January, 7 years ago
“For the thousandth time, I didn’t do anything to her!”
Mr. Whitechapel and I are in an abandoned building in Balti, Moldova. The ground is littered with old plastic wrappers, a few used condoms, and some broken beer bottles. The windows have long since been boarded up, and the only light that trickles in comes from a section of the roof that’s caved in. The place smells like urine, vermin, and mildew. Oh, and blood. It’s beginning to smell like blood.
Other than a little teenage revelry, this is a forgotten building in the poor section of a city and country most people are not even aware exists. Whitechapel might as well be invisible.
I circle Callie’s teacher. “What should I do next? Take a finger or break another bone?”
The man begins to openly weep.
A few of his toes I’ve already taken. I’m considering threading a string through them and making them into a necklace. Perhaps I’ll give it to Callie …
… too gruesome …
No one asked you. I swear the shadows only freely talk when I don’t want to listen to them.
“Please,” Whitechapel weeps.
I’d like to say this is painful to watch. I’d like to say that there’s something soft in me that shies away from this, but then I wouldn’t be the Night King.
I crouch in front of the teacher. “Are you ready to tell me why you targeted Callypso Lillis?”
He’s been denying any wrongdoing up until now.
He takes a few deep breaths. “She liked me.” His voice quavers. “She wanted to get to know me better.”
My anger roils within me. She liked me.
I pull my knife out and flip it in my hand, then grab for his leg. His foot is already bloody.
“I think I should take two toes for that lie,” I say, my voice even.
“Wait—wait!”
He begins to scream. It only gets louder as I make good on my threat.
He cries for a long time after that, and I patiently wait it out.
“The truth,” I demand once I feel he’s ready to talk again. This time I force my magic on him.
He chokes for several seconds, fighting whatever answer he’s about to say. Placidly, I watch him struggle.
“She was a loner,” he finally says. “I’m not good with women, and I—she … I’m not a bad guy,” he pleads. “She would’ve liked it. She did want me.”
I almost lose it then. Only my long-practiced control stops me from smashing his face in over and over again until it’s nothing more than meaty pulp.
His body slumps as my magic leaves him.
“How many others?” I ask, steadying my rage.
Predators don’t just wake up one day with these urges. They grow and build over time.
He looks at me dazedly, sweat dotting his face.
I force my magic on him. “How. Many.”
He begins to cry again. “I don’t know …”
I move my knife to one of his fingers. “Want me to jog your memory?”
“No—no!” He sucks in several thin breaths. “S-seven. Seven others.”
I consider castrating him there and then. Seven victims. This is no temporary slip of judgment. This man is a serial rapist. And all his victims, what about them? They have to carry the emotional scars for their entire lives, all so that this fuckface could get his sick jollies on.
Coldly, I break his femur. While he’s still screaming, I crush his kneecap.
His shrieks are the sweetest music.
I’m sure Whitechapel studied his victims, I’m sure he identified those individuals who didn’t have much family, whose reputations were tarnished, those who were social outcasts.
I’m sure he never imagined that one of his victims would have a nightmare like me to contend with.
“Names,” I demand.
He lists all seven of them to me. Seven women with dreams and interests. Seven women who were just trying to make it through the hellhole that mortal high school can be.
I circle him, wanting to take him back to the Otherworld with me. There are creatures there that can continue to make him pay. But a bigger part of me wants Callie to know what happened to him.
“You made a mistake going after Callypso Lillis. And you made a mistake going after those other girls, and you’re going to pay for it for the rest of your life, starting now.”
He whimpers.
“You’re going to sustain eight more injuries, one for each girl. I’m a gentleman, so for each one I’ll let you choose whether you’d rather have a bone broken or an appendage sawed off.”
The next hour is a blur of screams and injuries. By the time I’m done delivering the wounds, Whitechapel’s breathing is shallow and his eyelids are drooping. There’s only so much pain a human can endure, and he’s getting close to his upper limit for the day.
I wipe off my knife and sheath it.
“You do realize you’re at a fork in the road,” I tell him. “You have two options: I can either subject you to more of this, or you can turn yourself in—you can confess, repent, and live your life as the law deems fit, or you can live your life as I deem it fit. I can already tell you which option is better for you.”
So can Whitechapel.
“I’ll turn myself in,” he whispers.
My eyes move over him. “I’m going to magically bind you to your word. If you break it—hell, if you do anything that displeases me—I’ll know.”
I don’t need to elaborate on that threat. The thickening smell of ammonia lets me know just what Whitechapel thinks of it.
I straighten.
“Who are you?” he whispers.
I stare down at him for a long moment, then I make a decision. My business card forms in my palm, and I flick it at him.
Might as well let the authorities know I was here, doing all their dirty work for them.
I step over Whitechapel’s toes, which decorate the floor like wedding rice.
And then I’m gone.