FIRST LOOK: BLEED V

PROLOGUE

When you get too close to someone, you put yourself in a vulnerable position. Chef had been learning that lesson all his life, but for a memorable thrill, the risk was worth it. That’s what he told himself when the woman in red, thick-framed glasses sat at the table on the patio with her friends by the wrought-iron exit gate. Chef couldn’t resist the temptation of listening in from around the corner, in the alleyway.

All around him, people walked the lively streets of Toronto after midnight. A few in costume had even taken to the alleyway, passing him before emerging out onto the lamp-lit street. They all walked by in a blur. Chef couldn’t focus on anything but the woman’s voice, drenched in melancholy, easily distinguished from the others. He closed his eyes and listened.

“What are you getting up to tonight?” a male voice asked.

“This is it,” she said, and Chef imagined her shrugging her shoulders with an attitude of defeat.

“Oh, I meant for tomorrow night, although it’s well after midnight, so when I said tonight…” The man’s voice grew quiet before falling off, and the rest of their group fell into silence.

Chef smiled, and his chest filled quickly with excitement through the lull, eagerly anticipating whatever came next. Would they change the subject for her? Would she leave right then? Or maybe she’d feel the need to explain, if she felt safe enough to share her story with the only man from the group who seemed out of the loop. 

“I don’t do anything for Halloween,” she said, her voice containing a hint of annoyance, but it changed as she continued in a softer tone. “I haven’t for over ten years now.”

And there it was.

Pain.

He licked his lips, relishing it.

“Oh, really?” The man paused, maybe searching the other faces in the group, or staring straight at her. “How come?”

The socially unaware had provided cover for Chef for decades, and he smiled, imagining the look on the woman’s face. If he just peeked around the corner, he wouldn’t have to. He could revel in the pain, or frustration, or perhaps even fear in her expression. But there would be time for that soon. He’d gotten close enough.

“No, it’s fine,” the woman said, and a dull screech of a chair against the cement followed. “Really, I should be getting home anyway.”

“Well, let me walk you,” the man said. “Please?”

The more the merrier, Chef thought, grinning as he pulled the mask over his head. As she declined the offer, he adjusted the neck material, tucking it in and pulling the hood of the sweater up over the smooth silicone.

The iron gate creaked open. He caught a glimpse of her before she disappeared in his limited peripheral vision, courtesy of the mask, to his right. Chef turned his head to focus on her as she stepped through the gate in her black Chelsea boots with jeans and a lightweight, black raincoat. Her curly hair hung just past her shoulders and over her glasses. She pushed it away from her eyes before waving a halfhearted goodbye to her friends and turning down the street in the direction of her home.

Chef turned his head to the left, just in case she happened to look his way down the dark alley. By the time he turned right, to the street, she was gone. Giving one last forward tug on the top of his hoodie, he stepped out from the alleyway and onto the busy street. She’d almost reached the first main intersection, and he slowed his approach as she waited for the light to change. 

If she saw him, she’d make a special effort to keep her distance, or even take another route home, and he knew he shouldn’t risk it—not so soon.

After the light changed, she crossed the road, and he followed further behind her until a group of three bimbos dressed as slutty animals crossed the road illegally and created a buffer between them. He welcomed the camouflage, but under his breath he cursed the scantily clad bunny, cat, and deer. Chef knew their type all too well. They never thought rules applied to them. All they had to do was flash a cute smile, show some cleavage, and hike up their skirts to get a better grade, or a promotion, or eventually a husband who only wanted them for their body. And at some point, just like it had happened for Chef and his wife, their bodies would grow old and their husbands would lose interest. But they’d find it elsewhere. What did they expect?

Women who led with their beauty disgusted him, and as he picked up his pace, their thick, floral perfume choked him beneath his mask. Whomever they tried to seduce and then use with those tactics deserved to fall victim tonight.

As the woman in the red, thick-framed glasses took the upcoming left, he hoped the whores ahead would keep going straight. Instead, they crossed the road before the light again, and a car honked at them, almost hitting them. Pity. The three giggled, waved to the driver as if they’d bestowed a gift upon him, and kept on their way. Their long, lean legs carried them to the other side safely, leaving him shaking his head and muttering, “Idiots,” under his breath beneath the mask, until he made the left turn.

But the woman wasn’t there.

His chest constricted, the wind knocked out of him. He picked up his pace, and just before the next left turn down the residential road, he spotted her. She kept parallel and close to the curb without a sidewalk to guide her way. Her hands seemed to be shoved in her pockets. 

Were her keys tucked between her fingers? Did she always walk with some sort of self-defense tool, or did she only bring out the big guns for Halloween? After what she’d been through, he wouldn’t blame her if she armed herself daily.

After the intersection up ahead, marked only by four red stop signs, groups of people gathered on the front lawn of a two-story house. Several held drinks in their hands, and the closer he got, the more he could make out the music they played. Why hadn’t they gotten a noise complaint from the neighbours yet? They were close to the university, and it was possible most of the surrounding houses were off-campus student residences. Still, being so close to such a well-populated area could draw attention.

As the woman ahead reached the intersection, he hung back. When she checked both ways, up and down the street ahead, she kept looking back at him. He turned his head, but in his gut he knew it was too late.

The heat of her attention was on him, and when he looked up at her through the eyeholes of his mask, she was already jogging through the intersection. He’d expected a reaction from her. This one was extreme, though completely warranted. But she couldn’t know that, could she?

She kept jogging, only slowing slightly as she approached the house. Would she stay with them? Try to get help? But he hadn’t done anything to her—not yet.

The rock music blared from inside the house, with the screen door propped open. She stumbled to a stop before two women with red Solo cups and pointed back at him, trying to get their attention. If he stopped, he’d look far too suspicious, but if he kept going, would someone confront him?

Some thrills were worth the risk.

Chef pressed forward, keeping the same pace as he approached the stop sign. The two women both looked at him, and one smiled, pointing behind them up to the porch of the house. He caught sight of the white skull mask, and when the woman with the red, thick-framed glasses saw him, she stumbled back from the two women and through the group of people.

If he wasn’t careful to keep his attention on her this time, he could lose her. Unacceptable.

He crossed the street, keeping to the opposite side. One of the two women called to him, pointing up at The Skull on the porch again. Instead of allowing the women to distract him, he kept his sights on her.

She stood with another larger group, and he smiled beneath the mask, marvelling at her. She really believed it could keep her safe, but he had other plans.

He looked both ways before starting across the street, toward the house, losing sight of her for a brief few seconds with his line of vision blocked by others in the group.

Did she scream, or had he only imagined it? Someone laughed, and when he found her again, she grabbed onto a man’s arm and tucked herself behind him.

“Hey man, nice costume,” someone shouted. Through her thick-framed glasses the woman looked up at the porch, and he allowed himself to do the same.

The Skull stood with his knife out, waving it in the air and then making a stabbing motion with it while friends on the porch laughed.

When he turned back to the woman with glasses, she was crying for help, trying to convince the people beside her that he was real—she was in danger—and Chef could almost hear her words over the music as she pointed to him one last time.

“… not a costume.”

Chef stopped at the curb just before their lawn and pulled his Damascus steel chef’s knife from the pocket of his hoodie. He stabbed it through the air in slow motion, mimicking The Skull on the porch.

More people laughed; their smiling faces juxtaposed with the terror on hers delighted him.

A small scream came from the woman in a Playboy Bunny outfit stepping through the screen door onto the porch, but he kept his focus on her. His prey. She was shaking her head, crying, and turned from the group, looking down the street in the same direction she was heading before. Home.

He took a deep breath, waved coyly to the partygoers—those whose attention spans had allowed them to keep watching him—and turned left.

She ran alongside the curb, passing beneath a streetlight and looking back as she all but disappeared into another pool of darkness. It didn’t matter how far ahead she got anymore. She wasn’t going to make it home.

Even as she became smaller and the echo of her footsteps against the pavement quieted, he kept his pace the same. They could run as fast as they wanted, but nothing beat the precision of a slow and steady walk.

Chef had a greater purpose, and if he made the wrong move, he’d fail.

Failure wasn’t an option. Not to him.

Just as she reached the next street, the music behind him began to fade, allowing the echoes of her scream to reach him as The Skull figure stepped out from behind a bush ahead of her and stopped in her path.

She had two options. Left or right. Both led her farther from home—and away from The Skulls.

Just as Chef guessed she would, she chose left, down the more well-lit street.

He picked up his pace, and as he entered a pool of lamplight, The Skull ahead nodded to him before turning right and following her down the street. It was all playing out as they’d imagined. Although he hadn’t planned for the partygoers, their stupidity worked in his favour. New adults that age liked to claim ‘it’s not that serious,’ even though it almost always was.

She knew it, and because she did, he wasn’t finding her as fun as the others had been. The unexpected party surprise had been amusing, but she was different from the others.

Maybe the thrill was wearing off.

As he turned left down the same street they’d disappeared onto, each side of the road was lined with large houses, almost mini-mansions. Most properties were more well-lit than the street he’d come from. The light that shone from the houses illuminated the woman’s terrified expression just before she disappeared behind a well-manicured evergreen hedge down the side of a house.

The Skull following her didn’t slow down or even turn back to check with him before following. Chef was sure the thrill of the chase hadn’t been stymied for Carver, and he was angry—jealous, even—that he hadn’t lost his appetite for the hunt.

The envy fueled Chef, propelling him forward faster, taking away some of the pleasure and fulfillment the day promised after he’d done the difficult work of keeping an eye on her—keeping them on track—ready for the Halloween festivities to commence.

He turned at the same spot, after the hedge that separated him from the side of the house, and a knocking echoed from around the back. Chef raced toward it.

“Help!” the woman shouted, pure panic and fear replacing the melancholy once saturating her tone.

As he rounded the corner, he pulled the Damascus steel chef’s knife from his hoodie pocket, gripping it in his gloved hand. He turned the corner and found her banging at the back door. Ready to rush into the pool of light and grab her, he hesitated. Carver grabbed her by her curly hair and yanked her back, away from the light and toward the row of thick hedges by the back fence lining the property. Chef followed, rushing to help him before the homeowners came to the back door and caught them.

Before he could reach them, the woman with the thick-framed glasses turned back and kicked Carver with her boot. She screamed as her hair ripped away from her head, breaking free from him. Ouch. She stumbled, catching herself, and started to lunge for the pool of light again, but she stopped in her tracks when she saw him.

Chef waved hello with his free hand, and she stumbled back.

With him on her left and Carver behind her, she darted right, for the other side of the house.

Another figure in the skull mask emerged from the shadows of the hedge, and she skidded to a halt. Bone reached his gloved hand into his hoodie pocket and produced his thin boning knife, shining by the trace of light from the back door before it went out, casting them all in darkness.

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