Prologue

He walked with a low swing in his step, casual and issuing a lone whistle as he prowled the damp, cobblestone streets of London’s more finer avenue of houses. At the moment, all he really wanted was a puff of opium, but that could wait till later. Perhaps he would visit the brothel as well.

He swaggered forth, fingering the loaded pistol, packed with gunpowder, and ready to decimate his enemy once the time came. The time was nearing, and his lungs seemed to wheeze at the effort of containing his rampant heart at a steady level. His head had seemed to taken up the knack of contorting images in his peripheral, creating a vast espionage of otherworldly images ready to haunt him as he followed through with what tugged at him endlessly. This purpose, this task had eaten him from the inside out until the deed was squealing in his palms in the form of his loaded gun; a great echo of shriek came back to him from far away and he knew that this was the right thing to do. At least, it would put his mind at ease, and perhaps comfort his dreams at night.

His face was surly; eyes black and ready in their preparation to undertake the task at hand, and his hair he’d pinned up into a wealthy tress as to not seem raggedly messy. He wanted to look the part of a well bred Englishman just for his enemy to realize that beneath his stately apparel he too, could play the role of villain.

He’d seen death, smelled it and tasted it with every fiber of his body through the blood of others. How could his enemy be any different?

Striding lightly across a panel of street, his gruff pacing illuminated by his emergence out of the shadows of the frosting alley into a lantern lit street, he viewed his enemy’s home. His heart seemed to jolt restlessly in irregular palpitations, a sheen of sweat chilling him to the bone. He just wanted this done with; forgotten. Then he would not be visited again by her ghost.

Up the steps he flashed, taking two at a time until he was standing like a wraith before the double French doors, their glossy new wood shining in the street-lamp’s flickering light. He knocked.

Three times his brazen knuckles rapped upon the wood. He knew his enemy was awake, and he almost chuckled at the idea of him awaiting this very night, constantly disturbed by his own rustic face as he now appeared on his doorstep with a bloodlust that he’d never felt before.

“God have mercy on me for what I am about to do,” The man whispered to himself, his hands clenching tightly as there was a shuffling beyond the door, where a servant stood bleary eyed, with a sour throat.

“Master Chardones is taking no more visitors Sir, it is the middle of the night.” Came the servant’s cold, tired voice.

“He’s been expecting me. Tell him that it is Francis Beauchard, his trusted friend.”

At this, the servant closed the door stiffly and withered away into the house, no doubt cursing the ungodly hour and waking his Master, heating the coals in his fireplace as if there would be any need of it. The man wondered what Chardones response would be to his ‘friends’ presence; if he still could recognize any sort of acquaintance-ship. No doubt Chardones had done away with each and every single one of his trusted peoples; the man had a talent of betrayal.

When the servant came again from beyond the door he opened it wide, and beckoned him inside, “Come with me,” was his solid, and irritated demand. Of course, the man followed with compliance and without so much as a morsel of complaint. This was what he’d wanted, brooded over, and desired for many months now.

The servant led him into Chardones parlor, where the man was dressed in his bathrobe, facing the glare of his fireplace, sipping a mug of what would have been tea; but since the man knew his enemy otherwise, it was filled to the brim with a lovely shade of red wine.

The servant left the man, shutting the door behind himself, leaving the two men alone.

“I’ve waited two bloody months Francis,” The man in his chair gripped the arm of his chair with wrinkled hands, not caring to look back, “I almost wondered if our business had been called off.”

A smile toyed along the man in the shadow’s lips, and he stepped with slow, heavy steps towards the back of the chair, all the while staring at the back of his enemy’s shining, balding head.

“I apologize for the inconvenience; I’ve been busy with other affairs,” The man spoke nonchalantly, drawing his weapon from the crevices of his coat.

At the sound of his voice, Chardones froze, and then stood fiercely to face the man, eyes wide and stanch, brightly flickering with a fear so deep that the man had to wonder if that was what her eyes had looked like in this moment. The moment before she died.

“You!” Chardones hissed, apparently marveling at the sight of the man.

“Yours truly,” The man chuckled, running his finger over the trigger of the gun now pointed squarely at Chardones, “Did you really think I’d let you off so easily?” he tested, and clucked lightly, anger dislodging in the pit of his gut, infusing rage through to his every vein.

“Listen, my boy,” Chardones attempted to use the same timeless nickname he’d given the man, but there was nothing that goaded the man’s anger more, “You are confused. It was not I that killed her.”

The man prowled about the room, replaying his lying words over and over again in his head, pacing back and forth before he came to a fowl resolution, “You say it was not you. Yet, I vaguely remember you holding the gun, just as I do this night,” He approached Chardones slickly, his hand at his enemy’s eye level, “Like this, at her head.”

A great tremble of fear rumbled through Chardones and he quaked in his soft night-robe, a whimper escaping his lips. The man wished for it to be done, and lingered there for only a few moments.

“Please, boy, you don’t know what you are doing!” His enemy plead for mercy.

“Good bye, Alexandre.” The man spoke formally, and before Chardones could yell or scream, the bullet had hit home, and the stench of blood rung up through the air like a malignant spirit. The man did not look at the body, nor did he leave.

He knew the servants would arrive soon, but did not care if they saw him. He would be gone in a fortnight.

Thus, the man stood rigid and walked stiffly to the mug that his enemy had set briskly upon the side-table, sniffed its contents, and sipped.