”
The basalt knife was six hundred years old. It was brittle and razor thin but sharper than steel. It would have snapped if she’d hit the pelvic plate, but Ileana knew exactly where to strike, what angle to turn it. With a deft motion, she plunged the blade into the groin and opened Soma’s femoral artery. The penis, half severed from the body, and a six-inch fountain of blood shot up between her fingers, spurting in time with her victim’s beating heart.
She dropped Soma back in the tub. His head hit the rim again but he didn’t cry out. His skin had already gone ashen, his eyes cloudy, confused. In seconds his body was concealed beneath the crimson water. His mouth opened as if to speak, but Ileana struck again, this time driving the blade through the thick cartilage of the esophagus, through the hollow of the jawbone and up into the oralcavity. The pressure of the blade caused Soma’s tongue to stick out of his mouth obscenely, and all he could do was sputter cupfuls of blood and bile. His arms lifted weakly, then fell back. A last breath rattled from his throat, and he was still.
She leaned in close. “That was for Alec.” Then, in a solemn voice, she said the words he had taught her:
“Death is in my sight today, like the clearing of the sky.
“Death is in my sight today, like sitting under an awning on a windy day.
“Death is in my sight today, like the smell of myrrh and the perfume of lotuses.
“Death is in my sight today, like the well-trodden path by which a man returns home.”
The poem was culled from an Egyptian prayer, older than the pyramids. The hunters’ psalm, Alec called it. Lest they forget the true nature of what they did. Ileana recited the penultimate line:
“Malachi and Antonio Soma. Though you are dead, your names live on.”
There was one more line, but that would have to wait until her last hunt. Until the last of the Mogran had been killed.
Beneath the armor of the chemicals augmenting and guiding her own body, Ileana felt a trace of pride. Her first hunt without Alec had ended in a clean kill. He would have been impressed. He would have also told her not to lose focus. She wasn’t done yet.
She steeled herself for the last part. She pulled the plug, let the bloody water drain from the tub. Soma’s body was milky white beneath its pink tinge, like an Easter egg dipped in a cup of red dye. She severed penis and testes first, then, holding the torso upright by the hair and allowing the serrated edge of the stone blade to do the work, she removed the head from the neck. She worked slowly, never hacking or sawing. Slicing. Dissecting. This was surgery, not mutilation. Alec had referred to it as insurance. The demons could repair extraordinary damage, but no one had ever heard of them regrowingan organ, let alone a head. She would have preferred to burn the corpse, but there would be no good way of getting it out of the hotel unnoticed.
As she stood to wash the blood from her hands, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. The cold eyes, the expressionless face. She hadn’t even broken a sweat. This was what her work had done to her, she thought. Was it worth it? She caught a glimpse of the carcass in the tub and had to wonder. Her mother had wanted her to be a nurse. Ileana supposed you could call this a kind of palliative care.
She wrapped Soma’s head in one towel, his genitals in another, drew the curtain on the tub. He deserved that much privacy, even if the Mogran didn’t. Some blood had seeped into the links of Alec’s watch, she noticed, and she sifted through Soma’s toiletry bag until she found his toothbrush, squeezed a little Crest on the bristles and used it to
He screamed—squealed really—even as his eyes flew open, their dreamy expression replaced by one of concentrated horror.
He saw the blade in her hand.
“No! Por favor, no!”
The basalt knife was six hundred years old. It was brittle and razor thin but sharper than steel. It would have snapped if she’d hit the pelvic plate, but Ileana knew exactly where to strike, what angle to turn it. With a deft motion, she plunged the blade into the groin and opened Soma’s femoral artery. The penis, half severed from the body, and a six-inch fountain of blood shot up between her fingers, spurting in time with her victim’s beating heart.
She dropped Soma back in the tub. His head hit the rim again but he didn’t cry out. His skin had already gone ashen, his eyes cloudy, confused. In seconds his body was concealed beneath the crimson water. His mouth opened as if to speak, but Ileana struck again, this time driving the blade through the thick cartilage of the esophagus, through the hollow of the jawbone and up into the oralcavity. The pressure of the blade caused Soma’s tongue to stick out of his mouth obscenely, and all he could do was sputter cupfuls of blood and bile. His arms lifted weakly, then fell back. A last breath rattled from his throat, and he was still.
She leaned in close. “That was for Alec.” Then, in a solemn voice, she said the words he had taught her:
“Death is in my sight today, like the clearing of the sky.
“Death is in my sight today, like sitting under an awning on a windy day.
“Death is in my sight today, like the smell of myrrh and the perfume of lotuses.
“Death is in my sight today, like the well-trodden path by which a man returns home.”
The poem was culled from an Egyptian prayer, older than the pyramids. The hunters’ psalm, Alec called it. Lest they forget the true nature of what they did. Ileana recited the penultimate line:
“Malachi and Antonio Soma. Though you are dead, your names live on.”
There was one more line, but that would have to wait until her last hunt. Until the last of the Mogran had been killed.
Beneath the armor of the chemicals augmenting and guiding her own body, Ileana felt a trace of pride. Her first hunt without Alec had ended in a clean kill. He would have been impressed. He would have also told her not to lose focus. She wasn’t done yet.
She steeled herself for the last part. She pulled the plug, let the bloody water drain from the tub. Soma’s body was milky white beneath its pink tinge, like an Easter egg dipped in a cup of red dye. She severed penis and testes first, then, holding the torso upright by the hair and allowing the serrated edge of the stone blade to do the work, she removed the head from the neck. She worked slowly, never hacking or sawing. Slicing. Dissecting. This was surgery, not mutilation. Alec had referred to it as insurance. The demons could repair extraordinary damage, but no one had ever heard of them regrowingan organ, let alone a head. She would have preferred to burn the corpse, but there would be no good way of getting it out of the hotel unnoticed.
As she stood to wash the blood from her hands, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. The cold eyes, the expressionless face. She hadn’t even broken a sweat. This was what her work had done to her, she thought. Was it worth it? She caught a glimpse of the carcass in the tub and had to wonder. Her mother had wanted her to be a nurse. Ileana supposed you could call this a kind of palliative care.
She wrapped Soma’s head in one towel, his genitals in another, drew the curtain on the tub. He deserved that much privacy, even if the Mogran didn’t. Some blood had seeped into the links of Alec’s watch, she noticed, and she sifted through Soma’s toiletry bag until she found his toothbrush, squeezed a little Crest on the bristles and used it to
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