Lacking in Blood

     Lighting, marking the beginning of a Summer storm.

     Mazikeen’s eyes drifted outside, expectant to a commotion that was sure to follow. The weather behind the hotel room window claimed to be dreadful, but she quite enjoyed a good thunderstorm in the higher hours of the night. As if the sky cried out, she liked to imagine. Maybe a morose kind of thinking, but Mazikeen did not care.

     She found it relaxing.

     The glass roared as thunder finally struck, yet Mazikeen didn’t flinch. Too predictable to get a reaction out of her. Not like it mattered. It was hard to get on her nerves these days, especially after a successful killing.

     Letting the sheets slide off of naked skin, Mazikeen sat up on the bed. She was in no rush to gather her belongings when they were close enough to reach. Clothes tossed around an unmade bed, shoes forgotten below the foot of the bed, jewelry padded on top of the carpet. And of course, her most precious possession, a symbol of endless schadenfreude to witness every single one of her crimes: a single human skull, starring at her from the nightstand.

     With a sigh, Mazikeen started rising from the bed. August showers like this were perfect to be enjoyed in the outdoors, and that was exactly what she was planning to do. Cleanse away in the falling water, within the bark of the thunder but without the bite of the cold—

     “Please…”

     A voice caught her attention, so feeble it was almost inaudible. Guess her killing hadn’t been as successful as she thought.

     On the mattress next to her lay a man somewhere in his thirties, quickly losing a lot of blood. A lowly creature, Mazikeen thought as she sought out his gaze. Easy to tempt, just like any other. Tempted by the pleasures in the flesh to betray a contract of the Lord and the sanctity of love and marriage. She did not care to remember his name, not when she knew what he was in nature: an adulterer, a liar claiming to be virtuous in every other sense of the word.

     As Mazikeen’s eyes met his, he stirred on the blankets, coughing and spurring. An even uglier sort of noise, with blood mixing through his throat, drowning him in crimson.

     Mazikeen sighed, then sat back down, much to the horror of the dying man.

     “You need to finish your sentence, or I won’t know what you’d like,” she purred out, “Please what? What do you want so badly from me?”

     The man groaned again, his hand feeling blindly around the blankets. Mazikeen felt it bump her knee once, then twice, then caught it before a third time. His movements had started to get erratic, but she wasn’t sure what his end goal truly was. Perhaps he was looking for distance, to try and slip out of her fingers? Or was he pleading for her to save him, to find mercy within herself and save his life? Pathetic either way.

     Mazikeen’s lips turned into a smirk. Pathetic, and utterly futile. There was no room for remorse in her heart. Quite the contrary– as she squeezed the man’s hand, sharp nails digging into tender flesh, she relished in the man’s pain. Whimpers, more coughs. The sound of an injured pray, with a predator looming right above it.

     Through another flash of light, Mazikeen was reminded of the storm raging on outside. She wasn’t in any position to keep up her game of cat and mouse much longer. The night was still young, and with such, brimming with other potential victims. Even when she wanted to relish in the sight just a bit longer: a mattress, stained beyond repair, a monochromatic canvas of Mazikeen’s own creation.

     Beautiful, yet still lacking in blood.

     With a single slash of her dagger, sharp, cold metal dug into the flesh, and the coughing stopped. The only noises in the room were back to her breathing, the ticking of a motel clock, and the muted rain pouring through the glass.

     “I guess you didn’t want anything after all.”

     Mazikeen chuckled, wiping her blade against the pillows. No matter how many times she delivered the killing blow, the rush of adrenaline never got old. The man’s soul fluttered away from his body, a clear puff of smoke that pooled around the bed, then slowly vanished through the ground. As a temptress, Mazikeen had succeeded. A sinner in his last moments of earth, the perfect sacrifice for her Master down below.

     The smoke was gone, and with it, she found no other reason to stay.  Hours, maybe days later, the man would be found and broadcasted on television, deemed a gruesome, pointless killing. None of it was of any interest to Mazikeen. She knew what he was, and in the last moments of his life, he had gotten to know what she was, too.

     “Well, isn’t this a shame, the bastard stained my dress,” the woman said, in a mocking pout. She held the garment up into the air, then added, “See what I mean? You do see this, right?”

     There was no answer to her question, but a gaze still lingered heavy on her shoulders. The only other soul in the room, the skull laying quietly on the nightstand. Mazikeen reached for it, thumb brushing over its forehead, painting it red.

     Next time she spoke, there was no trace of playfulness in her voice. Instead, a revengeful promise, one meant to reach her Father’s heart, come Heaven or Hell.

     “Because I am here to make sure you do.”