The Story of a Sadist

The celebration had lasted well into the night. George unlocked the door to his inn room and allowed the drunken serving wench to go on ahead of him. He watched her stumble to the trundle bed and collapse onto its straw stuffed surface. He had grown weary of the revelry downstairs and decided that it was time for some personal entertainment.

The room was dark; the only light came from the un-shuttered windows set in the east wall. He pushed his eyes from the direction of the maid in the bed and knelt to light a fire. George knew from experience that it was better to light the fire beforehand while he still had strength in his legs. The serving girl was giggling uncontrollably and it was starting to grate on his nerves.

“Quiet you.” Her irritating noise stopped immediately, surprising him when he considered her intoxicated state. He lit the candle from the mantelpiece in the newborn fire and turned to meet the coldest grey eyes imaginable. He gulped as his eyes scanned the newcomer uncontrollably. She was dressed in the shades of the Great Wasteland with enough weaponry on her to supply a small army.

“What are you doing here?” His voice shook more than he wished. George straightened his spine and placed the candle on the rough hewn table before his numb hands dropped it. Her gaze froze his back.

“You know very well why I am here.” Her soft spoken words made his skin want to crawl off his bones and hide beneath the bed.

“I am busy right now. I have company.” George shot a proud look at the woman in front of him and inclined his head towards the cot.

“She is beyond your company.” Fear sliced through him as he focused his gaze on the bed. A bloodstained arm dangled from the edge, blood still drained in rivulets to the floor. George choked as his throat contracted in shock.

“Why did you do that? She had nothing to do with this!” Hysteria tinged his words and he whirled around unwilling to have the killer out of his sight any longer. George almost sighed in relief when he realized that she had not moved from her place against the wall.

“Are you going to make me look for it?” The voice that could seduce a saint came to him from across the room. George could have sworn that she had whispered the words right into his ear. The firelight outlined her delicate features hiding her true nature as she leaned against the rough wood. She shifted her hips and drew his attention to one of the wicked daggers on her belt.

“No.” He forced the word out; it was barely loud enough for him to hear the sound. Gingerly he drew close to the bed and reached over the cooling corpse. His hand closed around a soft felt bag that held something more precious than his own life. George closed his eyes and gathered his strength. He stood and turned in one motion.

“You will not have it!” He flung the bag in one last ditch effort towards the blazing fire. The bag never made it there. Her silhouette was framed by the orange red glow. Dangling from her hand was the pouch. His hope crumbled as she undid the simple knot and upended the bag’s contents into her gloved hand. A white blue stone dropped followed by a thin stream of silver chain. The gem glowed with a life of its own, its light rivaling that of the fire. She used her uncovered fingers to grasp the chain and lift the stone free of her palm.

George edged his way towards the door hoping that the treasure had her complete attention. Or enough of it to at least allow him to escape. He glanced to the side to judge the distance to the door latch when a stinging pain raced through his shoulder and he was propelled back and attached to the wall beside the door. George grimaced as he tried to keep his whimpers silent.

“I am not yet done with you.” Hands clad in fingerless gloves put the source of light in one of her pockets as the fire died. The room was once again washed in pale moonlight.

“So you will just kill me now?” His voice cracked from the pain. She walked up to him and yanked her sai out his muscle. Up close her eyes looked less cold and more dangerous. A dark purple flared from the pupil for a moment before the encroaching grey conquered it again.

“You are not for me to kill.” She backed away from him towards the window. She reached behind herself and pushed the window fully open. George watched in amazement as the moonbeams coalesced into a pale female form. Her white hair shifted in an unfelt breeze around her silver skin. She was naked to the waist with a pale blue skirt hung on her hips.

“This is he?” A thin childlike voice tumbled out from those ivory lips. The grey eyed one nodded and averted her eyes. The Wynder undid the clasp on her skirt and let it fall to the dirty floor. George gasped at the perfection in front of him. ‘She looks like she is made of glass…or ice.’ His body stiffened as she approached him. The air around him grew colder with every step she took. He licked his lips and shifted his attention to the murderer by the window. She avoided his gaze and kept her eyes firmly on a crack in the floorboards.

Pale hands gripped his shoulders and ice flooded his veins. His body started shivering uncontrollably as uncommonly cold fingers came in contact with his fresh wound. He gulped as those perfectly shaped lips descended to touch his own. His eyes clenched shut to remove this nightmare from his sight.

A cold spray hit him straight on causing him to cough for air. He opened his eyes in time to watch the pale perfection fall to the ground. She was graceful even in death. It was then he realized that he was covered in her clear blood. He raised blood soaked eyelids to his savoir. She stood only two feet away from him, her hand still extended in the position of her deadly strike. She knelt swiftly and removed her dagger. Her grey eyes met his brown and the elements clashed.