Mightkill.
Willkill.
Well, not right away.
Not now. Not yet.Later.
The moment hangs. ‘Well, Ms Anderson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ I nod, turning on my heel to walk away.
I wonder if she’s flirting too. I wonder if she’s planning on killing me too. But not now. Not yet.Later.
‘Wait!’ she calls out, but I keep walking, as if I didn’t hear her, and she’s hurrying behind me. She’s watching me, not obviously, but I feel it. And I play along because this is a game of cat and mouse; only I’m not sure which one I am. I’m here to kill her.Eventually.But if she suspects, she might vanish or worse – she’ll strike first. And having seen her crossbow, I have the distinct feeling that Marguerite Dubois doesn’t miss.
Her fingers wrap around my arm. ‘I didn’t catch your name?’
I could lie. Give her a name that means nothing. But something in the way she looks at me makes me hesitate. ‘Does it matter?’ I say, my voice low and controlled.
Her grip tightens. ‘It does to me.’
I exhale, eyeing her, analysing her expression. ‘Call me whatever you want, Stella,’ I say, finally. ‘You’ll figure out the truth soon enough.’
‘Who are you? Tell me,’ she asks.
‘Sal,’ I reply.
She eyes me, a slight smile curling at the corner of her mouth. ‘Are you here to hurt me...Sal?’ she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
‘Hurt you?’ I exhale slowly. ‘Darling, Marguerite,mon cheri, I want to tear you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left untouched.’
CHAPTER 3
THE CURATOR
The museum is a magnet for the grotesque and is equally mesmerising, drawing in curious minds from all corners of the globe. It’s lined with a collection of over four thousand waxmoulagesdisplayed in glass showcases along the walls of a large, rectangular hall. Each vitrine holds disfigured faces, telltale scars of syphilis, and skin marred by the violent artistry of rare diseases - ulcerated flesh frozen in time. They’re wax models, carefully sculpted and painstakingly painted to mimic the real thing so convincingly that visitors shudder at the sight. But not all of them are wax. Every now and then, I slip in a genuine artefact, a specimen that was once pulsing with life. The difference is imperceptible to most. To the casual observer, they’re just another wax piece in a collection of horrors. Yet, I know. And perhaps a few others do too – the ones with sharp eyes, the ones that linger a second too long.
The vitrines command attention, suffering enclosed in glass. Yet, this man remained unbothered, untouched by the eerie allure of the macabre. No, his focus is on me. His stance was too casual to be natural; his gaze never flinched towards the vitrines.
He’s here for something else. And that made me smile.
I close up the museum thinking of him. A man in his fifties perhaps - though time has been kind to him. Soft hands. A sharp suit, tailored with the kind of precision that suggests he never settles for less. The watch on his wrist - understated luxury. The cut of his jacket – Italian. Expensive. It doesn’t whisper. It screams. He’s witty too - his words slipping into conversation like a well-played card.
Mafia, for sure.
Mob boss? No... But he’s not an underdog either.
What does he want with me?
He doesn’t belong here. Not in my world of frozen smiles and glassy stares. Not among my waxen congregation I’ve shaped with my own hands. And yet – there he stands, too close to Antoine Monet; Corsican blood, Parisian charm. Monet was an enforcer for a shadowy syndicate that operated beneath the surface of France’s glittering facade. Extortion, disappearances, political pressure. Antoine didn’t follow orders, he made examples, that was until he wound up on my table and had his skin surgically removed and integrated into a piece for the museum.
If this lone wolfismafia, I imagine him lifting a finger, pointing it at Antoine with precision, and saying – softly, almost kindly – ‘You didn’t get the eyes right.’ And right at that moment I wouldn’t know whether to feel flattered or afraid.
The problem with someone watching me is that it makes hunting inconvenient. Not impossible, but frustrating. He would be like an itch just out of reach. I need to move. Work faster. Adjust. Because my hunger doesn’t care about other parties. It doesn’t wait for the perfect moment; it will just gnaw, relentlessly, demanding, until the need to kill becomes so unbearable that mistakes are made.
This man has just become a nuisance that will end up becoming collateral damage and that would be such a shame, because he’s not half bad looking.
Distractions can be dangerous.
I turn to look to the museum, watching the last stragglers shuffle out into the night, oblivious to the secrets concealed within these walls. With one last glance, I check for the handsome stranger.
