 
Alex Frost Meets The Killer

By Mortimer Jackson

Copyright 2011

The Morning Dread

Smashwords Edition

www.themorningdread.weebly.com
Dedicated to Alex Frost, who started it all

My mother once told me that it is important never to judge a book by its cover. If you are holding this book in front of you (or reading it online as the case may be), then most likely you have already judged this book by its cover, and if you are now staring down the first page (which would be this, by the way), then you have already deemed it worthy of your attention. And while I am glad that you are reading this book, chances are you have already violated the ever-important rule of never judging a book by its cover. And for that my dear reader, I must say, for shame.

But fret not. For among you there are many who make blind assumptions. Not just of books, but of people too. You probably remember seeing your neighbors for the very first time, and thinking to yourself for no particular reason that they seemed like nice people. And when they decided to tie you up and loot your home, you probably came to realize that this judgment had failed you. Much in the same way as if man comes to your door telling you that he wants to be your friend, but later turns out to be a salesman, or a Russian spy. Or when you see a large grey fin sticking out from the water as you're swimming on the beach, only to find that much to your disappointment, the fin doesn't belong to a shark, but a man pulling a prank.

What you are about to read is a story about a very special young girl that everyone thought was just like them, but was in actuality, something else altogether. It is a story of friendship and that never-ending search for one's own identity; finding out who we are beyond the covers that people judge us by. Hopefully by the end, you will have learned the values of seeing people for who they really are, come to cherish those who admire you in spite of your weaknesses, and tell your friends to buy a copy of this book.

Dear reader, it is with great pleasure that I present to you the tale of Alex Frost.

Chapter 1

And So The Story Begins

In the beginning (of this tale mind you, not the world, or the universe, or any such nebulous cosmic event) there lived a girl named Alexandra Frost, who was every bit as cold as her name would suggest. She was sixteen years old, and she lived in the large, wealthy town of Suburnia. Like all the girls of her neighborhood, she was smart, pretty, and most of all, wealthy. Elsinore Academy was her alma mater, and it was the alma mater of the financial elite. No family that made anything less than a few million dollars a year, or at the very least, no family that couldn't afford caviar on a daily basis, was ever, ever considered for enrollment.

This being the situation, Alexandra and those that attended Elsinore Academy lived with parents and/or relatives that not only made at least a few handsome million dollars a year, but could also afford three square meals of caviar for an eternity. And as such, Alexandra was spoiled with things she could not possibly have needed or appreciated.

For instance, when she was six, her parents bought her a fountain pen made of gold, thinking that it would inspire her to become a writer. On her ninth birthday, she was given two different kinds of flutes, a saxophone, a tuba, and three varying brands of harmonicas. All from her parents in the hopes that on top of being a writer, she would become a talented musician as well. And when she was fifteen years old, one year before she was legally allowed to drive, her father bought her a brand new Mercedes-Benz because deep down inside, he really wanted it for himself.

This was a situation entirely familiar to all those that grew up in Suburnia. But despite how similar her background was with her fellow peers, or how similarly attractive she was to the other Elsinore girls, or even how uniform she looked in her school uniform, there was something very different about Alexandra Frost. Something that if anyone were to find out, would send chills down to every bone in their body, every vein in their muscle. If only people knew what lied inside the deepest realms of her heart, the shock of it all would most certainly leave them stunned.

But perhaps it was lucky for the boys and girls of Elsinore Academy, and the men and women of Suburnia, that they had no way of looking past her physical form and into her soul, because Alexandra simply hadn't been born with one.

Growing up as a child, Alexandra Frost was a girl that lacked the ability to feel emotion. She didn't cry when she fell off of swings, or when she got splinters on her fingers. She registered the pain just enough to know it was there, but not enough to understand the discomfort. She was distant, and held absolutely no interest with the other children her age. She couldn't relate with people, didn't understand what the point was of being around people. The other children always acted so strange and irrational, it was always a challenge to comprehend why they did what they did. She couldn't quite grasp why children cried over toys and other such meaningless objects, or why their parents ever bought them such meaningless things in the first place. To her, nothing meant anything. She would never beg her parents for a Barbie doll, demand them to take her to whatever places she wanted to go, or insist to stay longer at the park when her parents said no. She was as obedient as she was without a soul. And though she thought this cooperation would satisfy both Mr. and Mrs. Frost, the truth turned out to be quite the opposite.

When the parents of Alexandra Frost took her to the zoo one day when she was six, they had worried over the fact that unlike the other girls her age, Alexandra never once flinched when she saw a snake or a dangerous spider. And unlike all Suburnia girls, she never cared one lick about what clothes she wore, and it had never once mattered to her what stuff she had in her own room.

As years went by, Alexandra's lack of concern for conforming had set both her parents uneasy and on edge. In due time she came to sense the discomfort that hovered over them whenever they shared the same room. The truth was that neither of the Frost parents knew how to be around her. The other parents had children that when asked what they wanted to do, where they wanted to go, what they wanted to be, were all able to come up with interesting answers of their own (though some more creatively far-fetched than others). When the Frost parents asked their daughter what she wanted to do, where she wanted to go, and what she wanted to be, she always ended up telling them that she had no idea.

It was with this that the Frost parents decided to make the drastic decision to seek for their daughter the help of a psychiatrist.

Dr. Richard S. Murlot (known for both his talent with words, and his ability to plagiarize the works of other lesser-known doctors) had heeded the call of the Frost parents, and he more-than-willingly took her in to his prestigious medical facility, wherein patients were given daily servings of Earl Grey to go with their medication. It was there that the inexperienced psychiatrist sought to treat the young Alexandra Frost.

However, one problem that arose over this was the fact that not any amount of stealing of ideas would attain the results necessary to cure Alexandra Frost. This, because not a single psychiatrist in the world had ever seen anything quite like Alexandra Frost. Much like everybody else, Dr. Murlot remained absolutely oblivious to the answer of what exactly was wrong with the girl. But with large sums of money coming in from her parents each week, the not-so-well-intentioned doctor did not cease to find the answer.

Alexandra Frost did not particularly think very highly of being in a psychiatric facility, with Dr. Murlot constantly poking and prodding at her with his endless tests and questions. While she had not the capacity to find it annoying or unnerving, she did see it as an unproductive obstacle to her personal life.

In time it became apparent to Alexandra that what her parents wanted in a daughter wasn't her, but rather a normal, emotional child. Thus began the road to recovery, so to speak. Alexandra learned that to be free of her captivity in Dr. Murlot's hospital, she would have to be cured of what made her unique, and become just like everybody else. She realized then that she would have to conform to the expectations of being an everyday A+ student, aspiring writer, and musician. Alexandra would have to become a normal, emotional child.

But since she wasn't one, all she could do was pretend. And so for no other reason than to be back at home, Alexandra wore a mask. A mask in which she was a social, fun-loving girl, ambitious, with no mental disorders, and a knack for being nice.

Not long after her unexpected spurt of humanity, and Mr. and Mrs. Frost, unbeknownst that it was all just a lie, no longer carried the luggage of discomfort that once occupied their minds. They took her back home, and told her repeatedly that they were proud of who she'd become, and hoped she would never change.

It was hard work being the girl that her parents wanted her to be. And at the age of sixteen, the charade would have to go on for many years to come. A second year student at the Elsinore Academy, and our own Alexandra Frost had many more years of expectations to fulfill. But so far she'd been doing far above average, meeting all her parents' wishes and dreams one day at a time. She knew that as long as she kept up the act, she would survive the demands and wishes of her parents, and more importantly, those of society.

Dear reader, our tale begins in the middle of the fall semester of Elsinore Academy, as Alexandra began her new life as a normal human being, who made friends, enemies, and found herself scolded by the campus staff.

"Tuck in your shirt," Principal McLeary scolded. "You, stop running in the halls. For the love of God, take off that earring. This is a school, not a nightclub."

Principal McLeary was the headmaster of Elsinore Academy. A man with a long nose and an undeniably portly figure. If Principal McLeary could have been said to have any lifetime interests, it would have to be solely for doing things in an orderly fashion. His extra extra large pants fit so well around his waist that he needn't a belt to hold himself together. But he wore one anyway, because it was proper to wear belts when a pant had belt loops, and in secret, he also wanted people to think that his extra extra large pants were somehow loose. Of course, not one person ever conceived of the idea that his pants could be in the slightest bit loose. But out of sheer diplomacy, nobody ever spoke a word of it (at least not to his face).

From the early morning hours of eight to three in the afternoon, everyone in Elsinore Academy (students and teachers alike) scurried on their merry little way around campus, hoping that if they ever ran into Principal McLeary, they were properly dressed so as to avoid any confrontation. For Principal McLeary was a strict man, whose standards for distinguished behavior were so high that the rest of Suburnia had yet to find a single person capable of qualifying all of his expectations.

"Alexandra, take off that bracelet," he demanded, staring at our pale, slender-skinned girl with long black hair that touched her shoulders.

The girl, in return, ceased to move. She froze like a deer caught in the gazing eyes of a car's headlights, dumbfounded over why Principal McLeary called her out, and unsure of what bracelet he could possibly have been referring to.

"What bracelet?" she inquired, stuttering as she did.

Principal McLeary's eyelids came apart in such a drastic motion that crease lines formed around his forehead. His eyes were fixed on her so attentively that if Alexandra believed in such a thing, she would have sworn that the man was on the verge of shooting lasers out of his pupils.

"The one you're wearing," he replied, as if explaining to a dumb animal.

Alexandra moved her head and searched both her arms for any sign of a bracelet. Surely enough, there it was, attached to her left wrist. The material was light, and formed from a colorful green and blue embroidery floss, which in the context of her dull white and grey school uniform, appeared brighter than it actually was.

Principal McLeary opened his palm and shoved it right in front of her.

"Hand it over."

Before she complied, Alexandra took one last look at the elegantly formed knot on her wrist. Amy, her social contact and classmate, had given it to her just three weeks ago. It was called a friendship bracelet. Amy had one of her own on her left wrist exactly like it. She said that it was meant to signify a bond of kinship, or something to that effect. Alexandra never quite understood the sentiment, and even now, as she was about to hand it over, the idea of something so weightless and cheap having emotional value was beyond her ability to comprehend.

"Here you go," she said indifferently as she held the object by her thumb and index finger and let it fall into Principal McLeary's palm.

The item disappeared behind his extra extra large pant pocket.

"Now off to class with you. And don't let me catch you wearing anything but your school uniform. Understand?"

She bowed her head and did as was told. After that, she went into Mrs. Friedman's English class, a large room that always smelled of dust and chalk whenever anyone came in. This was no doubt due to the door's location relative to the chalkboard, but more so, it was due to there being a chalkboard in the first place.

Mrs. Friedman was an old woman of old taste. She liked to read and teach old books, and she liked to surround herself with nothing but old things. From her atlas of the world (which, unless they were living in the year 1772, was horribly out of date), to her collection of musty old books in the farthest cupboard in the classroom, to her chalkboard, which the other teachers had long ago replaced with whiteboards. In those rooms, the entryways smelled of ink.

Alexandra took her seat on a desk beside Amy. Class hadn't yet begun, so the room was filled with boisterous conversations flying in the air. Mrs. Friedman didn't mind this at all. She was at her desk on the left corner of the room reading another one of her old books. Age had rendered her hard of hearing, and so though the classroom was quite loud with the yells, shrills, and endless chatter of students, Mrs. Friedman heard absolutely nothing of it. Why, a plane could crash right behind her, and she wouldn't have heard a thing.

The school bell rang alas, and though Mrs. Friedman didn't hear it, she felt its distinct vibrations on her desk. One could say that though she lost her ability to hear, she had a heightened sense of feel.

"Okay children, quiet down," though since she couldn't quite hear the students anyway, she silently told herself that she should have said pay attention instead.

The air felt silent. This Mrs. Friedman knew, in part because she could sense it, and in part because every discernible lip before her had been squeezed shut.

"Now, who would like to remind the class what we were talking about yesterday?"

A boy raised his hand. "We were talking about Romeo and Juliet, and how love can become a force that throws people from their world, and ultimately, themselves."

"No no no," Mrs. Friedman shook her head disapprovingly. "We weren't talking about that. For any of you that have been paying attention in class, we were talking about Romeo and Juliet, and how love can become a force that throws people from their world, and ultimately, themselves."

"I said that."

"You most certainly did not. Now pay attention. You'll be tested on this next week."

From the far end of the room, Alexandra felt a nudge on her elbow.

"Alex," Amy whispered right beside her. "Where's your bracelet?"

Though Alexandra's legal name was indeed Alexandra Frost, her friends and classmates called her Alex, not only because it was shorter and thus easier to say, but it was also much more modern and in keeping with the times. And so because her friends call her Alex, I too, will from now on refer to Alexandra Frost simply as Alex, or Alex Frost, to avoid confusion.

Alex Frost leaned over to Amy and told her, "Principal McLeary took it."

"Oh," Amy threw her head back. "I hope it didn't get you into trouble."

"It didn't."

"I'll get you a new one. That is, if you still want one."

Alex raised her eyes.

"Of course I want one," lied the girl without a soul.

For those of us who have ever had friends, we know that with each friendship comes a unique set of expectations. I once made friends with a group of young, bald-headed individuals who enjoyed dressing up like ghosts every Sunday, and expressing their love for the color white. Since my favorite color was not indeed white, but yellow, it was fair to say that I failed to meet their expectations, and thus our friendship ended.

In a public gathering as large as a school, one can easily find a slew of different friendships available. Each one of these unions carries with them uniquely different agendas and social expectations. Some expected a shared love of music, of art, or films. Some a love for cuisine, clothing, or an adoration of Monty Python.

What Alex found appealing in her newfound connection with Amy Lawson, was that unlike the others, Amy had expected nothing more from her friendship with Alex than simple kindness. A standard she could live up to without breaking a sweat.

"Did you guys finish the math homework?"

This came from one prickly-haired boy who sat in front of Amy's desk, leering at the two as though he had something important to say.

"Why am I asking? Of course you did. Can I get your answers at lunch?"

"No," said Alex.

"Leave us alone Ben," said Amy as Ben rebounded to her general direction.

Ben Lindsey was a sixteen year old boy with the height of a twelve year old, and an even younger sense of maturity.

"Please," he cupped his hands together. "I'll be your bestest friend ever."

"We're your only friends," Amy said.

"Which makes me a valuable friend to have."

"Actually you're kind of annoying," Alex said.

"Why do we still talk to him?" wondered Amy out loud.

"I don't know. Pity, I suppose?"

"Pity for us."

The girls sniggered.

"Very funny. So are you going to show me your answers after lunch?"

"Sure," Alex agreed.

"Thanks."

"Mr. Lindsey," Mrs. Friedman cut from her lecture. "What topic could possibly be so important that it warrants the interruption of my class?"

"Ah, nothing ma'am," Ben replied.

"Mr. Lindsay, I assure you that I am not your mom. And just for that, I will see you in detention."

Ben relented, turned to Alex and gave off a sarcastic "Great."

* * *

After class was over, it was lunch period. Alex sat beside Amy, both of them silent as they ate from a tray of green beans, boiled lamb chops (the vegetarians had tofu salad), and a side of marmalade. And because this was Elsinore, and not (heaven forbid) some public school, the students were required to eat with forks and knives. Silverware forks and knives of course, not plastic (unlike one would expect to find in one of those nasty public schools).

"I hate peas," said Amy as she stabbed the said-not-cared-for object on her plate with a fork, and leered at it as though it were a dead insect.

She wasn't alone in this belief. To those with active taste buds, the Elsinore lunch meals were always bland and flavorless. Even the lamb chops were cooked in such a way that it was sapped of every iota of taste, and was as less fattening as a lamb chop could ever be.

Healthy eating was among one of the highest priorities in Elsinore Academy. The headmasters did their best to provide nothing but the best of healthy nutrition for the growing minds of their students. The price of all this, was that the school meals, much like the school's uniforms, were flavorless. The salads came with absolutely no dressing, and the meats were boiled and never marinated. So to Amy and those like her, the school meals were absolutely nil in taste.

On the other hand, to Alex and those like her (which, as far as she knew, was no one), taste was an entirely foreign concept. Being born without a soul had rendered her taste buds utterly stale. She was unable to determine what foods she liked and didn't like, and as a result, she had never as a child had any trouble eating her vegetables. To her, everything tasted like nothing.

"So the school dance is coming up," Amy said. "Are you going?"

"No. You?"

"You know, I just might," Amy responded, as enthusiastically as though the only reason she'd asked was to give her own response.

"Who with?"

"I don't know if you know him. But Tommy Hargrave invited me to go."

"I do know Tommy Hargrave."

"Oh."

"You're not actually thinking of going with him are you?"

"Why not?"

Alex sighed, recanted all the stories that went with the Hargrave name.

Incidentally, out of a pure act of happenstance, as if he'd been waiting for his name to be spoken, Tommy Hargrave, star athlete of Elsinore Academy, topic of their conversation, came from seemingly nowhere, and he approached Amy and her elusive friend without a soul.

"Well aren't these the two prettiest ladies in all of Elsinore?"

"Maybe," replied Amy.

"Can I expect you at tonight's party?" Tommy to Amy.

Amy blushed a bright red smile. "We'll see."

"What party?" Alex cut in.

"A friend of mine," Tommy said. "His parents are gone for the month, and he's left all alone in their humble abode overlooking the Friar Peak Hills. And since we both think it unfair to be in such a nice place all alone, we feel it only right to share it with our good friends and classmates for the night."

"Sounds like fun," Amy said. "I'll definitely think about it."

Tommy smiled in approval.

"How about you Alex?"

Alex, who hadn't quite expected him to speak to her, abruptly forced down her food, causing a bit of stiffness to venture down her throat.

"I can't," she said, sounding as though she truly wished she could.

"You can't?" came a befuddled Amy.

"Well, I hope you change your mind," came the urging voice of Tommy Hargrave. "It would be great to see you there."

"We'll see," Amy said once more, losing count of how many times she'd given that same, ambiguous response.

"Alright," said Tommy, kindly and understandingly. "Well, I'll see you after school yeah?"

Amy brightened. "Yes you will."

"Alright. Well ladies, if you'll excuse me." And with that, Tommy took his leave.

"Alex," Amy jumped once Tommy was nowhere to be seen.

"What?"

"Why don't you want to come?"

"I don't really want to."

"Why not?"

For Alex Frost, this was a difficult question to answer. For unlike her fellow schoolmates, Alex was a girl without a soul. And as a consequence, she wasn't very much interested in people or ordinary things. And because Alex didn't much fancy people or ordinary things, it wasn't difficult to imagine that she wouldn't much enjoy purely social events as the one Tommy had suggested just then. Alex gone to a few such parties before. Certainly more than Amy. But unlike everyone else that went to such events, Alex never found anything enjoyable about them. She simply could not bring herself to enjoy constant hours of loud music and dancing, nor was she able to appreciate the flirtatious eyes of boys, and she most certainly didn't think too highly of the drinks that were served on such occasions.

But all of this was due to the fact that Alex simply wasn't born with a soul. If she had, perhaps chances were high that she would have held an entirely different opinion about it and everything else in her life. But the truth was what it was. And so as Amy asked her friend why she didn't want to come to Tommy Hargrave's party tonight, she struggled to think of how to adequately say I don't have a soul.

"I have to run errands and complete chores," she lied, thinking that for both their sakes, it was a much simpler explanation.

"You don't need to study. You get just as much homework as I do."

"Except I do extra credit assignments."

Alex had a point, though one that had only just come up as she thought about it. Amy was disappointed nonetheless.

"I want you to be there."

"I wish I could. But my parents wouldn't allow me anyway."

"Fine," Amy said, resigned. "But if you change your mind, don't hesitate to call me."

"I won't," replied Alex, and by I won't, she meant she wouldn't change her mind.

* * *

Walking along Durson Avenue after school, Alex kicked off a few dead leaves that blew onto the sidewalk. Accompanying her along the way was Amy Lawson, a girl that called herself Alex's friend.

"Can I ask you something?" asked Amy.

"Sure."

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"No," she responded. "Why? Do you?"

Amy let the question hang in the air. Then, "I don't know."

"You're not thinking of Tommy Hargrave are you?"

"Why?" shot Amy. "What do you have against him?"

"He's not your type."

"Oh? And what is my type?"

Alex Frost, distant observer of humankind, knew that for every human being in the world there was at least type or two. And in comparing Amy Lawson with the shamelessness of Tommy Hargrave, she knew she could safely conclude, "Not him."

"He's nice," said Amy.

"He's not."

Amy said nothing. She made no comment of Alex's words, and showed no surprises. Why this was, Alex couldn't tell for sure. But if she knew one thing about human beings, it was how to read their subtlest of facial expressions. And through the muscle gestures formed around Amy's face, from the base of her forehead to her cheeks, all the way down to her chin, it was only far too clear that the emotion coursing inside her was that of discontentment.

The girls parted ways at Carlson Road. Amy crossed the street to their left while Alex turned a corner upon reaching Pilmot, continuing down a straight, narrow path.

Around her was a neighborhood of rich, white houses with rose gardens on each front lawn. The driveways were so large that they formed a curved trail to their three story homes. The cars that were frequently parked on such driveways were all just as equally affluent, and typically of the German, Swedish, or Italian variety. Some even had a few Japanese cars. And while quite a few of the residents took to such activities as driving themselves wherever they wanted to go, it was not uncommon for a Suburnian to have a chauffeur. Such are among the luxuries of being rich.

Alex observed the clean streets and the beautiful gardens of each neighborhood's front yard, and if she had a soul, she would have admired Suburnia's eye-feasting glamour. But since she didn't, she thought nothing of it.

As she continued along the sidewalk, a still shadow imposed over her. It blocked the afternoon sunlight from her skin, and for a while it dimmed her path.

Far in the distance, high up in the hill, there stood a lonely black tower much different than all the houses of Suburnia. It was tall and stood like a giant, gazing down on all life that lay below it. If there was any word to describe the peculiar building, the word darkness being its defining attribute. The building was old, certainly unlike any in Suburnia.

Alex had often passed the tower as she walked back home from school. And she noticed that even when it was a sunny day outside (much like today), the tower remained as black as night, and when it was night outside, the tower was practically invisible.

But whether day or night, a murder of crows flew above the tip of the tower at all times. They cawed boisterously, as if a warning to anyone who might think to visit or trespass into the ground's estate.

Its proprietor was a man that went by the name of Lord Henry Combermere. The citizens of Suburnia did their best never to speak of the man, or for that matter, the tower he lived in.

Everyone in town knew Lord Henry Combermere's name to heart, but neither the children of the town nor its grown-ups ever dared to mention it without a stuttering tongue. Most of the citizens hadn't seen the man in person (nor did they ever wish to), but they all heard the stories. Stories that frightened the daylights out of everybody, though some more than others. And those stories, often scary, never happy, all had a name to remember them by; Lord Henry Combermere.

As far as Alex knew, she was the only person that could utter the words Lord Henry Combermere without flinching. She did so once as a young child, in front of a few other children in order to prove that words alone were nothing to fear. Instead, half the town avoided her for a month because they became far too scared of her. To stop them from being afraid of her, she eventually had to pretend that the name did scare her too.

But silently, Alex had always been curious to meet the man. She'd seen an old portrait of him in a magazine once, when he was listed as one of Great Britain's brightest and highest paid lawyers. In the portrait, his head was bald, and his features both milky pale and skinny. He wore a crisp tuxedo with a bow tie, as well as a frameless monocle on his left eye with a gold chain that went into his coat. His skin was a cross between middle-aged and old, indicating that he was either somewhere in his late forties or his early fifties.

But that was seven years ago, before he lived in complete isolation. Rumor spread that he had suffered a mental breakdown, and had been a recluse ever since. Now Lord Henry Combermere was on a very different magazine, his name now on a list entitled The Creepiest Men And Women of Great Britain. The magazine didn't have a recent photograph of the man since no one had actually seen him since his isolation, so the article plainly said that he was simply too creepy to warrant one.

All this reputation of being a creepy man somehow intrigued Alex. While others were too afraid to discover the truth behind the man, too scared to confirm or deny some of the stories that had gone around town like a plague, Alex, a girl without a soul, hadn't the capacity for fear, so was only left with an avid interest for the facts behind the myths.

Home can mean different things to different people. To a religious man, home can be found in serving the likes of a supernatural deity. To a scholar, who finds his purpose in learning new things, home can be in a library, where tomes of information are stored. And to a mailman, home might be somewhere out in the woods, far away from the never-ending flow of letters and vicious backyard dogs.

To Alex Frost, home was something far less spiritual, and far more tangible. To her, home was a grand, three story Victorian-style house with cherry red bricks, and a steel black fence running along the outline. Much like all the other houses around it, the massive front lawn sprung with colorful flower beds and rose gardens, none of which was actually maintained by anyone in the Frost household, but by garden workers with dry hands and very little money. For you see, in Suburnia, only very few residents took the time to take care of their own gardens. Those that did were typically of the home maker variety, but even most of them didn't want to stress themselves with the manual labor of maintaining a yard (or washing dishes, or cooking, or doing the laundry, or cleaning the house). Mrs. Dana Frost, much like her husband Mr. Jonathan Frost, was a doctor, though they both worked for different hospitals. And because Mrs. Frost had a day job, she certainly couldn't have spent much time tending to flowers in her yard now could she? And most certainly, not a yard as big as the one that surrounded the Frost residence.

Today however, as a break from their regular routine, both Mr. and Mrs. Frost were at home sick from some bad Indian food they had just last night. Mr. Frost's BMW and Mrs. Frost's Toyota were parked on either ends of the driveway, one of them silver, the other one ocean blue respectively. Parked in between them was Alex's Mercedes-Benz, a car that she had now come of age to drive, but hadn't because she didn't yet have a driver's license, and because her father liked to borrow it as often as he could.

Alex inserted her gold key into the knob of her front door. Once inside, she unsheathed her backpack and let the dead weight of textbooks, notebooks and three ring binders collapse on the marble floor. The foyer was freshly waxed, with both the floors and the hardwood stairs glimmering with the indoor luminescence that came from the ceiling. More than several paintings hung on each wall, and by the entryway was a fresh bouquet of pink tulips growing from a porcelain vase. Five steps in, there was an ornate stone medallion on the ground with a circular border and a compass rose on the center.

Despite the fact that her parents were supposed to be at home, Alex wasn't sure that they were. The house was eerily quiet. At first she mused that they were probably both fast asleep. But she checked their bedroom, and they were nowhere to be seen.

"Mom?" she called out. "Dad?"

Nothing. Just sheer emptiness and silence. She checked the kitchen, the living room, and even went so far as downstairs in their basement. But they weren't there at all. As she scoured the entire home, she tried calling them on their cell phones. Both of them rang, but there was no answer. Eventually, Alex gave up, deciding that sooner or later they would turn up. And they did, only not where she expected.

As she entered her room, Alex saw a tiny streak of wet red a few centimeters from her doorway. A thin line of liquid crimson that grew thicker and redder the further along her eyes went until finally she focused on the center of the room, and the wet line turned into a massive puddle pouring out from her parents' slit throats. They were harmless, they were emotionless, they were lifeless. They were dead.

A man standing in her room watched the dead adults, stunted to see her just as she was to see him. He was an old-looking man with pale skin, a bald head, and dry, unchapped lips. He held a strange knife in his hand. Drops of blood escaped its razor-sharp tip, forming a ripple in an already large puddle on the floor. Alex dared a closer look at the man's face, recognized the frameless monocle on his left eye.

It was him; Lord Henry Combermere.
Chapter 2

The Girl Without A Soul

In scenes as horrendous and nerve-racking as this, it is usually customary for a person to scream, shout, or yell No! countless amounts of times. A shock of this magnitude would have even forced some to close their eyes and faint. But Alex did none of these things. Her parents for sixteen years were gone right in front of her, and like a stone or a thick block of ice, she didn't know what to think of it, didn't know what to do or feel. Not an ounce of emotion registered inside her objective mind. She was just stuck.

"Hello little girl," Lord Henry Combermere spoke, his voice rough and deep.

This was the first time she'd ever seen the most feared man of Suburnia up close. Her first observation; that he hadn't aged well. His skin, which had always been pale, now looked as though it'd been dipped in cream, and he was frailer in person than he was since his last picture. The monocle on his left eye was scratched, missing the gold chain that ran into his coat.

A multiplicity of thoughts and questions regarding the man flashed before her. Yet as much as she wanted her curiosity to be addressed, there was a much more immediate situation at hand.

"You killed my parents."

"I did." And with that, he pulled his knife high above his head and took one step forward. He was on the verge of a strike when the blade stopped mid-air, as though some magnetic forced held his arms in place.

"You're not sad?" he asked, though it sounded more like a thought than an actual question.

Alex gazed over at her dead parents.

"I've never felt sad in my entire life."

Both mother and father were lying on their backs, one beside the other. Their eyes wide open, giving her the impression that they could still see what was going on, or that perhaps they were faking death.

"Are they really dead?" she asked.

"Quite so," Combermere replied. "Does that bother you?"

Alex searched her feelings, tried to find any shred of her that might have been humanly disgusted or terrified. She came up empty.

"No," she breathed out.

Being without a soul had numbed her of emotional feeling, and as the many years progressed she came to understand that about herself more and more. But even for someone who lacked such an internal attribute, she found her lack of reaction to be more than a bit peculiar. After how much her parents had given her out of love, why was it that she could give nothing in return? Not even a tear, or show of honest disheartenment?

"Why doesn't that bother you?"

Alex paused. Then, "I don't know. I've always been like this."

She crept closer to her dead parents, and closed their eyes. They were dressed in their expensive silk pajamas now stained with dark entry wounds emanating from beneath their clothes. Her father's hair was cut short while her mother's, bright and long, was strewn about in a chaotic mess. Her hair was bright gold, and shined with the afternoon light coming from Alex's window. She arranged her mother's hair, arranged it so that every strand went down her shoulders. Because her mother was always a fashion monger, she figured that even in death, she would have wanted to look as beautiful as she could.

After she was done redecorating her mother, Alex prepared herself for what was next to come.

"Are you going to-"

Her head slowly turned around. Then just like that, the tall, brooding figure of Lord Henry Combermere was gone.

Alex knelt beside her parents, kept them company whilst trying to bring herself to feel. From behind, she heard approaching footsteps smacking hastily against the floor downstairs. At first she thought that Lord Combermere was coming back. But she could sense two distinct sets of footprints stomping about the house.

Too distracted with her own thoughts to care, Alex laid her eyes on her parents, touched their skins. They were warm, but getting colder with every drop of blood that came out.

The footsteps came closer. In less than a minute, they stopped inside her room.

"Oh my God," a man gasped behind her.

"What happened here?" someone else, just as petrified.

"Who are you?" the first man asked Alex.

She didn't answer.

"Hey you," now came the second. "What happened here?"

Still no answer.

They crept slowly towards her, concerned yet simultaneously afraid. One of the men turned Alex's body to face him. It was a policeman. They were both policemen, dressed in blue uniforms.

"Who are you?" asked the policeman standing inches from her face.

But Alex still couldn't speak. Too many questions were orbiting her mind all at once that she had lost all concern for the ones being asked by the men before her. Her mind was drifting away, steadily losing focus on reality.

"Hey," the policeman shook her awake. "Who are you?"

Her mental lapse suddenly disappeared.

"Alexandra," she said. "Alexandra Frost."

"You're their daughter?" the policeman inquired, more disheartened now than he was when he first saw the bodies.

"Yes," she muttered back weakly.

"Come. Follow me out."

"I'm okay."

The policeman didn't listen. "Let's get you out of here," he urged on.

The policemen took Alex by each arm and escorted her out to the front steps of her home. One of them produced a blanket from seemingly nowhere, wrapped it around her while constantly chanting the words, "It's going to be alright." As if saying it enough times would make it true.

"The neighbors reported a disturbance," said the first policeman. "It's a good thing we showed up when we did."

"Are you okay?" the second policemen looked into her eyes, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Yes," she replied, but with no hint of emotion.

"Do you know who did this?"

Alex knew perfectly well who did it. The real question was Why?

She was about to let the word Combermere slip from her tongue, but held it back at the very last second.

He should have known that she was going to tell the police when he left her. If he did not want to get caught, then why did he let her live? It didn't make any sense to her. Not unless there was something else at play. Something else that she was unaware of.

"Alex," the policeman spoke as if he knew her, calling her by her shortened name rather than the one she formally used. "Did you see who did it?"

Hiding her doubt beneath layers of artificial resoluteness, she responded with, "No."

"Did you see anything?"

"No."

"Was anything missing?"

"No."

Then came the question that once again riddled her mind.

"Do you know why someone might have done this?"

The million dollar question. Or so they called it. Why did Lord Henry Combermere murder her parents? Did they know him? And more importantly, why did he allow her to live? Why allow her to live to tell the tale?

"No."

Off in the distance, an entourage of paramedics, fire trucks, and police cars were heard before they arrived outside her parents' home. The firemen stood and talked while four men from the paramedics van carried her parents away on metal slabs with wheels. Their tones were much paler now than they were before. Any semblance of life, long depleted. A long line of yellow police tape stretched around the house encouraged a mass of curious bystanders to stand directly behind and stare at the commotion in Alex's house. Seated on the front steps of her home, Alex watched the fellow neighbors and residents of Suburnia pointing their fingers at her, whispering to their friends and family members what was going on inside their minds. Never since Alex was a young child had she ever experienced such distance between her and everyone else. The people beyond the police line, fellow neighbors that she and her parents knew in all their years living in Suburnia, now strangers, with their dropped jaws, and their eyes pointed at the Frost residence with sadness and fear.

"Why don't you come with us?" said one of the two policemen.

"I can't stay at the house?"

"Heavens no," he objected.

"This isn't a place you want to be. Trust us," said the second policeman.

"What's going to happen?"

"We'll see," the first policeman said, although Alex couldn't shake the feeling that he knew full well what was going to happen.

Riding with the officers to their police station was the last thing she wanted to do at a moment like this. However, she hid her reluctance and silently agreed. Like a convict, she sat in the back while the two officers were in front. They drove for all of fifteen minutes, the only sound coming from their police radio and the vehicle's humming engine.

The policeman in the front passenger's seat decided to break the silence by peering into the rearview mirror, telling Alex, "It's a good thing that you've found it in yourself to keep calm."

The temperature inside the car started to warm up due to the heat coming in from the vents. He loosened his necktie and unbuckled the first button on his shirt. He introduced himself as Officer David Lambert. And by the way he told her how well she was taking it, Alex was almost certain that he was beginning to suspect her of something. Foul play, maybe.

"It's a good thing," the officer continued. "Means you're strong in here," he formed a fist and thumped it against his chest.

"He's right you know," came the other officer, the one driving the car. "Lots of bad things happening to good people. Can't imagine what you're going through right now, but you have our support. We'll get you through this as easily as we can."

Seven minutes later, and they arrived at the hive of the Suburnia police. It was fortunate for Alex that the two officers swore to get her through their standard procedures as quickly and efficiently as they could. She was immediately taken in to a questioning room where she was sequestered by a detective with a golden badge hanging from his neck like jewelry. He wore a long collar shirt, but with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His bare arms revealed many thick strands of hair the same color as the one that grew on his head. His top button was undone, and he didn't wear a necktie.

"Good evening," he started.

Alex, remaining doe-eyed and distant, said nothing in return.

"I apologize for what happened. Rest assured you have my condolences for your loss."

The detective planted himself on a folding chair and faced it towards her. A steel desk separated the two, its surface clean and shining silver, giving Alex a distorted reflection of her own face.

"There are some questions that I have to ask you about the incident. I know you don't want to think about it again, but we need you to hang in there so you can give us as much information as you can."

"How long is this going to take?"

"Not long," which Alex took to be a lie of sorts. "Do you have any questions you want to ask me before we start?"

"Do you know who might have done this?"

"That's what we're here to figure out. If you can help us, we'll do our best find whoever's responsible here. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Alright then. Tell me everything you know."

Much as Alex had initially suspected, her statement went on to be a challenging and lengthy process, as it required her to restate everything she told to the first policemen she encountered, and explain in full detail anything she might have left out, as well as make sure that her story about not having seen anyone didn't contradict itself. Long and hard work, but she pulled it off without so much as a hitch. After the detective was done with his questions, he briefly squat beside her, made sure that she was close enough for him to assure her that, "We will find whoever did this, and we will stop them."

A woman dressed in a man's suit entered the room.

"This is Mrs. Jones," the detective introduced to Alex.

"Good to meet you," said Mrs. Jones.

Alex didn't reply. This led to a short, uncomfortable silence before Mrs. Jones, the man-dressed woman spoke again.

"We called your aunt to come pick you up," was what she eventually said.

Alex scrunched her brows. "Why?"

Mrs. Jones disclosed to her that apparently, since she was two years away from being considered a legal adult, she was to be taken care of by her closest blood relative by rule of law.

"You can't go back to the house without a guardian," was how she put it. "And we have to look at your house so that we can find out as much as we can about what happened. So for now, it's important that you stay with a guardian."

Under the circumstances, that guardian meant her Aunt Melanie. Unfortunate, she felt, because Aunt Melanie lived at least an hour away from her school. Meaning that if she would still be attending Elsinore Academy, she couldn't walk to campus and back like she'd always done before. It was also unfortunate that in the shrieking madness of what had happened, Alex hadn't even the opportunity to begin her homework.

Mrs. Friedman was going to be most displeased. But then again, maybe she wouldn't. She wasn't sure what her policy was about homework in the event of one's parents dying before their eyes. She was inclined to believe (but not entirely confidently) that Mrs. Friedman would give her some leeway there.

"What do you mean you're going to look at the house exactly? You mean like evidence?"

"That's precisely it."

"So what do I do until then?"

For this, the detective broke in. "Until then, all we want you to do is relax. Gain your bearing. Do what you need to do to bring your spirits up. If you have any questions, or if you have information that might help us, anything at all no matter how seemingly unimportant, I want you to let us know."

"You'll be in your aunt's supervision," came Mrs. Jones. "For now at least. She was the closest family we could find in such short notice."

"What happens to my house after you're done?"

"I'm not the person to talk to about that. But once we're done looking at the house, we'll be sure to let you know."

Then, the woman dressed like a man escorted Alex from the questioning room towards the front desk, where young boys with skateboards (or juvenile delinquents, as they were often called in Suburnia) were being lectured by a man three times their size, age, and weight. The woman clad in male garbs instructed Alex to wait where she was, and that her aunt was on her way to pick her up.

The station was calm silent. When she tapped her foot on the floor, much of the ensuing noise came not from the action itself, but the echoes it left behind.

Being in Suburnia, she didn't expect that the police station would have been much more crowded than that. Aside from what happened to her parents, the biggest crime that had ever taken place here over the last fifteen years was a home robbery. A group of thieves entered the unoccupied residence of a fellow Suburnian citizen and stole every single thing of value inside the house (which was quite literally everything that was inside the house). Once news of the incident broke, it had become the most conversational topic of the year in all of Suburnia. But the latest news of the Frost family was sure to last significantly longer than that.

Alex seated herself on a bench in the lobby that was just as wooden and stiff as a church pew. She twisted and turned to make her back more comfortable. But the effort was futile. Alex wouldn't find comfort no matter what way she positioned herself. Her best hope was to find a spot and stick with it.

Before she knew it, Aunt Melanie, Alex's aunt from her mother's side, was already scampering along the halls of the temple-sized police station. She was tall, slim, in her mid-thirties, with white skin and short, round lips. Her hair was auburn, curled, and she wore a simple blouse with rose petal patterns and a plain, long brown pant that went all the way down to her ankles.

And with just a momentary glimpse at her aunt, Alexandra knew that if her mom could see what her sister was wearing now, she would have been rolling in her grave (or the morgue, since technically she didn't have a grave yet).

"There you are," she cried with a frightened look on her face when she found Alex. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Alex replied, and for the first few seconds she wondered what had gotten into her.

Oh, right, she thought. My parents.

"I was worried sick about you."

"I'm fine."

"Oh dear," she forced Alex into her tight embrace, tears falling down her eyes like waterfalls.

Is this how normal people deal with death? She asked herself.

Aunt Melanie released her. "Is there anything you need?"

After thinking about it, Alex realized that she was a bit thirsty.

"I could afford to have some water."

"Of course sweetheart," she said rather insistently, and retrieved a fresh bottle of water that happened to coincidentally be inside her brown Coach purse.

Alex drank down for two long sips before handing the bottle back half-full to Aunt Melanie.

"No sweetie, you keep it."

"Oh. Thanks."

"I talked to the police. You're going to come live with me for a few days. Is that okay?"

"I'd prefer my home."

"Oh I know you do Alexandra," she empathized, though Alex didn't think it necessary. "But we can't go back there yet."

"I know. They told me."

"That's right. The police are going to be there for as long as it takes for them to do their jobs. Trust me. It's for the best."

Without putting up a fight, Alex complied.

Aunt Melanie took Alex to her home in Pleasant Grove, a locale far away from Suburnia. Far away in fact, from any place she knew. It was a struggling city with graffiti markings running along shoddily buildings bearing streets littered with trash, and houses that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in well over decades. For some odd reason, most the cars parked by its street curbs had tires missing from their bare metal rims. Some cars had bricks thrown on their windshields. Others had tire irons, lead pipes, and on some occasions, homeless people. All this she witnessed during her first five minutes in Pleasant Grove. She soon came to realize that those were just the nicer areas.

"We're almost there," Aunt Melanie said, clearing her throat while she focused on her driving.

The last time Alex had seen Aunt Melanie was five Christmases ago when she came to visit her and the family in Suburnia. As Alex recalled, she came dressed that day in the most unorthodox fashion. A short pink t-shirt with a peace logo on the center, olive green track pants, and a pair of sandals. She and her mother got into a long fight over proper attire, then moved onto bickering about other, more personal things. And since then, they hadn't seen or heard from each other at all.

Alex knew little to nothing of her aunt because her mother never spoke of her. And at times when she curiously asked about her, her mother would quickly change the topic before it even had the chance to begin. It was self-evident in the way she mentioned her that Alex's mother didn't think very highly of her sister. So why was it then that Aunt Melanie felt so bad about what happened to her?

During the one hour drive, Aunt Melanie kept her eyes on the road and fought back sniffles from her nose. Alex on the other hand sat on the front passenger seat, counting the amount of homeless people that were in Pleasant Grove. So far she made twenty four. Or was it twenty six? It was hard to concentrate with Aunt Melanie sobbing behind the wheels.

Aunt Melanie said nothing to her since the start of the drive, and Alex debated secretly to herself whether or not she should have initiated a conversation. Some random topic to bring her spirits up. Perhaps mention the sunny weather in Peru, or the price of cheese in France. Maybe even some trivial facts. Like that the most common name in the world is Mohammed, or that Neanderthals had bigger brains than current humans. But in judging Aunt Melanie's mental state, she wasn't sure that she would care, or that she would even have it in her to carry a conversation.

Soon they arrived on the grounds of her apartment complex on Wiscott Avenue. She parked her car in the garage of what was probably the cleanest apartment complex in all of Pleasant Grove. And even then, the building seemed worn and dry on the outside. Judging from what she saw, it wasn't likely that the place was going to look any better on the inside. And indeed, it wasn't. The building inside was only slightly less unkempt and unmaintained as the rest of the city itself.

"We're here," Aunt Melanie said. The second half hour of the drive had cleared her mood a little, but her speech still came out no more significant than a tired whisper.

Her place was on the seventh floor, last before the roof. As soon as they went inside, the temperature was absolutely roasting. Even though the night air was cool and with wind, her home (apartment number 78) was not, and not.

"Jeez," Aunt Melanie swore, stormed over to the oven in her kitchen right by the entryway. Fumes of smoke were steadily sifting out, filling the atmosphere of apartment number 78 in what smelled wildly reminiscent of burning charcoal. Of course, it wasn't charcoal that had been burning in her oven (though it did look like it), but roast beef, as she brought it out from the heat wearing a pair of oven mitts. The beef was charred. It was impossible to tell where the cooked parts began and where the burned parts ended. Aunt Melanie dropped the meat in the sink and doused it with cold water. She stood by the sink, looming over her creation with utter disappointment.

"Nothing ever goes right," she thought aloud.

"Are you okay Aunt Melanie?"

"I'm alright," she nodded. "Are you hungry? I think we're still early enough to call for pizza."

Alex was, in fact, hungry. She hadn't eaten a thing since lunch period earlier in the day, and all she had from that point on were liquids, mostly water. So she agreed to the idea, and when Aunt Melanie asked her what kind of pizza she wanted, she simply shrugged her shoulders.

It was eleven in the evening. Luckily for Alex and her Aunt Melanie, there was a 24 hour pizza delivery service just a few blocks away, and Aunt Melanie had one of its flyers among the pile of junk mail she received. Together they ate what was possibly the unhealthiest pizza ever known to man. A layer of cheese at the core of the crust, topped with three different types of cheeses, sausages, chicken strips, and pepperoni.

Alex felt the oil soak her fingers as soon as she touched a slice. She couldn't taste the food no matter how many bites of it she took, but all the oil going inside made her feel a bit uneasy. She wasn't used to consuming so many calories at any one given time. And on top of that, Alex didn't much care for the idea of getting fat. Not only was it jeopardizing for anyone's health, but it was also met with much intolerance among gym teachers and peers.

But Alex was not in any mood for such considerations. They simply ate in utter silence, and afterwards, Alex took the opportunity to familiarize herself with her immediate surroundings.

Aunt Melanie's apartment was about as neat and organized as one could expect given the setting. The windows, though clean and with the fresh scent of Lysol, had strips of transparent tape blocking the cracked aspects of its features. The walls themselves were rotten brown, with no picture frames or decorative pieces hanging about. Just rot and mildew. There was a small television in the living room that scarcely occupied a quarter of the table it sat on.

"Are you okay?" Aunt Melanie asked Alex once more. Alex thought that with the way things were going, with Aunt Melanie so full of emotion, and Alex so devoid of any, she felt it should have been her asking that very question.

"I can't believe they're gone," Alex said.

Aunt Melanie hugged her once again, only this time she cried incessantly for an entire hour. One entire hour under her aunt's arms. She was soft and cuddly at first. But by the time the hour passed, her joints turned sore and stiff.

Once the grief was all said and done with, Aunt Melanie revealed a bed from inside her living room sofa. There, Alex slept alone while Aunt Melanie went outside to, "Catch some air." Her words.

"I have to be in school tomorrow," Alex informed her right before she left.

"No you don't," she came back, and without any further explanation, the door closed behind her.

While trying to catch some much needed sleep, Alex's mind went to her parents. It was strange knowing that she would never get to see them again. She'd gotten so used to their company, it was hard to believe that by the time she woke up next morning, her father would no longer be there, watching television as he so often did before leaving for work. And her mother would no longer be there to make scrambled eggs and toast. She would never again get the chance to kiss her daughter on the forehead before leaving for school.

In the bat of an eye, Alex's life had taken a completely different turn. And after all the years that her parents took care of her, showered her with a vast array of emotions, she thought it inadequate that she wasn't able to show them any of her own. At least, not any that hadn't been faked. And even now as she realized that they were gone forever, she had no way of feeling in the least bit sad about it. She was just a girl without a soul.

Alex's shirt pocket began to vibrate. She padded her chest. It was her cell phone. It was on silent, so it didn't ring. Instead it pulsed.

The call came from Amy.

"Hello?" Alex spoke.

"Alex, help me! Ale-" The line disconnected.
Chapter 3

Walls Closing In

Alex woke up. It was early noon, and the sun was gleaming down her face from the open window beside her. Her hair was rumpled with several strands departing from the rest of her head. Her breath was warm. Her school uniform had been folded and crumpled from her nine hour sleep, leaving behind an ample amount of crease lines on the fabric. She pulled herself up, searched the living room for any sign of Aunt Melanie.

"Aunt Melanie?" she called. No response. There was nobody around her. Just an empty living room and kitchen. What's more, the front door was shot wide open.

She threw away the comforter that had been wrapped around her, pillaged the kitchen until she found a chopping knife, stainless steel with three silver rivets on the handle. Tip-toeing with her socks so as not to make any noise, she ventured into Aunt Melanie's bedroom, creeping by the corner of the wall, clasping tightly onto the blade. By the time the walls stopped and Aunt Melanie's room began, Alex quickly peaked inside. There was nobody inside but Aunt Melanie, lying dead on her bed.

As Alex came closer however, knife still in hand, she realized that Aunt Melanie wasn't dead, but passed out. She was breathing slowly, but breathing nonetheless. Located directly beside her face was an open flask that smelled of Jack Daniels. A few drops of it had poured on the bed, though it didn't seem as though it had been done so deliberately.

"Aunt Melanie?" Alex shook her up just to make sure she was still alive.

Aunt Melanie waved her off and sighed. "Put it on his tab," she groaned, then went back to sleep.

She was alive alright. False alarm.

Alex left her aunt alone, and shut the front door. She picked up her phone and made a call to Amy.

Five rings. And then, "Hi."

"Amy?"

"This is Amy Lawson. I'm not here right now, so please leave a message."

Alex hung up. Tried again. Five more rings, and the same message.

Was Amy dead? She thought to herself. She had already tried calling Amy ten times last night to no avail. And while the girl with the frozen heart didn't dread to think it, the chance was there that Lord Combermere had killed her as well.

But that was too much speculation.

Or was it?

Alex tried her phone again, this time calling Amy's home. On the third ring, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

It was Amy's mother.

"Hello Mrs. Lawson. I was wondering if Amy was home."

"Oh she is," said Mrs. Lawson. A moment of silence. Then, "But she's resting now. Amy came home dreadfully late from wherever it was she went. She's been sick, and she hasn't said a word since she got back. This is Alexandra, I presume?"

"It is."

"Alexandra," she scrunched her lips. Alex didn't see this of course, but she could tell by the way the woman spoke. "I heard what happened. I am so sor-"

Alex hung up. The girl without a soul went to the kitchen and she served herself a bowl of Aunt Melanie's cereal. Then, she completed last night's homework, and since she had nothing else to do, she read a few chapters ahead.

At precisely half an hour later, there came a knocking sound on the door. Unexpected and out of the blue. As a precaution, Alex once again picked up the chopping knife in the kitchen. Cautiously, she peered into the peephole with one eye, found that there was no one there. She unlocked the door, kept the sharp end of the knife below her pinky. Alex tucked it behind her back as she slowly opened the door. What came into view was a dark skinned man in a wheelchair. He was short, old, and wore a pair of spectacles around his eyes. He had a long nose, and there were boils and pimples all over his face, making him look more goblin than man.

"Where is she?" the goblin grumbled.

"Where is who?" Alex said in return.

"Don't toy with me child. You know who I'm talking about."

"You mean Mrs. Melanie?"

The goblin raised his chin. "Who else would I be talking about?"

"May I ask what this is regarding?"

"May I ask what this is regarding?" he mocked. "She's late on rent. And I'm not letting her off the hook anymore."

The goblin-faced man wheeled himself closer to the door, at which point Alex began to turn the knob towards the strike plate. With her body, she blocked the stranger from the door's opening.

"Let me in," he demanded.

"How much does she owe?"

"I said let me in."

Alex remained where she was, unthreatened by the wheel-chair man's rising voice.

"How much does she owe?" she asked again, looking down at his oily face as she spoke.

"What's it to you little girl?"

"She's family."

"Is that right now? I never knew she had such a thing. Well, if that's the case she owes me $900."

"Stay right here," Alex said.

Alex left him by the doorway, placed the knife in her hand back in the kitchen, and retrieved a purse from inside her school bag. She handed him a set of even numbered bills that amounted to exactly $900.

"That should be it," she told him.

"You keep that kind of money in your purse?"

"I'm travelling," Alex was quick to reply. Better that than admit to the old goblin that $900 where she came from was but meager change.

"Huh. Anyway, if you see her, let her know that the hot water's out. It won't be repaired for at least another day."

"Will do."

Alex shut the door shortly before the half-goblin half-man could turn around to leave. She was about to go back to reading her textbooks when from out the kitchen window, she saw three boys kicking at something black and white. At first she thought it was a soccer ball. But upon closer observation, it, whatever it was, appeared to have four legs and a tail. It didn't bounce with each kick, but moaned. And unlike a ball, the only thing round was its head.

In order to get a closer look at what was happening, Alex left the apartment room and climbed down seven sets of stairs. As she reached ground level, she made her way to a row of parked cars next to the apartment complex. There, she saw the same three boys forcing their shoes on a defenseless cat with immense enthusiasm.

"What are you doing?" she called out to them.

The tallest one looked up to greet Alex. Immediately after he noticed her, he urged his two friends that it was high time to leave. The glee of what they had been doing suddenly left them, and she could see it in their eyes that what they felt was shame.

"Let's get out of here," the tallest one came again. Before Alex could let in another word, they were already fleeing the scene.

She stood beside the cat as she watched the three boys disappear. When they did, her attention went to the stray animal. Its left eye was lower than its right, and it was coughing up blood on the grey pavement. Around the animal's neck was a short leash, which was tied onto the side mirror of an empty car.

That explained how the boys were able to kick it several times without the cat being able to run anywhere.

Alex briefly considered what she would do with the animal. Given that it was lying on its stomach, too weak to move, it probably wouldn't have gone anywhere now even if she let it go.

She lowered herself to the animal's reach, and took the liberty of closely examining its injuries. From what could be told, based on the mushy muscle mass around its gut, the cat had a few shattered ribs, and there was likely to be some internal bleeding. The cat muttered a weak, feline groan when she pushed her index finger further into its stomach.

"I guess that hurt."

Alex, who had never felt pain in her life, had not the slightest idea of what the animal was going through.

Funny, she thought, that a cat had more of a soul than she did.

She released the leash around its neck, carefully cradled it in her arms. There was no resistance. In fact, if it was capable of such a thing, Alex would have sworn that it was expressing a hint of satisfaction.

With what little energy the cat had left, it stretched its head and licked her savior on the face. A liquid residue was left behind on her cheeks. Not just saliva, but blood as well.

When Alex went back inside, Aunt Melanie was trudging along her kitchen, taking small sips from a hot cup of coffee while scratching her head.

"You're awake," Alex observed.

"How are you?" Aunt Melanie voiced with immense concern for her nephew, even though it would have been obvious to anyone that the only person she should truly have been concerned for was herself.

Aunt Melanie shot Alex a momentary glimpse, but paid no mind to the stray animal in her possession. Either she didn't notice it, or she didn't care.

"I'm fine," replied Alex. "And you?"

Aunt Melanie went over to her dining table.

"Still getting used to the idea." She looked out the window and trailed off. "I won't get to tell her all the things I wanted to say."

A soft purr began from the feline in Alex's arms.

"Where'd you find that cat?" Aunt Melanie asked, her eyes narrowed to a scowl.

"It was on the street," Alex replied.

"Alexandra, you can't just go around picking up strange cats. What if it belongs to someone?"

Alex raised the animal's limp paw. "If it does, I don't think it's going to able to find its home like this."

Aunt Melanie glanced at a sample of the animal's extensive injuries, squirmed at the thought of what it had to have gone through to leave such marks around its body.

"What happened to it?"

"I saw a couple of boys kicking at it."

The mere image of such a thing happening was enough to disarm Alex's aunt.

"We should take it to the vet," she suggested. She pulled her jacket from the hanger in her closet, and off to the vet's they went.

The animal doctor was a man named Doctor Joshua Hockley. Before taking in the cat for treatment, he asked Aunt Melanie why she felt the need to kick the animal around. When both Aunt Melanie and Alex Frost told the doctor that they had simply found it that way, he lowered a suspicious eyebrow and simply remarked with, "That's what they all say."

"It will take us a few days to heal the injuries," he then informed them. "And then we'll send it over to animal services. In the mean time, you would do well to know that animals are living things too."

Once they returned to the apartment, the sky began to turn dark. There was nothing inside the fridge to constitute a dinner (unless they wanted to stuff themselves with yogurt and ice cream), and neither of them would have wanted to cook even if there was. Thus, Alex and Aunt Melanie ordered pizza for the second time.

"I hope the cat gets better," remarked Aunt Melanie.

"Me too," came Alex. Though in actuality, she wasn't sure that she cared either way.

"Did you ever have a pet back in Suburnia?"

"No," she recalled. "Mom didn't like the idea of letting an animal run around the house, and when I asked dad, he told me to go ask mom."

The two laughed. One out of recognition of humor, the other mimicking a gesture she'd learned from seeing happy people.

"So I take it you've always wanted a pet."

Wanted was a strong word, and certainly not one that Alex would have used. Alex wasn't capable of wanting anybody or anything, let alone knowing how to have feelings for a living being.

But Alex Frost did have an interest in animals. Though more as an outside observer than anything else. When she looked into the eyes of a creature, be they mouse, pig, or household pet, a part of her would always wonder what was going on inside their minds. Were they governed only by instinct, or was there something more underneath? Could something as cold-hearted as a snake feel love? Hate? Fear?

"You've grown up since the last time we met," Aunt Melanie pointed out. "I haven't had the chance to say it, but you're very pretty."

"Thanks," said Alex. "You look better now too. More mature."

Aunt Melanie snorted.

"Don't you mean old?"

"No. Older, but not old. You look better."

"Better," Aunt Melanie retorted with guffaw. "The last time we saw each other was at Christmas wasn't it?"

Alex nodded.

"Wow," Aunt Melanie hung her pondering head. "Feels so long ago."

It was more or less five years since last Christmas. And while Aunt Melanie had vague memories of that night, Alex was able to recall every second of it. From what was served in dinner, to the presents that everyone received, and what everyone wore.

"I got you a snow globe," Aunt Melanie thought aloud.

"You did," Alex confirmed.

"It was of the north pole, with a gingerbread house inside."

"Fond memories," Alex said. And for a while Aunt Melanie agreed, as though the thought of their last Christmas celebration was enough to relive the joy. Though not long afterwards, the later events of that very night unraveled also, and she was recalling other memories not so fond. Specifically, the conversation that led to her isolation from Alex's mother.

Alex knew the second the dour expression formed around her face what Aunt Melanie was thinking about. It was not a place she wanted her mind to be, so Alex took it upon herself to change the conversation.

"I just remembered," Alex said after swallowing a bite from her vegetarian combo. "I have to go to school tomorrow, so I was wondering if you could drop me off."

"You sure you don't want to take the rest of the week off?"

At Elsinore, such a suggestion was the equivalent of heresy. A mere one unexcused absence was punishable by detention. And she was sure to receive just that come next morning for today's absence. The consequence of missing an entire week was something that Alex wanted no part of.

"I'm sure."

"It's just that, you haven't really had the time to grieve and to gather yourself."

"I don't need to," Alex said, and she brought her jaw towards the triangular food in her hand for a second bite. "School helps me get my mind off things," she said. But Aunt Melanie clearly didn't understand how that could be so.

"I'm not going to tell you how you should feel about this, or what you should do. But what I am going to say is that this isn't something that you can simply get your mind off of. You're going to have to face what you're going through. Distracting yourself isn't going to work."

The sixteen year old put the pizza down.

"You don't understand," Alex said. "I have to go to school."

"But why?"

And at that, Alex surprisingly found herself stumped for an answer.

"I just do," she said.

Aunt Melanie didn't quite understand, but she conceded the point.

"You know, you're absolutely right. You should deal in whatever way you feel is best. If you want to go to school, I'll take you there tomorrow. Even though I would much prefer it if you stayed here."

"I'll be fine."

"If you say so."

That night when Alex went to sleep on Aunt Melanie's sofa-bed, she thought again about the death of her parents. But her mind wasn't so much on mom and dad as it was on Lord Combermere, the man that killed them.

Why did he do it?

Their deaths flashed onto the surface of her mind. Alex couldn't so much as close her eyes without thinking of all the slashes on their body, all that blood. The first time she'd seen someone dead, and it happened to be the two closest people she knew.

The more she consumed herself with the images invading her, the more she was taken in with a strange, unexplainable sensation. Something she couldn't possibly understand because she'd never experienced it before. It was like a rush of adrenaline, only much more potent.

Her heartbeat raced, her body temperature rose. Beads of sweat escaped from the pores of her skin, and she had to take short, quick breaths of air to calm herself down.

What is happening to me?

Alex's temperature climbed higher and higher until she was dead certain she had a dangerous fever. But Alex had had fevers before. And this was nothing like it. One moment her skin was burning, and another, it was ice cold. She was disoriented. Every move of her aching head weighed at least a ton. As seconds passed, it only grew.

Alex screamed voraciously. She couldn't stop herself. The pain, pain she'd never felt before, was killing her. She screamed until her voice turned sore, and there was nothing coming out of her lips but air.

That was when something began to tug on her shoulders. It was Aunt Melanie, and she was scared half to death.

"Alex!" Aunt Melanie shook the girl awake.

Alex's eyes opened, and the pain was gone. She was drenched in her own sweat, and her temperature was still high. But the pain was gone.

"Everything's alright."

Alex threw herself to her Aunt Melanie, hyperventilating desperately.

"It's okay," Aunt Melanie stroked Alex's hair. "It's okay, it's okay."

Eventually the girl with no soul calmed, and she asked herself the very same question that came from Aunt Melanie's lips only shortly after.

"What happened?"
Chapter 4

I Dream Of Death

In spite of her best efforts, Alex failed to find much sleep. When she wasn't feeling warm and strangely out of breath, she spent her waking hours thinking about why she felt warm and strangely out of breath. When morning came, Alex had to be up an hour and a half earlier than she normally would have so that she could prepare for the hour-long drive back to Suburnia. All in all, Alex could attest to three hours of sleep, probably less. Certainly not more.

When Aunt Melanie's scratched-up Suzuki Vitara approached the campus driveway, it was met with blank stares and cringing faces. The crowd had clearly never seen a vehicle that was worth less than six digits.

"Now I remember why I left this place."

"What?"

"Nothing." Aunt Melanie stretched her hands behind her back and yawned. "Alright. We're here."

"Thanks Aunt Melanie."

"Any time."

Alex stepped out of the car, and as soon as everyone had a good look at her face, they ducked their heads and they immediately began whispering amongst themselves. Before she had even asked for it, a stream of silent murmurs filled the air around her. And there was no question whatsoever that the rest of Suburnia had already heard about the deaths of her parents. And like the neighbors outside her home, they leered at her from the distance as if Alex were a zoo animal, or some kind of contagious mutant, or a girl without a soul.

"Isn't that the girl...?" was how the whispers all began.

"We have a class together," a few other voices would say.

"Do they kn0w who did it?" Some in the crowd let out. And from that point, everyone had answers, theories of their own. It was almost amazing that for all their talk of it, none among them needed to be informed of what it was.

The most surprising of all however, was when she went to class, and when she confessed to her teachers for not having yesterday's homework done. She had the one from the day before, but not the day she missed. Instead of lecturing to her the importance of homework, they all lowered their chins in sympathy and excused her, telling her in fact, that she wouldn't have any homework due for two whole weeks. And to top it off, when out of the blue Alex was sent to the principal's office, she thought it would have been due to her unexcused absence. But no. Instead, Principal McLeary urged her to take the next week off starting with the following Monday. He even gave her back the friendship bracelet that he took from her, telling her something along the lines of how In this hard time, God knows we'll need all the friends we can get.

"Just don't wear it in school," he added. "It's not proper school attire."

"I won't," she assured him.

When Alex went to English class, Mrs. Friedman gave her the exact same treatment that all the other teachers had given her. No homework for two weeks, and she was allowed to see the school counselor at any moment during class if she wanted someone to talk to.

While many would have appreciated the special attention, our girl without a soul, who did any and everything she could to fit in, didn't. In spite of how much effort Alex had put into fitting in, she was now sticking out among her peers like a sore thumb. Her mind was so distracted by her fellow classmates that it took nearly ten minutes in Mrs. Friedman's class to realize that she hadn't seen Amy throughout the entire day.

"Ben," she poked at the boy that sat in front of Amy's abandoned desk. For some indiscernible reason, the boy didn't respond.

"Ben," she tried again, poking and poking and poking and poking until finally he turned around.

"We're not supposed to be talking in class," he told her, flustered. "I got into enough trouble the last time. Please, if you have something to say, wait until class is over."

A reasonable request, Alex supposed. But on the other hand she needed to know where Amy was. And sooner was better than later.

"Ben," she muttered, jabbing the rubber end of her pencil at his side.

"What?" the boy groaned back.

"Where's Amy?"

"I don't know. She's in some kind of trouble last I heard."

"Why?"

"All I know is she didn't show up to school yesterday and today. I don't have to tell you what two absences in a row means."

As a matter of fact, he didn't. Alex Frost had memorized the entire student handbook cover to cover. And on page 314, there was a chapter outlining the consequences for unscholarly behavior both on and off campus. Chief among such punishable offences were the unexcused absences. One absence meant detention, two meant one week of suspension, and three throughout any given semester was as good as an expulsion.

"Amy's getting suspended?" Alex thought aloud in a whisper.

"It seems that way."

"Ben Lindsey!" Mrs. Friedman's wrinkly skin flared. "I thought you learned not to talk during my class."

"It's not my fault," Ben raised himself from his desk. "She was the one that started talking. Don't blame me."

"Child, I would do well to inform you that do-re-mi is a musical tune, not an excuse. See me after class."

Ben sat back down. "Yes ma'am."

* * *

Alex spent the beginning of lunch hour searching for the missing Amy Lawson. When she found her in none of the familiar places, she thought to call her cell phone. But just as she was about to make a call, the device in her hand began to rattle. A text message appeared on Alex's phone. Her screen read "Com C Me. Crtyrd."

The sender was none other than Amy.

On her way to the school's main courtyard, Alex was greeted by waves upon waves of students that had never before had any reason to want to talk to her. In a blind flurry, they came to offer their friendship for what they referred to as The trying days ahead. At first the unwarranted attention sounded like a ruse to have her converted into a religion. Though it became apparent rather quickly that they were simply talking about the inevitable road to recovery from having witnessed the traumatizing deaths of her parents. And that was when she noticed a handful of other students standing together in a corner, murmuring to each other, talking about her in their own private conversations.

"I heard that she was there when it happened," she heard one of the students say.

"I heard that she once mentioned the name of you-know-who," gasped another.

"I heard that her aunt drives a cheap car."

"I heard that she's walking right past us."

"I heard that Emily gained five pounds," one girl told another.

"I heard that!"

Talk of Alex kept on to no end. If this was to go on for much longer, Alex was confident that all her efforts at fitting in would soon be rendered useless, and she would forever be looked down upon in the eyes of her peers with pity.

The courtyard placed at the center of campus was a large stone path a quarter of the size of a soccer field. It was surrounded by newly trimmed grass, shortened shrubs, and at the centermost point of it all was a large decorative water fountain.

On the round-a-bout path encircling the water fountain was a bench where Amy sat by herself. She was plucking flower petals from a pastry pink tulip, letting them fall to the ground.

"Why aren't you at lunch?"Alex went ahead and asked her.

Without taking her focus away from her flower, Amy told her friend, "I hate the school food. You know that better than anyone."

"It's not any worse than normal," Alex justified.

"Probably not." But she didn't make any attempt to take the conversation any further.

"You weren't in class for two days. Ben and I were wondering what happened to you."

"I didn't feel like showing up."

"Why not?"

Rather than answer the question, Amy threw away what was left of the flower.

"I'm not going to class today," she added.

"You're going to be suspended."

"I won't," replied Amy. "My parents excused me. They called the school, told them I had some kind of contagious disease."

"Oh," said Alex. "So what are you doing here?"

"I heard what happened to your parents. And I thought that the least I could do was show up and see how you were doing."

Amy laid a prolonged hug on Alex, fought back a few sniffles when she asked, "Can you walk with me after school today?"

She agreed. And at the moment that school was over, before calling Aunt Melanie to come pick her up, Alex accompanied Amy on her walk back home.

For a few minutes traversing along the rich sidewalks of Suburnia, Alex and Amy said nothing to one another. They were both lost inside their own internal thoughts. With Alex's concerns being namely how different things would become if the rest of Elsinore and Suburnia showered her with special attention for the rest of the semester. It was a bit later that Alex noticed something dark around Amy's neck. It was a large, purple sore.

"What's that?" Alex observed.

Amy pulled up the collar of her uniform. It didn't take a second for her to know what Alex was referring to.

"Nothing," she said. But it was still there. Still visible.

Alex put a hand on hers. "What's wrong?"

Amy looked down. "McLeary gave you back the bracelet," she observed, but came off thoroughly uninterested.

"Amy, what is going on?"

"Let's not talk about it, okay Alex? It's a Friday today," she answered back, accompanied mid-sentence by a sudden shift in tone. Her expression made a 180 degree turn from depressed to jovial in the snap of an invisible finger. As though she were doing her best to convince herself that she was happy. "What say you come over to my house for a bit?"

Curious to know what was troubling Amy, Alex agreed. Together they crossed the street into Anderson Lane and followed it down to Carlson Road. When they arrived at Amy's house, Amy's mother, Mrs. Lawson, was sitting in the kitchen reading an interior design magazine. She flipped the glossy pages with her left hand, and with her right, took sips from a glass of bourbon.

"Alexandra," Mrs. Lawson broke from her reading, utterly surprised to see Alex standing beside Amy.

"Alexandra," she continued, lowered her knees so that her eyes and Alex's eyes were more or less level. "I heard what happened. I am so, so incredibly sorry. Is there anything you need?"

Alex shook No.

"Anything to eat? Drink?"

"No thank you Mrs. Lawson."

"Perhaps a cookie? Or some biscuits? Some juice, maybe?"

"Mom," Amy cut in. "She doesn't want anything."

"Okay. Well, if you change your mind, please let me know."

"I will," responded Alex, and she followed Amy up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Amy," called Mrs. Lawson. "Don't forget to prepare the guest room. Your grandmother is coming tomorrow. I want her to have clean sheets as soon as she arrives."

"I'll get to it," called Amy.

As they went inside, Amy closed the door behind her.

"How have you been dealing?"

"Better than expected," which was a lie. In fact, for a girl without a soul, she was taking this much worse than she had initially expected. Starting with why she felt nothing for her parents in the first place, moving to that strange tingling she'd felt throughout most of last night, to right now, where her mind was currently being occupied with the uneven treatment she'd been receiving in school.

"So the teachers aren't giving you homework for a week?"

"Two, actually. And two weeks off from school should I ever feel the need for skipping a day."

"You should. I can't remember the last time McLeary ever let someone just skip school let alone for two weeks."

Amy slipped off her shoes, and sniffles began pouring out at the sight of the bruises on her ankles. Amy staggered, losing her sense of balance until she fell on the floor, and started to cry.

"Are you alright?"

Alex picked her up. Amy's face was swollen with tears.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen," she whispered into Alex's ear.

And with that, the pieces all came together.

* * *

Alex opened her eyes. The evening light was now in full swing. Amy was lying a on the bed a few centimeters beside her. Tears drenched much of her face, though they'd stopped coming out for close to an hour. The bruise on her neck was much clearer now, in part because she'd taken off the top button of her uniform, and in part because Alex was looking at it up close. It was dark purple, and consumed a large portion of her lower neck.

"You know," Amy spoke softly. "I thought that we could have been something, Tommy and I. When he talked to me, he made me think that he actually understood me, and that he cared." She scrunched, rubbed her eyes. "I went to his party, and," That was all she could muster. Her hands covered her face, and she sobbed helplessly with no signs of stopping.

"Tommy took me away from everyone else. We went out to the park about a minute away, and," more tears returned. "It was just me and him. At first I thought I wanted to, but I didn't, and he made me."

Alex touched Amy's hair, and she straightened the gold strands.

"It's okay," Alex reassured her, emulating Aunt Melanie's method of comforting those with grief to almost near perfection. But for whatever reason, her efforts did nothing to ease Amy Lawson. Not one bit. In fact, she was fairly certain that it only made her cry even more.

At this, Alex wondered if she was doing something wrong.

Amy's enclosed palms were moist. Both from sweat, and having rubbed the tears from her eyes. Her pupils were redder than cherries.

"I hate him," she cursed, her head reaching boiling point. "You have no idea."

"I understand," though in truth, she didn't.

More streaks of tears followed shortly after.

"Someone should put him out of his misery," Amy added.

Alex wasn't aware that Tommy had any misery. In fact, being a star student athlete at Elsinore and an actively social creature, she was fairly sure that he didn't have anything of the sort. But she digressed. Appearances were deceiving after all. She of all people would know.

"Did you tell the police?"

Amy shook.

"And let everyone in town know what happened? About what he did to me?"

"He would go away," Alex said. "He wouldn't be able to hurt you again."

"No. No one can know about this."

"Why not?" asked a curious Alex Frost.

"Would you want everyone in school knowing that about you?!"

Amy's voice was loud and brash. As though she were directing the blame of it all to her inhuman friend.

It was strange seeing Amy Lawson this way. So fragile. Broken. It wasn't like Amy to be this temperamental.

"I'm sorry," Amy said.

"Don't worry about it."

"No. I shouldn't have said that."

"It's alright Amy."

But Amy refused.

"It isn't. It's inexcusable." And then Amy released a sigh.

"I'm not in the best place right now to talk with anyone right now. Maybe you should just go."

"Are you sure?"

A pause. Then, "Yeah."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I will."

* * *

Alone once more, Alex Frost left Carlson Road and crossed the street from Anderson Lane into Cherry Avenue. From there on, she went up a narrow hill until she reached her home. There was no light coming from inside like there usually would have been at this hour. Instead there was a line of yellow police tape strewn from every side of the home's vicinity.

Alex ducked and passed the barrier of police tape, then unlocked the front door with the house key she still had with her. She flickered on the indoor lights, surprised to find that they still worked. She went straight to her room, not surprised to find that there was nobody else there. The carpet was still stained in what was now rotten, dried up blood. And in place of her parents were lines of white tape to mark where they had been when they died.

She placed her hand on the spot of dry blood. It was cold. Any warmth that may have once been in this room, or for that matter, this house, was gone with the souls of Mrs. Dana and Mr. Jason Frost.

Her life was changing before her very eyes, in ways that she could not anticipate or control.

"Hey," someone called from behind her. Alex turned around and saw a man in a police uniform.

"You're not allowed to be here. Hang on a minute. You're that Frost girl."

He stepped closer for a better look, confirmed that he was right.

"You can't be in a place like this."

The policeman ushered her out of the house. He called Aunt Melanie, and they both waited by his patrol vehicle until she finally showed up. It was late at night by then, and Aunt Melanie covered her cold body in a brown overcoat. She apologized to the policeman for the inconvenience. He told her that it wasn't necessary.

"Are you okay?" Aunt Melanie asked Alex once they were both inside her car.

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"I am."

Aunt Melanie turned the engine on, and after a few minutes of driving she turned to the front seat passenger.

"Why did you go there?"

Alex, who was staring out the window, plainly said, "I thought it would make me feel something."

Aunt Melanie, confused, said nothing in return.

"I have no soul," blurted Alex, objective and emotionless.

"Of course you do," retorted Aunt Melanie. "Everyone has a soul."

"I'm not like everyone."

"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean you don't have a soul. What is going on with you Alexandra?"

"It's Alex."

"What?"

"It's Alex," she repeated. "My friends call me Alex."

For some inexplicable reason, Aunt Melanie dropped her sullen mood, almost gleamed right then and there. Alex wondered why, and then it dawned upon her what she'd just implied.

That Aunt Melanie was her friend.

* * *

When they arrived at Wiscott Avenue in Pleasant Grove, it was midnight. Aunt Melanie instructed Alex to go to bed, as she herself was about to do the same.

"I can't sleep," Alex confessed.

"Try to," her aunt told her before the two parted ways. "If nothing else works, read a book. Always works for me. In fact, I went to a bookstore today." She pointed to a stack of novels on top of her coffee table. "They were practically giving these things away. Maybe a bit of bed time reading will help you out."

Alex noted the suggestion.

"Thanks." And she promptly began scanning over four paperbacks.

"Don't mention it. Sleep tight."

And with that, Aunt Melanie disappeared inside her room, droopy-eyed, shoulders sagging. Alex heard the door to her room gently close.

Alex's thoughts went back and back to the deaths of her parents until an overwhelming migraine stole her senses, causing her to crash on the living room bed. The vibration from her bodyweight against the mattress echoed throughout the room. Vision turned hazy, and whatever sound she heard, she heard as though it were coming from a mile away. She closed her eyes, and took herself back to her house, on the day and scene of her parents' deaths. From there, she could see Lord Combermere staring down at her mother and father in deep fascination, drawing long, relaxed breaths as he let out a perverse smile. His upper lip rolled up, revealing a set of yellow, shark-like teeth. Dressed entirely in black, he remained like a shadow in the afternoon. He had neither smile nor frown lines burned on his cheeks below his lips save for the lines of age. It was as though throughout his entire life, he hadn't done either enough times to leave a mark.

Then, like thunder jolting from a darkened cloud, it struck her.

Lord Combermere took in nothing from the murder of her parents but gross satisfaction. Satisfaction, a smile running from ear to ear, even though he didn't have a soul.

Alex had been far too preoccupied to sleep, so she read. Of the four books in the tiny living room, the one that piqued her immediate attention was a wrinkled copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It was a story that she knew well.

The tale of Jekyll and Hyde was about a man with a double personality. One who loved people and all things humanly considered good. And another, a darker being who surfaced at nights for no other reason than to cause mayhem. Not out of survival, revenge, or anger, but pleasure. He gained joy from doing the ravenous things he did.

Just like Lord Combermere. A man who, like her, did not contain a soul.

But if that was the case, did that mean then that Alex Frost was just like Lord Henry Combermere? Could she find joy in the same demented things that granted his heart emotions? The capacity to feel?

She lowered her spine against the mattress of her bed, thought of Tommy Hargrave, and a glowing bulb hung over her head.

Only one way to find out.
Chapter 5

The Virgin Alex

Most of us are born with the innate ability to tell when something is right, and when something is wrong. As human beings, we know what acts are to be considered moral, and what acts, immoral. Typically, participating in activities that promote life and peace are considered moral, while acts such as flinging mice in a dungeon are considered immoral.

If Alex Frost was like most of us, she would not have even contemplated the idea that was running loose inside her head. But as either fate, destiny, God, or Ringo Starr would have it, the protagonist of our tale had no moral compass to guide her through what was good, evil, moral, immoral. And so all throughout last night, Alex conceived, contemplated, planned, and prepared for the impending crime she was about to commit. Come morning, before the sun was up, she was.

At precisely three o'clock, she snuck out of bed, took Aunt Melanie's car keys, and tip-toed out the front door. With her was a cutting knife she'd acquired from the knife cabinet in the kitchen, a tool with which to fulfill her devilish deed.

She made it down to the ground level of the apartment parking lot, where residents and visitors alike kept their vehicles during their stay at Wiscott Avenue. After scanning through the lot of parked cars and motorcycles, she saw Aunt Melanie's Suzuki Vitara at its designated spot. She opened the front door of the vehicle and climbed inside.

Despite not having a license, Alex was well-learned in the sacred ways of driving a car. For that, she had her caring father to thank.

There was once a time during Alex's fifteenth year when her father took the time off from his weekend to teach her how to drive. It was something he decided to do because he knew that sooner or later he would have to anyway, but more importantly because it was one of the few ways he knew to connect with his emotionless daughter. During one dry afternoon, when the weather was safe to drive, father Jason Frost took Alex to an empty lot, where there was more than ample space for his ill-experienced daughter to crudely steer the wheels of his expensive but financially replaceable BMW.

At first, the daughter without a soul struggled with the controls, struggled with navigation, and she nearly smashed against a wall. While her father shared the same concerns that a father sitting next to an inexperienced daughter would have, he couldn't deny the bit of joy he felt over seeing his girl, ever-so-cold and calculated, fumble over something as simple as operating a car. For the father of the girl without a soul, there was gratification to be found in such a thing. Whenever she asked him questions, he would experience a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach.

Mr. Frost enjoyed every second of the experience, especially since it was an experience short-lived. Within that same afternoon, Alex Frost mastered every aspect of driving a car, and he had nothing left to teach on the matter.

Given that Alex had the necessary talent to drive, she avoided having twelve or so things wrong with her plan, and came down to only two. One, was that she'd only driven an automatic gear shift, and Aunt Melanie's Suzuki Vitara had a manual transmission. Second and more important, was that never before had she driven Aunt Melanie's second-hand, first generation car.

When she started the engine, she was surprised to find out just how much effort it took simply to take it out of the parking lot. Wear and tear had made the machine unsynced and hard to maneuver. The pedals on Aunt Melanie's Vitara were loose, taking much more pressure to accelerate and brake than it should have. However, as the drive was at least an hour away, she knew she would have more than a bit of back roads driving ahead of her to adjust. And so as she set off to her hometown of Suburnia, adjust she did.

The roads were simple enough. Alex took to the same streets and crossings that Aunt Melanie made when she drove her to and fro from Suburnia to Pleasant Grove. She was careful to obey the street traffic and speed signs precisely to the letter. After all the time she had spent last night planning the moments ahead, it would have been a shame for it all to fall apart on account of a law-abiding policeman, and on account of her not having a driver's license.

She reached a long stretch of road where the speed limit was 65 mph. In spite of her unquestioning obedience to her traffic overlords, 65 mph, which seemed fine for her, was apparently not for everyone else that was on her tail. Cars of various types, brands, and sizes swept to lanes beside her only to soon show up in front, passing her by at least 20 extra miles per hour. This seemed to be a very popular trend for those driving behind her.

Alex decided to maintain her speed in spite of the many cars that began to systematically cut in front of her. The last thing she wanted was to anger the traffic overlords of Great Britain. However, it occurred to her also that often more important than the speed limit was the flow of traffic. If she wanted to fit in with the rest of the cars, avoid standing out for being too slow, she was going to have to speed up. After all, wasn't that who the police looked for? People that stood out?

Warily, she stepped on the pedal, stiffened control of the wheel, shifted her attention from the road to the speed dial as it climbed to 70, 80, and finally, 85. The longer she drove, the more natural it came to her. In amazingly short time she mastered her control of the steering wheel. Her turns were on point without being too drastic or too slow. Her steering was so smooth it was as though she was gliding over the road rather than running on it.

The time on the dashboard read 4:42. If the hunter was going to catch up to its prey, she was going to have to hurry.

* * *

The morning routine of Tommy Hargrave went as follows. Every five A.M, when the O'Mallery Park in Suburnia was empty, he would jog for three and a half miles at a rate of six miles per hour. Unlike most his friends who typically ran in groups each morning, Tommy liked to run alone because it allowed him the peace and solitude to think. About life, nature, people, whatever topics interested or troubled him. Five o'clock was his hour of Zen. And for someone who spent as much time with people as he did, it came as something of a relief to have an hour with nothing but the sound of nature and his own internal monologue.

Rain had started to hit Suburnia from the morning hour of four, and was predicted to go for as long as the entire afternoon. Tommy welcomed every second of it. The warm steam of sweat on his clothes was suppressed by the chill pellets of rainwater, making running in the rain significantly easier than on any other occasion.

On his regular runs, he would wear as he did today a long pair of track pants, and on cold and rainy mornings such as this, a fleece jacket to cover his body. He jogged idly along the lonely trail clad in blue, admiring the natural beauty that remained around him, not knowing that in a manner of minutes, blue wasn't the only color he would be wearing.

Waiting several yards ahead of him was young Alex Frost with her back against a tree, its bark wide enough to cover her shape. Her clothes were quickly getting soaked from all the heavy rain. She wanted to move to a drier area beside her, where a few elongated branches blocked the pour of water. But Alex dared not move. In order to tell where Tommy Hargrave was and at the same time not give away her location, she had to remain absolutely silent and pay careful mind to the sound of his feet on the ground as they stomped in a distinct pattern. Left foot, half a second, right foot, half a second, left foot. So on and so forth. She ran her thumb along the pointiest tip of her blade. It was so dangerously sharp that she didn't even feel the knife as it pinched the outer layer of her thumb.

Alex reconsidered what she was about to do, pondered it over. Rather than question the moral implications, her focus remained on the chance of her success. Alex had never done anything like this before. There was no guarantee that all or even any of this would go as planned. And if she failed, she knew full well that she wouldn't have a second chance. Her life would be over in the blink of an eye.

In the end, even with the consequences in mind, Alex was dead set on what she was about to do. She forced away the negative thoughts, kept her attention undivided on the hunt.

He was closer now. She could feel the heated sweat pouring out of him, his voiceless breaths of air, short and steady. All she had to do was remain calm and focused. And while for any normal person this would have induced volumes of fear and stress, for our girl without a soul, it was no task at all. She remained calculated. She knew what she was going to do, and the thought of it didn't leave the slightest hint of trepidation.

Tommy quickly passed the other end of the tree, and he came into view. Alex caught a glimpse of his hooded face, then vaulted, knife behind her back.

As he watched her suddenly appear in his line of sight, Tommy flinched, immediately stopped running. He had so little time to register her that by the time he noticed the knife, it was already inside his chest.

"Aagh!" Tommy yelled, more out of horror of what was happening than the pain that accompanied it.

He squirmed, but made no effort to move or run away. Tommy was dazed, as if he couldn't believe what was going on even with the six inch pinch on his torso. Alex controlled him via the handle sticking out from his chest. She forced him to a steady row of trees and bushes for cover. He swore, but complied obediently for no other reason than to limit the stinging affliction that was coursing through his insides. He raised his lips, tried to replace his screams with coherent words.

Why are you doing this? He wanted to shriek. But before he had the chance, she unsheathed the knife and plunged it again. A mess of blood splashed on her hands, and some of it got on her clothes.

"What are you doing?!" Tommy squirmed, his yelling only getting louder until Alex finally decided to end him with a slash to his throat. At that point, all that came out of his mouth was his own blood. Judging by the way his throat gasped for air, his lungs were drowning in its nearly endless supply. With five continuous stab wounds placed chaotically over his upper body and one slit throat, Tommy gave up and fell on his own accord.

As soon as the now-dead Tommy hit the soil covered ground, Alex waited for something to happen. Anything to indicate whether she took any joy over what she had done.

Just then, a slight tickle began to bloom inside her. Faint, but for the girl whose inner core has always been empty, noticeable. She couldn't know what was happening, for she had never felt it before. She had never felt, before.

At that instant, what little thing was swirling inside came to grow, expand into her senses. Alex felt the rain pouring over her in tiny pellets, and she liked it.

She.

Liked.

It.

The girl took a breath of air, blinked her eyes, and the world started to change.

Blood covered half her hands in red. A liquid warmth radiating an otherwise cold body. The deep and bitter smell of copper seeped thick into her nose. And like one that adorns the smell of gasoline, or a child that clings to the scent of sweets, Alex absorbed the salty smell with glee.

The odor mixed with the profound aroma of newly wet trees. Nature pervaded her senses. And aside from the steady rumbling of bushes in the cold winter breeze, there was nothing to listen to but the wind and the mindless droning of crickets. Such a calm and healing place. The isolation of it all was nothing short of breath-taking.

"Ah."

Breath-taking. A phrase that she only now began to understand. She closed her eyes, released herself and let the rush of life fill inside her. Alex stretched her lips until she was smiling. Not the fake, diplomatic smile that she'd gotten so used to plastering on her face when the need arose. This was real.

For the first time ever, our girl without a soul could feel. And the first thing she felt with her newfound ability, was alive. For the first time in her life, Alex knew what it meant to be taken in with pleasure. If she had things her way, she swore that pleasure would be all she ever felt. What went in and out of her was a high unlike any other. One that sent her spirit floating high up the sky, basking in its own weightlessness.

Eternal bliss.

Unfortunately, as we all know, nothing, not even air, is weightless. Everything gold can't stay, and what goes up must come down. And so slowly but surely, Alex's floating energy feathered back down, and the steady stream of joy subsided. Sooner than she'd wished for it, Alex was back to her soulless, cold hearted self. She no longer understood what had gotten into her. Feelings vanished, and the void came back. The rain no longer mattered. The smell of blood, of nature, no longer mattered.

* * *

As Alex climbed into Aunt Melanie's vehicle parked three blocks away from O'Mallery Park, she drove off, back to Pleasant Grove where Aunt Melanie would think she'd been asleep all this time.

The fact of the matter was that Alex hadn't slept before her hunt. What was worse, she hadn't slept in nearly two days. Because of this, she drove down the back roads of Suburnia while battling for control over her sagging eyelids. With no coffee or stimulant to keep her awake, the effort was proving to be something of a struggle. It was harder yet since she had to stare monotonously at the road.

Her vision hazed, and when she yawned, tears covered her eyes, obstructing her view of the road just long enough to barely realize she'd been driving on the wrong lane, and a car was coming straight towards her. As soon as she realized it, Alex made a rigid swerve that caused her left tires to squeal, and she was pushed further by the rain on the moist gravel. By mere centimeters she missed the approaching vehicle ahead. The other driver, though glad to have avoided a catastrophe, honked furiously at his vehicle's horn before speeding away.

By this point, Alex was losing her fight against unconsciousness. It was hopeless. She parked the Suzuki Vitara by a curb, knowing that if she went on, the only way her drive would have ended was in an accident. And now more than before, she couldn't afford the extra attention. Not with a knife previously marked with blood in her possession, and the blood's owner stabbed to death in a nearby park.

The engine flickered off. Alex promised herself that for half an hour, she would squeeze in a brief power nap. Half an hour. Not a second longer.

With that, she pulled back the driver's seat, closed her eyes, and consciousness faded away.

Sunlight irritated her eyelids. By the time they flew wide open, she discovered with much uncertainty that she was back in Wiscott Avenue, and that she was resting on Aunt Melanie's sofa bed. It was four o'clock in the late afternoon, and she was wearing the same school uniform she wore last night. Aunt Melanie, who usually woke up hours after her, was now up on her feet eating a deli sandwich as she watched her television.

"You're up," Aunt Melanie pointed out in a congratulatory manner.

Alex rubbed her eyes. Once she was able to process where she was, she jolted.

"Good dreams?" asked Aunt Melanie.

"Dreams?" Alex scoffed. She looked around her one more time. She wasn't supposed to be here, not yet. She was supposed to be inside a car, coming out of a quick nap. There was no possible way that she could have been where she thought she was now.

That was, unless what had happened earlier in the day was nothing more than a dream.

Impossible.

The death of Tommy Hargrave had been too real to be just a dream, especially when she'd never dreamed a day in her life.

Among the laundry list of disabilities that came with being born without a soul, the inability to dream was one of them. When she slept, the whole world became nothing more than a blank slate of emptiness. No subconscious metaphors, no visions. Dreaming of plunging a knife into Tommy Hargrave would have been a first. And if so, she didn't appreciate the mental deception.

Alex pulled the comforter away from her body, and she examined every inch of herself. Her clothes were completely dry. Her hands were clean of blood, and the knife that she thought she'd killed Tommy Hargrave with was stacked on the knife holder in the kitchen. Any proof she might have had to his death was locked inside her mind.

But if all it was was a dream, then on the one hand, she was safe. It didn't take one with a soul to be relieved not to have been caught sleeping in a stolen car. Either by Aunt Melanie, or worse, the police.

Then again, if it was all a figment of her own imagination, then Amy had already spoken to the police hours ago, and at any moment, she would be confronted by Tommy Hargrave's criminal prosecutor father. He would threaten her, make her and her parents leave Elsinore and Suburnia. And if Amy was as stubborn as Alex knew she was, she and they (her family) would surely face dire consequences of the legal and/or illegal variety.

Alex put on her black shoes beside her aunt's sofa bed. Immediately as she did, she noticed that they looked cleaner than they had since the last time she polished them. The toes shined as if brand new, and the laces were tied differently, now much tighter. Why? She asked herself, but thought nothing more of it. Her only conjecture was that Aunt Melanie had cleaned her shoes while she was asleep.

"Thanks," said Alex.

Aunt Melanie took in her thanks with much appreciation, but she also tilted her head

"Thanks for what?"

"You shined my shoes," came Alex.

"No I didn't. Weren't they always like that?"

Alex looked to her leather-clad feet once again, this time dubiously.

"No," she gave an ominous whisper. The recent polish, which was so clean she could see her face in its reflection, was now coming off as more than a bit unsettling. In fact, the last she saw of them was in her dream, and they were both soaked in mud and water from the moment she killed Tommy Hargrave. It was mind-boggling how her shoes were not only shinier than they'd been in her supposed dream, but also more preserved than they'd ever been during months of continuous wear.

She searched the confines of her head for answers. Little did she know however, that the answers were not in her head, but on the television that had Aunt Melanie's eyes glued.

"A recent tragedy at upstate Haverbrook, Suburnia," spoke a tiny woman with a red set of hair on the television screen. "A boy has been found recently murdered at the O'Mallery Park. Police have identified him as Tommy Hargrave, a student at the Elsinore Academy. The assailant of this crime is as of yet unknown. The authorities say they have no leads."

The screen soon turned to the local police chief, a young woman with beady eyes and tanned skin. Her hands were clutched on a podium, speaking to a large crowd of reporters all trying to stab her with microphones, some even trying to blind her with the flashes of their cameras.

"I assure the parents of Tommy Hargrave, and the people of Suburnia, that we will find whoever is responsible for this, and we will bring them to the justice that they deserve. Let it be known that it will be the top priority of the Suburnian police to find the culprit, and to ensure that nothing like this ever happens again to anybody else. Until that time, it is important for parents to keep their children safe, and to know where they are at all times. Thank you. I will not be taking any questions."

The young police chief stepped off the podium, and the air around it flooded with incessant questions.

So there it was. Tommy Hargrave was dead, and she was the very culprit that the police chief had been referring to. That was all the proof she needed. The things she saw and did were far more than a dream, the experience, more than a trick of the mind. But that would mean that what she'd felt was real. The emotions that teemed inside really were her own.

Of the many questions that lingered, none stood out more than the question of what occurred afterwards. If what had happened was real, then what else did she do? How did she get from Aunt Melanie's Suzuki Vitara parked a few blocks away from O'Mallery Park, to Aunt Melanie's apartment? And how could she explain the current condition of her shoes?

Upon scratching her shoulders, she noticed something curious hidden inside the left breast pocket of her collar shirt. She reached inside the pocket and fished it out.

It was a note folded twice. Written in black ink on the center were a few letters marked in an elaborate cursive handwriting. Alex held the paper close to her face. The challenge wasn't in reading it, but in making sense of what she saw with her own two eyes.

Come see me now

-Lord Henry Combermere

"What's that?" asked Aunt Melanie, glancing over at the sheet of paper.

"Nothing," Alex shoved it back down her pocket. "Just my homework list."

"Ah," Aunt Melanie nodded her head in approval. "Do you get a lot of homework from Elsinore?"

"About two hours' worth each day. Sometimes more."

"That's a lot," Aunt Melanie was sure to inform her, and she believed it too. "Most kids in this neighborhood don't get much more than forty five minutes."

"Strange."

Aunt Melanie bursted into laughter.

"Suburnia," she justified. "Now that's strange."

"How do you mean?"

Aune Melanie gave her niece a fascinated glance.

"The rest of the world is not like Suburnia. The schools aren't near as fancy. For every mansion, there's a plethora of cities just like this. Some people, in this very country no less, can hardly afford to live in a single room apartment. Every time I volunteer at the shelter, there are starving kids looking to get by on just two meals a day. And yet when I was growing up in Suburnia, all people ever talked about was who had more money to spend."

"Well, that much hasn't changed," shared Alex.

"Of course not. Oh," and this steered the conversation into an entirely different topic. "Mr. Litter called. We have to go to Suburnia to see him. So if you're wide awake, maybe we can drive over there now."

"Sure thing. I have to meet someone back home anyway."

"Who?"

"A school friend," she lied.

"Great. I'll drive you after we're done with Mr. Litter."

* * *

Mr. Alfred Danesworth Litter was a man known by many names. To the Frost family, he was known simply as the Frost family attorney. To a long-time musician idol who he had the fortune of meeting, he was known as The idiot whole stole my guitar! And to the British Secret Services, he was more notoriously known as Paco, The Bandit Who Went Into Hiding.

He was a short, pudgy man with extremely round features that started from his protruding belly, his oval-shaped face, his puffy cheeks, to the round rims on his glasses, and the curved bowler hat he would wear whenever he walked outside.

As Aunt Melanie and Alex Frost entered Paco's, er, Mr. Alfred Litter's office, they caught the man shoveling papers inside an expensive, leather briefcase. He had ten automatic shredders in the room, and they were all busy slicing loads of papers into thin, illegible strips.

"Mr. Litter?" Ms. Melanie Joyce called on top of all the mechanical humming that filled the room. Not noticing who it was, he jumped at the voice. His entire body was drenched in sweat. When he turned around and saw Ms. Melanie and Alex Frost standing idly by the doorway, a glowing smile radiated his face. As though he was glad it was them he was seeing, and not someone else.

"Melanie," he cheered. "It has been far too long."

Aunt Melanie smiled. "Thank you."

"Look at you. You're all grown up. I remember seeing you and Dana when you were just children. Gosh, seems as though that moment went by just the other day."

"You look good too," complimented the aunt, though she was overpowered by the noise of the ten high power shredders.

"What?"

"I said you're looking good too."

"What?"

"I said you're...why don't you turn off the machines?

"What?"

It was hopeless. With all the noise that took over the office, Aunt Melanie was surprised that she could even hear her own voice. She walked up to the shredding devices and on her own accord, she turned them off.

"There."

Mr. Litter observed the silence. "Wow," he said to himself. "It's so quiet."

"You're the same as I always remembered you. Busy busy busy. I only hope that at least half of your clients appreciate just how much you do for them."

At this, he skeptically raised his eyebrows. "Yes. . .clients. Please, sit." With his open palm, he pointed at two chairs on the other side of his desk.

"I assume you know why we're here," came Aunt Melanie.

Mr. Litter stared blankly. "No. I don't think I do."

It was Aunt Melanie's turn at blankness. For a few unmitigated seconds, the two eyed each other in confusion. Then, sooner than another word could have been uttered, it raced back to him.

"That's right. The Frost estate. That's why I called you this morning."

"Bingo," Alex cut in.

"You know Bingo?"

"What?"

"Nothing." Mr. Litter searched through a stack of folders on his desk, stopped at the last one. "There it is." He ran his spectacles over the first sheet of paper. "Okay. It says here that the Frost residence on 441 Addison Avenue is to go to the first heir. And since Alexandra is the first and only heir, naturally, the property as well as the family's financial fortune goes to her name. Since you had your name stricken from the will," he spoke to Aunt Melanie. "The inheritance doesn't go to you, but solely to your niece. Should Alexandra need to enter into a binding contract for whatever reason, she must appoint a legal guardian to sign on her behalf."

"I understand," Aunt Melanie said in agreement.

"So can we go to the house?" asked Alex.

"Ah. That. I took the liberty of calling the police. They informed me that they would like to keep their access to the house until next week at most. Not to badmouth, but I have never seen a more incompetent police force in my life." He chortled. "And I would know."

Much to his own embarrassment, Mr. Litter's sense of humor was met with only the breath of dead air. Neither Alex nor Ms. Melanie knew the full context of what he was saying. Realizing his faux pas, he reached his hand across the table over to Alex. "I'm sure they'll find the monster that did this."

"Thank you," came Alex.

"Is that everything?"

"Yes," said Mr. Litter. "I'll need you two to sign a few documents, and when the police are done doing whatever it is they do, you can have the house back. Oh, and before I forget, I came across a few receipts from a storage space rented by Dana Frost."

"A storage space?" Aunt Melanie narrowed her eyes.

"I've got it covered. I'll have the things from the space delivered to the home address. That is, unless you want to continue renting it."

"No. Just send the things over thanks."

"So," Mr. Litter got up, activated one of the ten shredding machines in his office. He began systematically feeding it with official paper documents. "Tell me Melanie. Do you plan on moving back to Suburnia?"

"I don't know," she replied.

"The place hasn't been the same without you."

"Please. All I ever did was complain and make everyone feel uncomfortable."

"Like I said. Hasn't been the same. Besides, doesn't Alexandra go to school here?"

"We'll see what we decide."

"Alright. Well, in the mean time, I've got a few documents that need some signatures."

The signing process took all of about five minutes. Once done, Aunt Melanie grabbed a newspaper from Mr. Litter's office. He offered it to her under the condition that "If anyone comes asking for me, you tell them I wasn't here."

She nodded in agreement and took the chance to ask him what was wrong.

"Just some legal hullabaloo," he waved away. "Nothing to worry about."

They bid each other a good day. Alex and Aunt Melanie took their leave to the parking space just outside his office. Before she kicked the engine, Aunt Melanie asked Alex if there was any place she needed to be while they were still in Suburnia.

"There's someone I need to see," young Alex Frost answered back. She padded the note on her breast pocket to make sure it was still there. And in the back of her restrained, objective mind, she hoped what she was about to do was the right thing.
Chapter 6

Look Through The Seeing Eye

For sixteen long and fruitful years

There lived a girl named Alex Frost

Unlike her fellow Elsinore peers

She was a human being, morally lost

Neither good nor bad had any meaning

She had been born devoid of feeling

So when her parents died on a fateful day

About three months away from May

Alex didn't worry nor did she cry

She sought their killer

To find out why

His name was Lord Henry Combermere

He resided in a lonely tower

The people below regarded him with fear

Any who mentioned his name did so with a cower

But as Alex waited on his rotten doorsteps

There was not an ounce of agitation

No trepidation, no consternation

Only the expectation

That if he hadn't killed her before

Her life, he would allow

And with that she waited for what was in store

Behind the note that told, "Come see me now"

In Suburnia, the phrase It's always greener on the other side is one seldom understood by its upper crest citizens. Because in Suburnia, everything that was meant to be green was. All equally so, and so much to the point that if things were any greener, they'd be an altogether different color.

To the poor and the middle class who on occasion have to resort to such activities as saving money, the notion of things being greener on the other side is one that makes ample amount of sense. This is because people who can't afford to hire gardeners are forced to tend to their lawns entirely on their own (if you can believe it), and some of them don't even use professional grade growth stimulants (these people exist I assure you). In these places, a neighbor's yard would always look greener than those surrounding his (or hers) because he (or she) would take good care of it on a daily basis while his (or her) neighbor, for whatever reason, wouldn't. Therefore, a lazy man with no concern for the well-being of his own front yard would complain that the grass is always greener on the other side because while his neighbors watched over their lawns, he would do nothing about his. Or a man who tends to his lawn might say that the grass is greener on the other side when he finds his neighbor donating more time and labor to keep his side of the grass as green as green can be.

But up in the desolate hill where Lord Henry Combermere presided, nothing could have been greener, because there was nothing green on the other side to begin with. The grass was dead, yellow, and dry. The only surrounding life forms were the scavengers that circled high above the tall house, and even they seemed weak and on the verge of collapse.

The outside of the Combermere estate was colored in pitch black. Pieces of wood crumpled around the farthest edges of its foundations. Some of the windows had glass missing, but it was impossible to see beyond it due to the heavy black curtains blocking the view inside. The unkempt nature of the home gave an ebb of abandonment. And in a great many ways, it was. For in much the same way, no one had attended to the home's much needed repairs, nor cared for the well being of the surrounding greenery. The years of cold neglect had aged the Combermere estate horribly.

When Alex pushed the call button beside the door, it didn't seem to do anything. Not only was the button incredibly stiff, but the other side was completely silent, and nobody responded.

She tapped on the front door with her knuckle. As it barely touched the surface, the door creaked slightly ajar.

"Hello?" she called inside. But no response.

"Hello?" she tried once more. Still nothing.

Alex stepped inside, pushed the door farther away. Loud creaks came from the hinges until the door stopped against a wall. Her first step inside was on hardwood floor riddled with dust. As a matter of fact, the further along she went, the more dust she found lying about in the Combermere estate. All except on certain areas of the walls that once housed portraits. There, the dust hadn't yet seeped in, leaving box-shaped areas whiter than the rest of the walls.

The tower's relative emptiness gave the illusion of being larger than it actually was. Aside from a few commodes decorated on the hallway, large vases with dead flowers, there were tables and shelves stacked with lots and lots of old books. A great number of them had to do with law, both civil and criminal. The rest were of either anthropological subject matters, or those related with psychology.

She observed the various titles that ran along the spines of each piece of literature. She recalled that Lord Combermere had been a lawyer at one point in time. So it was only appropriate that he had more than several shelves in his study of almost every conceivable topic regarding British law. Yet as a result, the study felt like less like a private study and more like an archive. A place where people went to check out reference books for possible research.

Being a curious girl by nature, Alex wanted to read them all for the sole purpose of learning things she didn't already know. If Alex could have been said to have any genuine connection with anything, it would have had to have been with books. For inside the pages of literature lied something that Alex had always had a crave for; knowledge. However, as of the moment, books were her least pressing concern. The knowledge she sought wasn't one that was written in any book except the one before you, dear reader. This very book detailing the life of Alex Frost. And how odd would it have been for our girl without a soul to stumble across a copy? That would only raise so many questions about existentialism I don't even want to ask.

After a few minutes searching the first floor of the tall building, Alex started to doubt that he was even home in the first place.

"Hello?"

Dead silence.

Alex came upon a stairwell that went five floors up. As she climbed up the flights, her feet gave the wooden treads a loud squeak. One that echoed around the shallow, elevating halls. The stairs formed a steady circle, making it so that by the time she reached the sixth floor, her head was fuzzy and disoriented.

Alex made her way around, cautiously, silently. However, with the way that the floor scratched and screeched, she might as well have been singing as she walked.

The floor that had the most amount of lights was also the highest. Sun came in through the glass windows of the sixth floor, and even though they were all infested with gunk and mildew, they revealed almost every nook and cranny in the area.

She wandered along the narrow corridors, stopped when she found a large room with a wall composed entirely of glass and wooden grids. There, the outside luminance shone extensively. The floorboards glowed under a bright yellow aura. As she came closer, the scenery outside revealed an unmitigated view of Suburnia. Every corner of the town's border had become visible to her naked eyes. From where she stood, Alex could even see her own neighborhood, her own home. Though from this distance, it was hard to make out solid details.

Directly beside the wall-sized window was a telescope, its outer body composed of golden brass. It stood on tripod legs, its optical tube facing downwards.

"You came."

Alex spun around instinctively. There, standing by the entryway of the room from where she had just come, was a figure whose pale features were only accentuated by the sun's glare. The glint on his monocle made him appear half man, half sun god.

She made him out clearer now than she did when he was standing over her dead parents. His nose was long and pointy, and there sat a mole atop the left corner of his lip as black as night. A long, dark overcoat covered his arms while gloves covered his hands. Enclosed in his right palm was the handle of a short, triangular knife, its serrated blade glistening shamelessly.

"Why?" Lord Combermere asked, interested, but cautious.

"You helped me. Why?"

"I asked first," he shot, faking frustration as he spoke. She could tell right as he added the inflection on his voice that his tone was manufactured. She'd heard people speak with disgruntled voices many times before. His delivery was a barely passable imitation. This brought her to the conclusion that he was trying to intimidate her, to scare her. Maybe to test and see if she was what he expected. The more that Alex questioned his actions, the more Lord Combermere was starting to seem a skeptical, perhaps suspicious man.

"I came here, because I wanted some answers. Starting with why you killed my parents."

Alex didn't bother masking her indifference as she said this. To people of the normal variety, her tone would have been considered strange and bereft of humanity. But to the bald man in front of her, it was an important step at disarming him. She had to let him know that she was what he thought she was, and not something else. He was holding onto the knife because he wasn't entirely sure he could trust her yet. It was a test. And like all tests, this one had a condition. If she satisfied him, he would allow her to live, possibly answer her deep-seated questions while he was at it. If she said anything to set him on edge, then chances were high that along with her parents, he would have soon killed her too.

"And I helped you, because I have a feeling that you and I have something in common."

Alex didn't deny it, nor did she think it wise to do so even if she disagreed.

"I've been curious about you ever since three days ago," Lord Combermere continued. By three days ago, he had obviously meant the day since he murdered her mother and father. "I saw you kill that boy," he tapped his telescope twice, the gesture telling her This is how I saw you kill that boy. "Absolutely sloppy work. Did you even know who he was?"

"Tommy Hargrave," she replied after she briefly considered denying it.

"Son of Jonas Hargave. You're in big trouble if he ever finds out."

"You know him?"

"Of course I know him. He and I used to work at the same law firm before he moved on to become criminal prosecutor for the state." He paused. "Absolutely ruthless man. Tell me. Why did you kill his son?"

"Amy," was all she let out. But rather than satisfy his inquisitive mood, it left Lord Combermere confused. Alex took in a deep breath before she spoke again.

"Tommy Hargrave hurt someone I know. She was going to tell the police. I couldn't let her, because I knew that if she did, Tommy's father would have destroyed her life."

Lord Combermere simpered, somehow as though he were pleased.

"You are right. Jonas Hargrave is a very powerful man. And he would have done anything within that power to stop the truth from getting out. For that boy, he would have turned the earth, and destroyed anyone that stood in his way. He has, too. You did your friend a great benefit. But that's not why you killed him."

Alex considered how exactly she was going to put it all in words. "I wanted to know how it would feel," was how she started. The rest spoke itself.

At the end of telling him how she'd felt after seeing her first dead body, the sensations that coursed through her as she killed her first human being, Lord Combermere was two things. Surprised, and satisfied.

"So, you liked it?"

Alex, who had never liked anything before in her life, hesitated to answer. But surely enough she did, and did so with a single nod.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do I..." but she couldn't finish the thought.

"You mean, why do you like it?" He approached her, hid the knife inside the overcoat's pocket. "You like it, because it's in your nature." He ran his gloved hand along her cheeks. "For too long, you've been conditioned to wear that mask. And now, after all this time, you're finally growing up, taking control of everything around you." He pointed his hand to the enormous window before them. "The world is your oyster, and you can do whatever you want to it no matter what it is. That first kill is just a taste of many more to come."

It sounded absurd. But after she clenched her mind on the notion, held it in place long enough, somehow, sense began to eek out. It was true that Alex had conditioned herself to be something that she wasn't for the sole purpose of society. What was hard to believe was the idea that the desire to kill was in her nature, something given to her since birth. Was Lord Combermere the same way?

"Is that why you killed my parents?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Are you?"

Lord Combermere dropped the formality, and with it, the artificial grin that had been plastered on his face.

"No. I suppose not."

"Why didn't," she started, and with a bit of delay, "You kill me?"

"The same reason you didn't report me to the police when you had the chance. So that we both could have this moment." He looked out the window, pointed at the residences of Suburnia through the glass pane." I suppose that like everybody down there you know full well who I am."

"That's right. I do."

"And you, I suppose, are Alexandra Frost. I've been reading your name a lot in the newspapers lately."

"How long have you been doing this?" Alex, without knowing it, reverted the conversation back to Lord Combermere.

He turned his body, looked her square in the eye. "Ever since I was your age."

"And you haven't been caught," Alex observed.

"I've had years to guide me," he said. "To perfect what I do. With a bit of instinct, I've been able to evade capture and suspicion for all this time. Unfortunately, I am getting old." He needn't point to his face to prove the point. But he did so regardless, solely for the purpose of emphasis. "Nowadays, what I do gets harder and harder each week. Your parents was my worst performance thus far. It's only bound to get worse."

"So why don't you stop?"

"I can't. And soon you'll find, neither can you."

But Alex rejected the idea. "You don't know me to say for sure."

"I wouldn't presume to think so," Lord Combermere replied. "But after all those years existing without emotion and finally having your first taste of it, would you truly deny yourself the chance to feel alive?"

Alex had to admit at least to herself that not only had she enjoyed killing Tommy Hargrave, but she was also beginning to miss the experience. Even though it happened only earlier in the day, the sensations had already left her, and she was left secretly craving for more.

But Alex was nothing if not inhumanly smart. She knew that to act upon her inhibitions would only guarantee that sooner or later, she would get caught, and she could be thrown into a place where not only would she not be allowed the opportunity to feel alive, but she wouldn't have a chance at anything else save for living alone in a tiny white room. That was something she knew well enough to avoid.

"Trust me Alexandra. You're going to want more." Then he smiled only slightly, as though a funny thought entered his mind.

"But if you prove me wrong, then you'll have impressed me."

"And if I don't?" she asked, though more for the sake of hearing what he had to say, and not because she was interested in continuing to do the things he did.

"If you can't contain the urge, then I suggest you see me the day after tomorrow. I want us both to make sure that the next time you decide to kill, you do a better job of it. Until then, our business here is done. If I don't see you again, then rest assured our paths will have no reason to cross again. I want you to take the time to think it over for yourself. In the mean time, I'm sure you know your way out."

The man turned his back on her, twiddled with his telescope. She left his six story home, making her way down the circular flight of stairs and out the way she came.

She hurried down the hill of Lord Combermere's estate, hoping that she hadn't spent too much time there already. She turned to a row of Suburnian houses, went up Carlson road until she found Aunt Melanie's Suzuki Vitara parked along the curb. She entered through the front passenger door while Aunt Melanie was deeply focused on her newspaper crossword puzzles.

"Hey Aunt Melanie," Alex said.

"Hey, Alex," she responded, trying out her nephew's shortened name for the very first time. "So, you went to see your friend?"

"Amy? Yeah. She's still feeling bad about what happened."

That was the lie. The fact, was that as far as she could attest to it, Alex and Amy weren't yet on speaking terms. They hadn't seen or heard from each other since last night when Amy ordered her out of her house. An overreaction, Alex felt. One that she would soon regret come Monday morning. Not because Alex would apologize or make any gesture at earning back her trust. Instead, it would be because Alex, the Elsinore girl without a soul, was still the best friend that Amy had ever had. And Amy, who often needed people more than they needed her, wasn't going to throw away her most important friendship no matter what.

Still, it was important to lie to her Aunt Melanie because she couldn't possibly have admitted to having visited Lord Combermere. Aunt Melanie didn't live anywhere near Suburnia anymore, and she personally knew nothing of the man, but she'd heard stories from the people that did. And even though Aunt Melanie had been under the impression that Lord Combermere was just one of the town's many unfounded fairy tales, and not an actual man, Alex found no reason to disprove her notion. And because the rest of the town was consumed with unmitigated paranoia when it came to all things Combermere, it was best not to let anyone know that she'd met him twice already in a single week.

Aunt Melanie glanced over at the school uniform that Alex had been wearing for at least three days in a row.

"Do you have other clothes?" she asked.

"I have them at my house."

"We can't go there. C'mon, I'll take you shopping, and we'll get you some extra clothes."

Aunt Melanie had a point. It really had been three days since she'd changed into anything else other than her school uniform. Because of this, she still had not showered for the simple fact that she had nothing to change into afterwards.

"Thanks," said Alex.

"Not a problem."

* * *

In the days when she had parents, Alex Frost would shop for clothes with her mother and her father in a large shopping complex just outside Suburnia on Angel Heart Lane. There, she would buy clothes that were not only made of the finest materials, but were also tailored to fit her flawlessly. The men and women that ran these stores were all people of expensive tastes, and as such, had nothing but expensive expectations for their customers.

In the stores of Angel Heart Lane, if you saw a gold colored diamond ring for sale, then you were rest assured that not only was the diamond itself real, but that the ring was also made out of genuine pure gold, silver, or gemstone, depending on preference. If you ventured over to the winery located in between the mall's five star restaurant and caviar shop, you would see wines as expensive as houses, and if you went over to the store that sold silver spoons, you would find that the spoons they sold were in fact, made of one hundred percent silver.

The clothing store that Alex and her Aunt Melanie went to wasn't anything like the one in Angel Heart Lane. It was an outlet mall far from her home in Suburnia, located a mere fifteen minutes away from Aunt Melanie's home in Wiscott Avenue. The clothes were cheap, mass produced, and to the standards of anyone who grew up in Suburnia, horribly bland.

Yet in spite of her upbringing, Alex wasn't one with very many standards. Even to this day, she didn't put much personal consideration into what she wore beyond what her mother and other important adults deemed appropriate.

"I think you would look great in denim," Aunt Melanie remarked.

And just like that, she introduced from the assortment of clothes an entire denim attire. From denim pants, denim shirt, to denim jacket.

"Try these on."

Alex ventured into the store's changing room. There, she tried on the denim clothes. They didn't fit her nearly as well as the clothes that her tailor made for her. And on top of that, the style was significantly different than what her mother would ever allow. She never approved of her wearing pants, except on occasions that called for it. The Suburnia fashion for girls were skirts, blouses, hair bows, sweaters during winters, and absolutely no sandals (which in Suburnia, was commonly referred to as poor people shoes). But she no longer lived in Suburnia. And realized that by the end of the semester, it was likely she wouldn't be an Elsinore girl anymore.

She walked out the changing room to show Aunt Melanie how she looked.

"I knew it," she said in place of an actual opinion.

"Knew what?"

"You are a complete tomboy."

"I am?"

Aunt Melanie studied Alex further, paid particular mind to the way the denim clothing complimented her physical appearance.

"You've got the look alright," she thought aloud.

"I do?"

"I like it."

"Are you sure?" she second-guessed Aunt Melanie's unorthodox decision.

"Well, where are my manners? Tell me what you think. That's what's most important after all."

"It is?"

"Why heavens, yes."

She stared at the blonde-haired aunt completely dumbfounded. Had Aunt Melanie just implied that Alex was allowed to choose the clothes she wanted to wear? Not what she should or ought to wear, but what she actually wanted?

"You mean, I get to choose?"

"Your parents never exactly gave you many options did they?"

To say that Alex had some or any options was to exaggerate the personal freedom given to her by her parents. The truth was, Alex had no options. Though her parents clothed her, they did so with garments that were expensive and popular among the people of Suburnia. It never occurred to them to ask their daughter if she wanted a shirt or a blouse, a necktie or a bow.

"Well, don't feel guilty Alex. I miss my Dana to no end, but I also know how overbearing she could be at times."

"I don't feel guilty," Alex replied truthfully.

"That's good. So. Tell me what you think of the clothes. Do you like what you see?"

Alex observed herself in the store's mirror. It was different, that much was certain. An unusual fashion never-before-seen in our heartless girl. But the real question, the one that mattered the most, did she like it?

"Yes."

"Good. Then we'll take it. What else do you want?"

"What?" Truly, this was too much.

"You can't just have one set of clothes now can you? Go pick some things out. Let me know when you find something you like."

Alex left Aunt Melanie's presence, but with much confusion brewing in her mind.

Like?

She toured the store with absolutely no sense of what else she would have possibly wanted. On one side of the store, there were suits and professional collar shirts made for the business-minded woman. To her left was casual wear, which included various assortments of summer dresses and skirts, sandals (poor people shoe's she heard her mother proclaiming inside her head), sleeveless tops, as well as quilted jackets for the approaching winter. The casual wear portion of the store also kept a few racks of exotic sunglasses. One with horn rimmed frames, another with bright pink frames, and one that made the wearer look more mosquito than human. There were star-shaped sunglasses, sunglasses that resembled the infinity symbol, sunglasses twenty times the size of the human eye, sunglasses with tight frames, sunglasses with loose frames, square frames, circle frames, oval frames, triangular frames, pentagonal frames, sunglasses with broken lenses, and even one that came with a plastic nose and a moustache. The options were innumerable. And so many of them were so equally interesting, it was hard to make a decision on just one.

Then again, Aunt Melanie did specify that she needed more than one pair of everything.

Because of its uniqueness compared to all the others, she started with the sunglass that had the plastic nose and moustache. Afterwards, she took one with thin frames because of how well it fit around her eyes, and also because its slim lenses carried an ebb of sophistication. Alex also picked up a third, this one because its frames were tight around the top of her ears, making it ideal for running with.

She picked up a shopping basket and placed three of her chosen sunglasses inside. She also took three pairs of long pants, four short sleeve shirts, five long sleeve shirts, three winter jackets, and three different types of sweaters. The shopping basket started to weigh on her arm, so she moved the items into a shopping cart. There, she had much more room to fill. She then proceeded to procure a pair of leather boots, sneakers, hiking shoes, and dress shoes.

Oh, and that, she pointed her mind to a hanger of winter parkas. And that, to a sharp looking suit jacket. How about that? I'm bound to need a new purse. Well, just to be safe, I might as well take two. But what if I lose them both, or they start to wear out? Don't I need a third?

By the time she was ready, twenty minutes had passed, and Alex's shopping cart was so full it required a hefty push to move it along. A mountain load of items crowded the shopping cart to the extent that it was hard to see where she went as she strolled it. She regrouped with Aunt Melanie, who was looking fixatedly over at dresses her own size.

"I'm done," Alex said, interrupting her aunt's train of thought.

Aunt Melanie turned her attention to Alex. Her eyes widened.

"Good heavens girl. You want all those things?"

Alex nodded, but began to suspect that something was wrong.

"I'm not made of money Alex. I can't possibly pay for all that."

"Oh."

"Put some of that stuff back."

Alex looked over her shopping cart. Apparently, from the grand list of things she'd gotten, Aunt Melanie would only allow her a few. But which to keep, and which to take away? There were so many options.

Later on, after much pondering and Aunt Melanie's insistence that she hurry up, Alex walked out the store with less than half of the things she had originally planned to keep. They stepped out the store, and on their way around the outdoor mall, came by a kitchen appliance store. From out the store window, there was a knife on display, its serrated tip sparkling, sharp enough to stab through bone. It had a hollow handle that curved along the tang, and was just as effervescent silver as the rest of the blade itself.

Alex stared at the object as they walked towards, then past it. And more than anything else she saw that afternoon, she wanted that knife.

Aunt Melanie took Alex to see the Pleasant Grove subway.

"In case I can't drive you back to Suburnia," she said. "I want you to know how to get there and back on your own."

The subway was just about as grimy and ghetto as Alex had come to expect from Pleasant Grove. A few homeless people begged at the ticket booths for loose change, and once more, graffiti polluted the walls and even some of the passing trains.

"You see there?" Aunt Melanie pointed to a giant subway map on the wall. A marker with the words You Are Here was placed with an arrow pointing to the Pleasant Grove station.

"Does this go straight to Suburnia?"

"No, silly. There are no train lines going to Suburnia. However," and she pointed her finger around the different train stations on the map while she spoke. "The closest you will get to is the Gerard station right here. From there, you can take the bus that goes straight into Suburnia. Either that, or you can take a cab from the station. Oh, and I should remind you. When you're taking the train, make sure the number on the train is 12, not 4. 4 will take you to the opposite direction."

When they went to the platform, Alex and Aunt Melanie encountered two other people waiting for the approaching train. One was a man standing so dangerously close to the platform's edge that his toes stuck in the air. He was tall, had a bright yellow baseball cap, and his eyes fluctuated from open to closed. He looked drowsy enough to have a hard time telling if he was awake or if he was sleeping. Standing so close to the edge, all he needed was a little nudge towards the train when it arrived. Just one tiny push of her index finger would have been enough to send him down. He would be smashed by the speeding train, and every limb in his body would be sliced by its metal wheels. All he had to do was fall at the right time, and there would be no putting the stranger back together again.

Behind Alex was a woman sitting on a bench. She was a brunette possibly in her forties, clad in sweatpants, brand new sneakers, and a pink tank top. Not five centimeters from her feet was a puddle of water. But her mind wasn't focused on the water spill before her. The only thing she was sternly focused on was rubbing her pink fingernails over a nail file. The edge of the file was as pointed and as sharp as any cutting utensil one would hope to find in an ordinary kitchen. Upon watching the woman filing away, Alex had to at least recognize that if she got up, the chance existed that she could trip over the puddle, fall to the ground with the sharp end of the file in front of her. All she had to do was forget to look where she walked, and she could just as easily impale herself straight in the chest.

Right then, a train began its approach. Alex heard its path through the tunnel, blaring louder the closer it came. She focused her eyes attentively at the tall man whose toes were so close to getting ripped clean off. He was still behaving dazed. Reality didn't appear to have settled into his mind.

There it was. Alex noticed the glowing headlights on the train right as it came into view. If the man remained perfectly still until it arrived at the platform, he would be victim to a survivable injury. But if he panicked, made any last second reactions, he was likely to fall onto the train's path. Alex watched in what felt like eager anticipation for the oncoming incident.

A nanosecond before the train arrived, Aunt Melanie pushed the man out of harm's way.

"What is wrong with you?!" she yelled at him. The cacophonous approach of the train drowned her voice, so she had to repeat herself twice.

The tall man stood wide awake over the thought of what could have happened to him had Aunt Melanie not intervened.

"Thank you," he praised her, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

"Be careful next time," demanded Aunt Melanie.

"I will."

With one possible death averted, Alex looked behind her to see the second. As the train slowed down, the woman remained right where she was. She looked up to confirm that it was indeed her train, and went immediately back to evening out her middle finger. It took the train to come to a complete halt for her to finally pick herself up. But rather than walk on the puddle and slip, she side-stepped it and boarded the train.

That was two possible deaths averted in the span of seconds.

Once he boarded the train, the irresponsible man who'd been dozing while standing waved back at Aunt Melanie.

"Can you believe how irresponsible some people are?" she said to Alex. "Hard to believe they can survive this long."

Hard to believe they both survived, Alex thought to herself. Though she knew that that wasn't entirely true. Strange how her own thoughts were deluding her. Though the overriding answer behind them was clear. It was then that her bloodlust came to prove to her that Lord Combermere was right after all.

Alex Frost needed to kill.

Chapter 7

Bereavement

They say that the greatest changes in life occur when least expected. A professional ballerina dancer, after more than several years of practice and exercise, can alter the entire course of her life when one day she jaywalks across the street and encounters a pedal-happy driver. A construction worker can find himself in a hospital bed with broken joints when he inadvertently carries more than the human body ever should. A head chef of a five star restaurant can find herself fleeing for Argentina when one day, instead of using turmeric in her cooking, she mistakenly uses rat poison. And a sweet, innocent sixteen year old girl can return to Elsinore Academy the day after the death of Tommy Hargrave only to be in the presence of eager policemen who might just as soon realize that Alex Frost might not be so sweet and innocent after all.

Aunt Melanie entered the school's driveway, stunned at the over-abundance of men and women in police uniforms (though there were more men than women) directing where each student should go. At first she thought she'd stumbled into the wrong place. But the name on the building told her otherwise. It was Elsinore Academy alright. Although the campus felt less like a school, and more like an occupation.

"What's going on?" Aunt Melanie questioned Alex all-the-while maintaining her eyes at the cop cars that filled the parking lots.

"I don't know," came Alex, though she knew full well what was going on. She shook her head at herself for not having thought of it earlier.

"Is this about that boy in your school? The one that was murdered?"

Alex nodded. That was precisely what it was about.

"I think they're going to see if anyone he knew knows what happened."

Aunt Melanie latched Alex onto the passenger seat with her arm. "Are you sure you're good to go to school?"

Alex paused for a moment, considered her two available options. Option one being the following; step out from Aunt Melanie's car, go to school, face the attention of the police and risk them piecing together the truth. Or option two; leave the school grounds, avoid unnecessary police attention, hope that nobody realizes her absence.

Unfortunately, as convenient as option two would have been, it was also just as entirely unlikely that nobody would notice her premature absence. Aunt Melanie's Suzuki Vitara lit up like a beacon amongst the crowds of youth aristocrats, and it was already on the driveway. There was no hiding Alex's presence. To leave now would have only invoked suspicion.

"I'll be fine," she promised her aunt and stepped off her car.

"You sure?"

No. "Yes."

Alex shut the front passenger door on Aunt Melanie's Vitara; it would be the final nail in her coffin if things ended sourly.

Aunt Melanie drove away, leaving Alex to fend herself from the prows of Suburnia's finest.

"Hello young girl," a policeman came up. "Why don't go you wait in the cafeteria?"

"What's going on?" Alex asked.

"Please. Go to the cafeteria. Everything will be explained there."

Alex followed a flock of students dressed in uniform marching robotically into Elsinore Academy's large cafeteria room. There, she saw the entire campus on lunch tables, crowding together to the point that many had to sit on the floor or stand on corners.

A tall, brooding policeman with a cleft chin towered in judgment over Alex.

"Alexandra Frost?" he inquired.

"That's me," she replied rather nervously.

"Come with me please." Though it didn't sound like a request.

Alex took her school bag, and followed the policeman into Principal McLeary's office. There, in the large space of the room was the very same woman she saw on the television just yesterday. The woman they referred to as the Suburnia police chief.

"Ms. Ludwig," was how she introduced herself. "But call me Tanya," giving Alex a first name to go with the last.

She was seated on Principal McLeary's desk, her back enjoying the expensive leather upholstery of his chair. Her hair was jet black, and she was shorter in real life than her television appearance would have led one to believe. In fact, Alex could easily attest to being at least a few centimeters taller. On top of that, the police chief was also very young. She couldn't have been anything past her early thirties, if even that.

Standing beside Ms. Ludwig on her left was Principal McLeary, eyeing the police chief, but more specifically, the seat that she had taken from him. He was sweating a little, and Alex sensed that his knees were stiffening because he'd been standing for far too long.

To the police chief's right was the same detective she had met last week the night that her parents were killed. She knew he'd given her his name, but for some reason or another she failed to recall what it was.

And finally, standing by the doorway was the policeman that had brought her to the principal's office, his cleft chin raised high, his hands bound together behind his back, his legs spread apart.

"Please, sit," the police chief, Ms. Tanya Ludwig pointed her hand onto a seat directly opposite to the principal's desk.

Alex obeyed.

"You are Alexandra Frost. Am I correct?"

"That's right," she tried to say in her most provocative display of depression. In a time like this, it was best to make things as uncomfortable as she could. The less confident and observant she could make them, the better.

"First, I want to say that I am truly sorry for what happened to your parents. I hear that they were good people."

"They were," Alex moped, though she had no comprehension of what good was, just that it was something people liked to be called. She also had to stop and think about how the police chief would have even come to know such a thing. Maybe she had asked someone, or more likely, she was just saying it out of formality.

"We'll get through this as quickly as we can," said Tanya. And then, the questions began.

"Did you know Tommy Hargrave?" she started.

"Yes. But only through Amy, my friend."

"Could you state her full name?"

"Amy Parker Lawson. We're in the same grade. Actually, her legal name is Amanda. Amanda Parker Lawson."

"Interesting. And how would you describe Amy's relationship with Tommy Hargrave?"

"They were friends."

"Interesting," Tanya came again, though she seemed more fascinated now than she did the first time.

"What do you know of what happened to Tommy Hargrave?"

"Only what I saw on the news. Heard he was stabbed to death." And to that, Alex sniffed, forced streaks of tears into her eyes. "Why is this happening? First my mom and dad, and now Tommy. Why is there so much death everywhere?"

There were several rules to avoiding suspicion. One of which, was to simply look as hysterical, and as emotionally vexed as can. Sitting in a room surrounded with authority, from principal to police, Alex incorporated this very rule into the way she behaved. And surprise surprise, it worked.

Principal McLeary's office crowded with emotions of sadness, especially from Principal McLeary himself, who started dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

"Ms. Frost, I understand that things are hard. But if you can endure for just a few more minutes, you would be helping us a lot."

"I'll do the best I can," Alex wiped the water running down her cheeks with a swipe of her finger.

"Good. Now, murders don't happen in Suburnia very often. Because of that, and the similarities in causes of death, we believe that whoever killed Tommy Hargrave is somehow connected with the death of your parents."

"What?" she cried. "You mean, it's the same person? You mean like a-"

"We don't know for sure, but it's what us policemen call a hunch. Until then, we can't think of it as anything more than a possibility."

Tanya the police chief leaned closer t0wards the desk, her elbows propping her up.

"In the name of catching whoever did this, I have to ask you something."

Shaking, Alex covered her eyes and shook her head ceaselessly.

"I can't. Please, I can't. All this stress, I just can't take it."

But Tanya the police chief asked away, as though in truth she didn't care one way or another about a mourning girl. That all she cared about was her job, and that Alex, much like everyone else around her, was purely a means to fulfilling her duties.

"Do you think that whoever did this could have caused Tommy's death?"

"I don't know," she whined and shivered. "I'm having nightmares enough just thinking about it. Why can't you find out for yourself?"

"We need your help on this Alexandra. I want you to go back to the day you found your parents. Can you tell us anything that might help us find out who did it?"

"I can't! Please, just leave me alone. How would you feel if the people you loved died?!" she shot heatedly at Tanya.

"I would feel very bad," answered Tanya, seeming entirely calm and collected. Clearly, she'd put no thought to the question at hand. "But that is why we need whatever help you can provide us. So that nobody else will ever have to lose someone they love."

Alex sat tight on her chair.

"I want to help. I really do." Her voice weak, sobbish. "But I never saw him. I wasn't there when he," she paused. "And you know what? I'm glad I never saw him. He would have killed me just like...just like...just like them. Wherever that monster is, all I want is to stay as far away from him as I possibly can."

"Let's stop this," Principal McLeary urged. "We're not going to get any answers from a crying girl. And when am I going to have my school back?"

"This is only going to take a day," assured the police chief. "We have plenty more inquiries to make."

"How am I supposed to believe that? You come in here without warning, question everybody in my academy without my permission. Your policemen can't just march around here like soldiers."

"I suggest you settle down," said the tempered police chief to Principal McLeary, as though his outrage wasn't much more than a part of her daily routine; something she had long gotten used to in her line of work.

"That's okay," cut in the detective standing on the police chief's right. "You can go."

Alex froze her tears. All eyes turned to him.

"Here's my card," he concluded. "Whenever you feel well enough to talk, you let me know."

The police chief lowered her eyes, a sign that she didn't appreciate the man's taking over of the scene. The detective, not caring one way or another, reached into his breast pocket, fished out a card with his name printed on the center.

Detective Jared Peterson, it said.

"Thank you," Alex said. She picked herself up and motioned out of the room. The tall, cleft-chinned policeman standing by the entryway opened the door behind him and let her pass.

"Before you go," called Tanya immediately as Alex took a step outside. Alex spun around.

"I wanted to thank you for doing your best. Keep safe."

Alex looked the oriental woman once more in the face, dressed with her tear-ridden eyes.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have been more helpful."

But Tanya dropped her empathy act, caring no more about what Alex had to say than she would have if she had instead decided to read her a recipe for tomato soup. The woman simply placed her eyes on the principal's table before her, scouring over anonymous pieces of paper.

After leaving the company of Tanya the unsympathetic police chief, Alex made an exit through the south corridor of the campus. Upon turning down the hall, she was completely alone with no one to see or notice her. The sobby expression on her face disappeared in the blink of an eye like magic, replaced with the true blankness that was Alex Frost.

She waited by the school parking lot along with a few other students all waiting for their parents to come pick them up. By the troubled composures that occupied their faces, it was evident that they were silently feeling sorry for one Tommy Hargrave, sixteen year old student and athlete at Elsinore Academy. She wasn't surprised. He had always been a popular student in school, and no doubt had a lot of friends within the Elsinore community (or at the very least, people who liked to think they were his friends).

While their minds drifted to the few or many shared memories they had with their fellow classmate, Alex's was focused on driver's licenses, and how she should apply for one soon so she could legally drive.

As she laid her bottom on the curb, patiently waiting for Aunt Melanie to meet her, she realized that the few around her with heads hung low and bodies scrunched downwards were doing something that Alex had never been able to do; mourn. Sympathy and regret marked their faces; coldness and loneliness their shivering arms. All this for a boy that they didn't fully understand. If word ever got out about the things that Tommy Hargrave had done to Amy, to the other girls before her, would they still feel sadness over his death?

And this brought Alex to a second point. The students dejected over Tommy's death had no knowledge of his darker desires, and at the very most, couldn't have been associated with him for anything more than a couple of years. Yet Alex, after having known her parents for all of her life, was unable to muster a single emotion regarding their passing. She felt obligated to feel for them, but felt nothing more than what she truly felt, which was nothing at all.

Alex called Aunt Melanie again, and asked how long it would be until she arrived.

"Traffic on the way back doesn't look good," Aunt Melanie said over the phone. "Give it at least half an hour."

Alex hung up. A few students exiting the school grounds made their way to O'Mallery Park, where supposedly much commotion was said to preside. Alex, curious to see her work displayed, followed them for the five minute walk into the park.

As it turned out, the word commotion was putting the event at the O'Mallery Park far too lightly. Lines of police tape cornered the trees and stop signs, keeping at bay a crowd of people and anxious journalists alike taking pictures, asking questions to whatever policemen they could find guarding and passing the crime scene.

Questions of "Who did this? Was it a man? Was it a woman? Was it just one person? What about two? Or three? Do you have any suspects? Do you have any leads? What is the progress of the investigation? Has the killer left a note? Are there any demands? Will you catch the killer? Where do you think the killer comes from? Why do you think he or she is doing this? When will this stop? Who is involved in the investigation? Who do you think should be involved in the investigation? What do the parents have to say? What does the school have to say? What do the victim's friends have to say? Any specifics on how he was killed? Where was he stabbed? With what? At precisely what hour? What was he wearing? Did the killer leave behind a note? What time is it? Does the pizza place on Mayo Street do deliveries? Can you spare some change? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" all filled the air both loudly and simultaneously. As a result, the questions were incomprehensible, sounding more like a sea of gibberish than anything to be found in the English language.

After one good look at the policemen and journalistic truth seekers, Alex felt she had more than enough.

Chapter 8

Lost

When it was fast approaching the hour of four in the afternoon, Alex found herself once again on Lord Henry Combermere's doorstep. She didn't bother with knocking the door, just invited herself in. What caught her eyes right as she walked past the entryway was the sight of scratches running along the decaying hardwood floor. They weren't there before. As she studied it more closely, she saw a short nail coming out, painted in bright red.

There were six deep scratches travelling on the floor, a long trail of claw marks. Wooden shreds lay in their wake, and the place they'd come from was just as rotten and vile as floor's outer layer.

Alex followed the trail of nails until it led her down to a poorly lit basement, a part of Lord Combermere's house she'd never seen before.

The sun was still in its afternoon state, leaving the world outside clearly visible and exposed. The same could not have been said of Lord Combermere's home. His curtains were closed, the fabric so thick and heavy that scarcely any light managed its way in. And when there were scratches on the floor leading down to a dank basement with a light bulb that didn't work, bad vibes ensued.

Regardless, Alex dared to venture forth, into the blackness that awaited her down the bottom of the stairs, not knowing what she would find or what she should expect.

She trailed downwards, hands on the walls since there were no guard rails. When she reached the bottom step, she noticed a ceiling lamp that emitted a fervent yellow light more than a few meters from where she stood. Like daylight at the end of a long tunnel. She went towards it, mindful of her every step. Judging by the vast distance between her and the luminescence, it was clear that the basement was significant in size.

As she came closer and closer, not only did the light get brighter, but the presence of something else entered her ears.

"Help," faint, but present.

A few steps forward, and everything was revealed. A large table big enough to fit a full grown adult, and on top of it, a young woman with short hair and a yellow dress with red polka dots. The ceiling light flashed directly over her body, illuminating what she wore, and her blackened eyes covered with water.

"Help me," her voice croaking, but clearer.

She was bound together by rope, her wrists and ankles stretching past her joints. There were bruises all over her shoulders and knees. Even if Alex did manage to break the woman free, she was too injured to walk. Wildly reminiscent of the cat she saved a few days earlier.

"I knew you would be here," came a second voice, one that immediately set the woman on edge.

"Please get me out of here," the woman begged Alex. She too recognized the voice.

"So I took the liberty of preparing you a gift," Lord Combermere went on. "What do you think?"

"Who is she?" asked Alex, staring down the woman's eyes. Alex cleared the tears that fell down the side of her face with her finger. She held the water up to the light. It had a salty smell.

"She is Marissa Hartly, a college student. This is her first time in Suburnia. I'm sorry to say she won't be leaving with fond memories."

Alex gently brushed away the woman's hair.

"Why do you do this?"

Lord Combermere stepped out of the shadows, clad in the same black tuxedo he wore the first time she'd met him.

"It soothes me," was what Lord Combermere said. "Something that by now you're familiar with."

"I can't kill," replied Alex, though she spoke as if it were an objective truth, and not a decision brought about by emotion or morals.

"Why not?"

"It's not a feasible hobby. Too many risks. The chance of anyone getting away with it for very long is slim. Tommy's death alone has already brought me enough police attention. If I keep doing this, it would only be a matter of time until they begin to suspect me. And I'd rather not be thrown in prison."

"I've been doing this since I was your age," Lord Combermere made his rebuttal. "I've learned from my many years of mistakes. And as you can see, I haven't been arrested."

"Luck."

"No," he answered back as though insulted. "Four, five, maybe even six times might have been luck. But you can't kill as many as I have without being smart. I can do what I do, and well enough."

"Maybe you really can get away with it. But I can't."

"That's not true."

"What do you want from me, exactly?"

"Nothing," said Combermere. "Just a chance to change your mind. I can teach you my methods. I can become your mentor. If you let me, I can show you how to hunt and never, ever get caught."

"Why?"

Alex spun around, met her parents' killer square in the eye.

"You killed my mother and father. When I saw you, I knew who you were. I recognized you, and you knew it too. Yet you risked me telling the truth to the police. Why?"

Lord Combermere's confident stature broke. He hunched forward, let his shoulders drag. He walked with what seemed to be tiredness weighing him down.

"I thought that you would. But I had to take a chance, to be sure if you were what I thought you were. You have no idea how long I've gone wondering if there were others like me. Someone else, born without-"

"A soul," Alex completed.

Lord Combermere lit up. "Precisely."

In that shared moment of identity, Lord Henry Combermere and one Alexandra Frost began to see each other as something more than soulless beings trapped inside human bodies. They came to understand at that exact same moment that though they were outcasts of society, they were not alone. And from that came a spark of kinship, understood yet for two people who lived entirely hollow lives, indescribable. A portion of their empty hearts came together like two long-lost puzzle pieces, connecting together after so many years of separation. The bond that reached out to them was nothing short of surreal.

"Be my apprentice, Alexandra Frost, and I will teach you everything you will need to know."

She didn't even take the time to think it over. The answer hung above her head, clear, obvious.

"I accept."

"Good. Then enjoy your gift."

And just like that, Lord Combermere pulled a freshly sharpened dagger from his sleeve, presented it to Alex just as a stranger gives candy to a child. Alex observed the ornately-crafted knife, the twisted hilt, and a golden lion's face with its jaws wide open, separating the handle from the knife's ricasso. It was heavier than it appeared.

Alex clasped it tight within her fingers, and she brought the knife down to the woman's chest, plunged it in as far as it could go. The woman didn't die immediately. Much like Tommy Hargrave, she struggled, moaned, shrieked. But in due time, reality settled in. She wasn't going to get out, knew that nothing she did would change the fact. The woman looked up at the yellow light above her, let death take its toll. The scent of blood permeated the basement, and the woman's tone began to lighten slightly.

And once more, the adrenaline rush climbed onto her nerves. For the second time, Alex felt alive. The experience was a dance of ecstasy. And this time it was longer, more potent. She closed her eyes and embraced the blood in the air.

Alex removed the knife from the woman's chest, wiped it clean on her yellow dress. She handed it to Lord Combermere's expecting hand.

"Good," said Lord Combermere. "First lesson. Your victims can never be people that you know. No known associates, peers, and especially not personal enemies. Your first kill was, to put it mildly, sloppy. In more ways than I care to count."

"You chose someone with a relation to your friend. If the police had any measure of intelligence, then either you or your friend would have become immediate suspects. But since Suburnia has a record for being the most incompetent police district in all of Great Britain, it's unlikely they would even think to suspect you."

The last portion, Alex took in with a bit of relief.

"However," Combermere carried onwards. "That does not excuse the fact that it was poorly executed."

"I guess that's why I'm here," Alex said. "To learn."

"Lesson number two. Everything you do must go as planned. No surprises. That means learning what you need to know about who you select."

"Learning? Learning what?"

"Everything, if you can. Names of friends, family, how often they keep in contact, where they work. Their strengths, their weaknesses. But most importantly, their daily schedule. What they do at what hours, for how long, and what they do afterwards. All these things will help you devise a plan."

"You plan all your kills?"

"That's right."

"But when you killed my parents, that couldn't have been planned. They're always at work in the afternoon. You had no way of knowing they were going to be home at that hour."

Lord Combermere rose his frail, bare head. "I planned to kill your parents next. I found all I needed on them prior to that day. But when I realized that they were home that on weekday, I saw it as an opportunity. Impatience took me. I was so sure that I wouldn't get caught. It completely escaped my mind that they even had a daughter. Age has a very damning effect on the mind. But never mind that. You have the advantage of knowing first-hand the consequences of not planning appropriately. You also have your youth. I, on the other hand, am deteriorating faster than I can think. All I can do is instruct for as long as I'm still alive."

Lord Combermere gandered at his wrinkly hands. "With my approaching age, I'm not going to be able kill any longer. But you can." He paused. "Should you choose to accept it, I have a little homework assignment for you."

"Homework?" Alex, in her infinitely cold, soulless mind had to draw back an emotionless chuckle at the idea that Lord Combermere's lessons could be taught just like any normal class. With lectures, homework, exams and all.

"That's right. Tonight, when you go back home with your aunt, I want you to find a subject of your own. Don't do anything. Just scout. Look for possible choices. Report back to me, and then I'll help you hunt."

Alex was never one to get particularly riled up over homework. In most cases, all that homework ever was was a review of things she'd already learned during lectures and reading textbooks (though she had to admit that on occasions they did help her on tests). Still, by and large it was not much more than a mindless activity for accumulating grades. But at this, she almost felt a slight tinge of excitement.

* * *

When Aunt Melanie picked Alex up by the empty Elsinore campus, it was six in the evening. When they drove back, it was seven. After they cooked and ate dinner, it was eight. When Aunt Melanie told Alex to go to bed, it was nine. When Aunt Melanie left her apartment to once more participate in her nightly excursions, it was ten. When Alex snuck out from Aunt Melanie's sofa bed, prepared for her own late night activities, and left the house with a backpack of equipment, it was eleven.

Alex Frost's backpack, which usually contained nothing but academic-oriented materials, had been emptied, refilled with what Lord Combermere had referred to as the necessary tools of the trade. A sharpened knife, a long line of rope (though this was used depending on circumstance), a full bottle of chloroform (also depending on circumstance), and ample rolls of duct tape. Lord Combermere gave her a lock pick set, brand new. Before she left, he taught her enough to know how the mechanism of a door worked, and how a lock pick was to be used to gain entry to secret places.

Alex went out dressed in long pants, a full sleeve shirt, and a pair of sneakers appropriately named for how conventional they were for sneaking in. This makes one wonder if the man who invented the sneakers did so with the intent of sneaking in mind. Perhaps sneaking into places he shouldn't have been, or sneaking on his pool boy, to find out if he was as long suspected, having an affair with his wife.

Alex also kept a pair of dark leather gloves, and an equally dark winter cap that covered all but her eyes. But she wouldn't wear those now. Being caught in public dressed in such an irregular fashion would only attract attention. For now, she was in blending in with the crowd mode. And even though it was a late eleven o'clock, Pleasant Grove nevertheless had many a people roaming about. Unlike in Suburnia, this place quite obviously didn't have a curfew law. Either that, or the people that roamed the streets late at nights simply had no other place to go. Whatever the case may be, it was good for the reason that unlike in Suburnia, a person taking a late night walk didn't stand out. She looked no more peculiar than everyone else that was up and about. Unfortunately, this also meant that one had to be extra mindful of witnesses when conducting such socially unaccepted activities.

Roaming the streets onto the quieter neighborhoods where rows upon rows of low income houses presided, Alex kept an open eye for her next would-be prey. The effort took no time at all. As soon as she reached Inglewood Street, glancing over at every cheap, undesirable house she came across, there was one in particular that stood out. This was for two specific reasons. One, was that the house in front of her, painted lime green (for whatever reason), was near the end of the street, in between two abandoned houses listed for sale. That paved way for privacy, something that all killers (or so she believed) enjoyed.

The second reason that the tiny, unkempt house seemed perfect, was because it looked small enough to house one, not more than two bedrooms. An old, beat up sedan sat parked on the driveway, and through the gateway of the home's window came revealed the only human being inhabiting the home. A pot-bellied man watching television, slouched on his couch as he occasionally ate from a bowl of popcorn. Every light inside the house was off save for the sporadic luminance from the man's television set. He lived alone, isolated. And in Lord Combermere's book, that made him perfect.

Alex did just as Lord Combermere instructed. She stayed in the distance, watched him through his open window in order to assess his routine. She waited outside long enough for her left foot to fall asleep before her, came to learn after much waiting that two in the morning was the approximate time in which he finally shut off the television as well as any other indoor light inside his house.

At that point in time, Alex had already been spying for several hours, and it would have been a sound idea to go back and sleep. But to do so would have meant leaving empty-handed. And she hardly thought it would have worth the effort of sneaking out at night only to have accomplished standing outside a man's home. Besides, there were still a few other things to be learned about her soon-to-be victim. For one, his name.

She checked the digital clock on her cell phone. The night was still relatively young, all things considered. Aunt Melanie wasn't likely to be back at the apartment until four in the morning.

Good, Alex thought. Because ready or not, she was going in.

She covered her head with the winter cap. Creeping around the perimeter of the house, Alex searched for any available openings from which to make her entrance. Interesting to note was the fact that she hardly had to look. The doors were locked (front and back), but the windows were left wide open. The choice was obvious enough.

Right as she made her way inside, the first thing she came upon was a desk with envelopes; all of which were bills, bills, and more bills. They were addressed to a Mr. Robert Savage. The first envelope on the stack came from the local utilities company, another from his car insurance provider, and a third claimed that he had just recently inherited a few thousand pounds from a recently deceased relative by the name of Joe Kerr, and that before he was allowed the money, he had to pay a few lawyer-related release fees first.

At least now I know his name, she told herself. Next, to get a closer look.

It was slightly challenging to see where she was going. Alex thought it would have been wise to have packed a flashlight. On the other hand, to have used it here in such a small space might have raised the suspicion of her prey. And if it did, it would have also given away her location. Fortunately for Alex, she was able to traverse well enough on her own for the simple fact that she had more than her fair share of vitamins in her system, better enabling her to see in the dark. A benefit of not having a soul was that she was nil-picky about the flavor of the things she ate. Taste never entered into the equation of her own personal diet because she had no way of tasting. As a result, Alex Frost might as well have been the poster child for healthy nutrition.

Her mental health on the other hand, was not likely something that others would want to adopt.

With help from his incessant snores, Alex was able to find Robert Savage's bedroom. As she leaned in for a better look at him, Robert Savage wasn't any more attractive up close than he was from the distance. In fact, he looked slightly worse.

Standing right beside her subject, Alex wanted very much just to kill him right then and there. The opportunity was perfect. The crave to kill began beating inside her chest, demanding that she put an end to his life. It would have been so very easy to give in. To kill for the momentary ability to feel.

Alex didn't, however. All in good time. Killing him now would have been premature, especially since Lord Combermere wasn't around to guide her. For now, she'd gotten what she needed. And for the time being, that would have to do.

Once she was satisfied, Alex doubled back to Aunt Melanie's apartment. She decided that she would do as Lord Combermere had instructed, which was to wait and find out as much about her soon-to-be victim as she could before making the final decision. The price of this was inevitably going to be time. She would have to be patient before she hunted. But as a reward, Lord Combermere had assured her that patience, more than anything else, would guarantee unmitigated success, and that she would never get caught. Patience, precision, prowess, Lord Combermere's three Ps for the everyday killer.

Alex was five minutes away from Aunt Melanie's apartment when she caught sight of a strange commotion in a dark alleyway. A brutish man with thick arms and a bald head was punching and kicking something. He was dressed in a light brown trench coat with a fedora hat to cover his waxed head, and a pair of shades to cover his eyes. Whatever he was punching at left bruises on his fat knuckles. Whatever he was kicking at made his knees sore.

Being the ever-curious girl that she was, immune to fear and terror, Alex approached the man, but unraveled her backpack for the cutting knife she'd packed inside. Just in case. As she came closer, meters away, the bald man's full figure became known, and the thing he'd been assaulting, not a thing at all. But a person, an aunt. Alex's aunt. She was covered in blood.

Alex had only been able to recognize her from the clothes she wore. Her face was as red as her hair.

"Aunt Melanie?" Alex uttered before she could even think. This brought on the attention of the bald man.

"Who're you?" he growled at her like a feral beast.

"Why are you harming her?"

Convinced that Aunt Melanie wouldn't go anywhere, he dropped her to the ground. She fell with a thud, and she didn't move.

"Well lookie what we have here," The bald man taunted her with a perverse stare. "I'm sorry? Did you ask me why I'm harming this poor woman?"

Alex didn't take the time to repeat herself. She observed the bald man approaching her, contemplating his movement.

"Come here, and I'll tell you why," he offered. With slow, steady steps he approached her, bringing his hands in front.

"C'mon girl. Let me just whisper it in your ear." Two steps closer. "Don't be afraid of me. I promise I am not going to bite. Well, not much." The man gave out a haughty laugh. His mouth came apart, revealed a set of crooked, bucked teeth.

She calculated the man's every step, thinking of the appropriate time to bring out the knife that was hiding behind her back.

"The only thing I would like more than hurting a grown woman," he told her. "Is hurting a sweet, little girl like you."

Then like a lion, the bald man rushed at her, fingers hanging out like talons. While dashing towards her, she could see his predatory smile brighten with anticipation. It was a smile so decrepit, so eerie that it would have easily scared the life out of any sane human being. But not our Alex Frost.

Within a short amount of time, possibly a millionth of a second, his expression turned upside down at the sight of Alex's knife. The blade was angled at precisely where his heart was going to be in a less than half a second. He would have stopped himself, moaned No, begged forgiveness, but the element of surprise had robbed him of the opportunity. He hadn't the time to tell his feet to stop from moving. As he landed on the knife, his heart froze. The tip of the blade went in four inches deep. The pain of it all left him stunned, unable to react.

As if she hadn't done enough, Alex twisted the knife. A rage of stimuli rattled his nerves, transferred his life energy onto hers. The bald man gasped in agony. Alex absorbed his drastic flash of misery, turned it into something happier for herself. In the seconds after he died, she smiled.

Once he faded away, the full weight of his body became realized. She pulled the knife from his heart before he fell. He landed belly-first onto the cold, hard alley. She took the bald (now dead) man's fedora hat, brushed a few flecks of dirt from the brim. It was too big, at least twice the size of Alex's head.

She let it drop on the paved floor that was oozing crimson. She turned her attention to Aunt Melanie, who was leaning her back against a brick wall. Eyes closed, face soaked with her own blood. She thought to try and wake her up. But before Alex could even nudge her on the shoulder, a reason not to came her way.

She'd been unconscious the whole time. Something that Alex hadn't considered, but now that she did, was coming to be grateful for. It would have been hard for Alex to explain why she was roaming the streets at two in the morning. Harder yet, that she'd killed a man in cold blood.

Alex was supposed to be asleep in Aunt Melanie's apartment. There would be no way of explaining the bald (now dead) man, other than by saying that she killed him. And that, Lord Combermere was sure to mention, wouldn't have done her any good. Attention was the absolute last thing she needed, especially from the police. Even a kill in self-defense would have been enough to uncover the first kill she'd made. The one that the Suburnia police were still in the middle of investigating.

Knowing what next to do, Alex first placed two of her own fingers on Aunt Melanie's neck. She'd been very badly injured, but was still alive.

There was a pay phone directly across the street. Alex plopped a few coins from her pocket into the machine before picking up the receiver. The voice of a young woman came on the other line, asking Alex what her emergency was.

"Help," Alex begged in her best impression of an Indian accent, which, all things considered, sounded more believable than she thought it would.\

"Calm down," the woman on the other end. "Tell me where you are, and what your emergency is."

"Come quick," Indian accent. "A woman has been beaten and a man's been stabbed. The location is 7101 Kova Street, right by Wiscott Avenue. Hurry."

Alex hung up the phone, and as fast as she could, she hurried back to Aunt Melanie's apartment before she could be caught by witnesses or the approaching civil servants that were on their way. Successfully, she reached the seventh floor of the apartment complex unnoticed. After dropping the bag on the floor, Alex threw herself on Aunt Melanie's sofa bed, and treated herself to some much-needed sleep.
Chapter 9

The Strange

It was six in the morning when Alex Frost received a call on Aunt Melanie's landline. The sound of the three-tone dial echoed in her ears, brought her back to life. Alex, clearing her eyes of fatigue, picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" she spoke.

"This is Sacred Rivers hospital calling to inform you that a Melanie Joyce is under our care."

"What?" Alex, acting surprised. "I've been expecting her home all night. Where is she?"

"We've had her under our care since last night. Paramedics brought her in. She didn't have ID with her, so we haven't been able to contact anyone. But she's only just woken up, and she said that she wanted us to call this number."

Given the amount of injuries she'd suffered last night, it was startling to believe that Aunt Melanie could have been conscious again so soon.

"Thank you. I'm on my way there right now."

Sacred Rivers wasn't particularly hard to find. For Alex, it was a fifteen minute walk. The most challenging part was accepting what she saw when she got there. The hospital, despite its name, didn't appear very sacred (unless graffiti was the marker for all things sacred), and there was no river anywhere nearby. More than a bit misleading, especially to those who hadn't been to the place before. At first Alex had to wonder if she was going the wrong way. Around the path she took, there was not so much as a lake or body of water nearby. In an environment that she was still fairly fresh to, the possibility of mistaking her geography was very likely. But when she saw the sign outside the hospital, she knew she was in the right place.

Walking through the automatic glass doors, Alex approached an old woman with grey hair and a clean white uniform sitting behind the front desk. She asked where she could find Melanie Joyce. The woman, discontent, told that at the moment, only family members could see her. Alex informed her that the woman was her aunt. She scowled in return, a definite sign of skepticism, or hostility. But she let her in regardless, either because in the end she believed her, or she didn't care either way.

"Room 207," she spat. "Upstairs."

The elevator at the end of the hall took her up to the second floor. As she approached the first corridor on her left, she found the door labeled 207, and a small window peering in. Aunt Melanie was laying still on her back atop a bed with wheels and sage colored bed covers. She was clad in a hospital gown made to fit someone three times her size. The short-sleeves were long and fat, almost reaching her wrists, and the garment was decorated with sickly light blue polka dots.

Alex wanted to ask her aunt where she had been all night. The answer, of course, she knew. But the reason for her aunt being where she was, or why the bald (now dead) man had attacked her that night in the alley were still left unanswered.

Once inside though, Alex's quest for truth came to a screeching halt. Aunt Melanie was fast asleep.

The injuries on her body had healed remarkably well. The few that hadn't were sewn together with stitches. She appeared much cleaner now than she did last night. Her bleeding had stopped, and bandages hid the uglier parts of her wounds.

Still, a remarkable purple bruise resided on her left cheek, one that looked like the result of a fist. She leaned in closer, examining the damage carefully. She'd been punched. Repeatedly. Undoubtedly enough times to leave a mark on the assailant's knuckles.

"Hey Alex," entered a shrivel of a voice. Soon, she realized her aunt's waking eyes, and her heartwarming smile.

"How are you doing?"

A violent cough escaped her mouth. Alex asked if she should call a nurse. Aunt Melanie shook her head.

"I'm fine," Aunt Melanie stretched her arms, and they could both hear her joints crack. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Alex insisted almost too defensively. Then, to change the subject from her to Aunt Melanie, she asked, "Aunt Melanie, what happened?"

Aunt Melanie kept her face steady, with a level of patience as silent as a brick. It was almost like she was waiting for her to say something else. Something to change the topic. When Alex didn't, the elated beam on her face subsided, and she frowned. She observed the scratches on her skin, traced her index finger over them to caress the ridges on her body.

"Do you remember what happened?" Alex asked, though what she really wanted to say was Do you remember seeing me kill someone last night?

Aunt Melanie shook her head.

"Pleasant Grove is not a very nice place, Alex. I was out late in a place I shouldn't have been, and happened to have the misfortune of running into someone bad." She paused. Then, "I guess I deserved it," she whispered, still touching her flesh wound.

"What are you talking about?"

"The night that you came into my life, I promised myself that I would get better. I would become, a better person. I'd pick myself up." Then, on a seemingly entirely unrelated note, "Do you know why your mother and I stopped talking?"

"No."

Aunt Melanie looked out the window. The sunlight momentarily phased her attention. "I got tired of living there, if you can believe it. The pompous elites and their picture perfect lives. People who live inside their own bubble, then think they're so perfect for it. One thing I never understood about your mother was how at home she felt there. She liked it in Suburnia. Me on the other hand, I wanted to live a life that I thought was real, honest. So what did I do? I left Suburnia, came here to survive on my own, instead of living on family spoils. The road less travelled and all that. See the real world, explore it for what it is. And explore I did. You know, the real world is crueler than any Suburnian millionaire can ever understand. Five years of hope and wonder," she droned. "And this is finally what I've become. Just another chronic alcoholic too depressed for ambition."

Alex took her aunt's hand, kept it close and warm.

"We'll get through this."

"I'm sorry," Aunt Melanie apologized. And what she was about to say next made her well up before she even said it. "I have been such a wreck for so long. The man," she uttered, the man being the bald (now dead) man. "He came to rob me. I gave him my purse, my bag. After that he wanted more. But I just couldn't give him anything else, because I had nothing left. He hit me, and my only thought at that point was that if I ever got the chance to survive, I would do everything in my power to change. Truth is, I honestly didn't think I would live. And I have so many things to atone for."

Alex looked her aunt in the eye. "Chin up. The worst is over. Police found the man who attacked you. They said he died. Probably got mugged by someone else. How's that for karma?"

Aunt Melanie wasn't entertained by the idea.

"There's nothing to stress yourself over anymore. You're fine. How long are you going to be in the hospital?"

"At least a few days."

"That's good. That should give you enough time to relax, maybe stay off drinking."

"Are you going to be fine in the apartment on your own?"

"I will."

"Why don't you stay in the hospital with me? So I can keep an eye on you."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Alex encouraged a smile on Aunt Melanie's lips by emulating the gesture on her own.

"Your parents were lucky to have you," Aunt Melanie told her.

This, Alex Frost knew perfectly well, was false. But she also understood that Aunt Melanie had meant well, so she allowed her to continue believing it.

In the human world known as Earth, there are two things that people hear more than anything else in their daily lives. A) things they want to hear, and B) things they don't. Examples of A include someone being told that they are always right (even when they're not), that there is something better than sliced bread, that they made a sizable fortune in the stock market while doing absolutely nothing, and that they are the most handsomest or most beautiful being among all of God's creatures. Examples of B include being told that the bipolar snow pirate known as Santa Claus does not exist, that Dr. Who won't be returning next season, and that their pool boy is, as suspected, having an affair with their spouse.

Also in the human world known as Earth are two other things that people hear on a day by day basis. Truths, and lies. Sometimes the things that people want to hear coincide with the truth. This can make it easy for people to tell each other the truth. However, in that same token, the things that people want to hear can on many occasions turn out to be lies. Things that people don't want to be told are true but are true, are often referred to as sad truths. Things that people want to be told are true but are lies, are known as happy lies. And Alex Frost's life had been chalk full of both.

Though they weren't sad for her, they were sad for anyone that knew the reality of her life. Which was that in the past, Alex had never done anything for herself that wasn't in some major way, done for her parents. Rather than believe or make an honest effort to understand the sad truth about their daughter, they insisted endlessly on the happy lie. The notion that she was a normal girl. Alex had done so much on their account that now that they were gone, she felt herself in limbo. Struggling to find the motivations for everything she did and would do from this point onwards.

Aunt Melanie had assured Alex that she wanted her niece to be whoever she wanted to be. And therein was the problem. Alex didn't know who she wanted to be. Or for that matter, who she was in the first place.

After visiting her aunt in the hospital, Alex went back to the apartment, perched herself on the edge of the roof just in time to catch the sunset. An aura of gold lay casted on the city, giving the day's last few moments of shine before taking its leave.

When people speak of natural beauty, the first thing they typically point at is the sunset. The cornerstone of everything good in the world, Alex often heard people say. And to those that were fortunate enough to catch birds flying in the scene chirping together in friendship, it was Heaven on Earth. Yet as Alex saw the sun make its final descent, and the birds soar towards it with sheer optimism and grace, she felt no such sentiments. The irrational innervations were lost upon her. All she saw was a sun going down. Nothing more, nothing less. No hyperboles, no emotions.

However, with the absence of the sun came the cold reminder that from this point on, the life of Alex Frost was going to forever be contrary to what it should have been. And in the coming days ahead, Aunt Melanie, no matter how well-intentioned, wouldn't be able to give her what she needed most. As far as she knew, there was only one person who could give her the direction and the guidance she needed, who could help her understand her unexplainable craving for blood.

With that, Alex packed her backpack with school materials and as many pairs of clothes as she could fit in the leftover space. She went to see the one man that she was sure could give her a new life.

For the readers among us not entirely familiar with the English language, I would like to bestow upon you a helpful tip. When people say that something is ironic, they don't mean to say that something tastes like iron, or that it has an iron-like texture. Confusing, I know. The English language has so many unexplainable oddities that I'm actually in the middle of creating a language of my own. In fact, as I write this, I am also teaching my new language to an illiterate South African tribe. But that is neither here nor there.

Instead, when people say that something is ironic, they mean to imply that it is in many ways, coincidental, accidental, or poetically contrary to what a person originally wanted or intended. Like when a person has a fear of letters, and finds himself working in the post office. Or when a politician claims to have a love for families, and doesn't have a secret other family of his own. Or in this case, when a girl enters the doorsteps of the man who took away her old life, asking for a new one in return.

It was late at night outside. Crickets were out, and if there were birds circling over the Combermere abode like there always were during the day, it was too dark to notice them.

Alex knocked on the door. Before long, the door swung open with a violent push. Lord Combermere had his hand on the knob, and he quickly took notice of the sixteen year old girl who was little more than half his height.

"How did you get here?" he asked, cold and distant.

"I took a train," said Alex, the backpack which had strained her shoulders lay beside her on the ground. "Then a bus. From there, I walked."

"I understand that you live with your aunt now."

"How did you know that?"

"What would she think of your being here?"

"My aunt is in the hospital."

"What for?" he asked, suddenly curious.

"A man tried to kill her. But she's safe now. The doctors want her there for the rest of the night, possibly two more nights depending on her condition."

And then, because Lord Combermere didn't invite her in, she said, "I was wondering if it was possible for me to speak with you about a few things."

Lord Combermere maintained his position within the door's opening, but relented after a few seconds of self-deliberation.

"Follow me."

Alex picked up her backpack, once again slung the strap over her shoulder. She shut the front door behind her. Lord Combermere led her to a dining room where he had apparently been having dinner alone, as evidenced by a plain white ceramic plate of pasta, and a warm glass of water beside it. Lord Combermere dropped to his seat, curled the pasta on his silver fork before bringing it to his mouth.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"No."

"So tell me. Have you done what I told you to do?"

"Yes. I already have someone in mind."

"Already?" Lord Combermere questioned. "You must truly be excited about killing."

Alex looked down, felt the surface of the man's tablecloth, black and with a silky texture.

"It's the only way I can feel," she told.

"I understand what you're going through. At your age, I too was taken in with the same degree of confusion, the unanswerable questions of what you are now going through. The key is to realize what you are before you let others do it for you. Otherwise you risk losing yourself forever. If I hadn't spent so much of my time with insignificant people, I would have learned more about my condition sooner."

"Is that why you changed?"

Lord Combermere paused. "Changed?"

"You used to be a lawyer. And a great one at that, or so they say. Once upon a time people would claim that there was no case you couldn't win even if you tried. They all admired you for what you could do. And then, you changed."

"I didn't change," Lord Combermere retorted. "I stopped lying to myself."

"Now everyone is afraid of you."

Lord Combermere took another bite of his pasta. "I could care less. People don't hold my interest."

"Why?"

Abruptly, a noise carried inside the room. Or at least she thought so, since Lord Combermere had just as quickly cupped his hand behind his left ear.

"What do you hear?" Lord Combermere whispered to the girl, careful not to let his voice drown out the noise.

"I don't hear anything," she confessed.

"That is correct. Absolutely nothing. Just peace, and silence." He leaned back on his chair. "One day, when you tire of the ravings of ordinary human beings, these things will mean a lot to you. Are you sure I can't interest you in some dinner?"

"No thank you. I already ate. I was actually wondering if I could stay with you for a few days. At least until my aunt gets better."

"I insist that you do. Come now. You must be tired from your trip. My home has four guest quarters in every floor. Feel free to choose whichever suits you most. And in the future, know that you are more than welcome to spend the night whenever you want."

"Thank you," said Alex.

"Please. No need for such formalities here. But first, before you sleep, I think I should give you something. Do you like to read?"

Alex, whose voracious taste for knowledge had yet to reduce or diminish, told Lord Combermere plainly, "Yes."

"Well then. In that case, I think you're going to like what I have to show you."

What he took her to see was up the first flight of stairs of the Combermere estate. At the exact center of the floor was a library, large enough and filled with enough bookshelves to nearly make her emotionless jaw drop.

"Such a large collection. Do you even know what kind of books you have?"

"Dear girl. If I should pride myself in anything, it should be in my collection of literature. Trust me. I keep only the best."

Alex roamed the aisles of medium oak shelves tall enough to come within centimeters of the ceiling. Occupying the space were a cluster of books and the smell of old pages. Lord Combermere had arranged his books in alphabetical order, starting from A all the way to Z. Lord Combermere had such a wide array of books that it took more than half an entire aisle to go through all the titles that started with A, only to find another that started with B. B was only slightly longer than A. But longer yet were Lord Combermere's collection of books that started with the letter E, which spanned exactly two whole aisles.

"Before you go to bed tonight," Lord Combermere told Alex. "I would like to offer you a gift."

"A gift?"

"Out of my entire collection, you may pick any five books to keep as your own."

Instinctively, her lips were on the verge of letting out the words Thank you, but she suddenly remembered what he'd said about such formalities. She struggled to come up with an alternate way to show appreciation, still clinging to the idea that Lord Combermere expected it.

"Thank you," her lips let out in spite of her prior hesitation.

"You really must grow out of that," Lord Combermere replied.

A soundless puff of air escaped from Alex's lips. She proceeded to marvel at the man's library, taking note of some of the rare first edition books he had in stock. An old print of Shakespeare's collected works, and a few rare copies of both the Bible and the Qur'an. None of these books happened to hold her interest, especially since she'd already read the later editions. There was no point in reading an older, much more aged print of the same book.

She travelled down the rows once, then twice, and just to make sure her eyes caught every title he had in stock, she made one last sweep. When Alex was done, she had in her hands two encyclopedias (one regarding human anatomy, another on surgical procedures), a first edition copy of Charles Darwin's The Origin Of Species (a book which, she was ashamed to admit, she hadn't yet read), and two novels, both from Joyce Carol Oats.

She showed them to Lord Combermere as if for approval. He nodded his head, stopped himself when he saw the last two books.

"I never pegged you for someone who reads novels."

"I find them interesting."

"Very well. Come. I'll show you to the largest guest quarter in the house."

The largest guest quarter in the house was on the sixth floor, five doors away from Lord Combermere's own bedroom. With space enough for an old piano, a separate study area, and a private bathroom, there was no questioning the room's magnanimous size. Not even Alex's parents, who were among the richest of Suburnia's elite, had a bedroom that came close to contesting what she saw before her. At least not in size. In cleanliness and overall presentation however, the room left much to be desired.

The walls of Lord Combermere's largest private quarters were dark green, and the curtains by the windows, pitch black. Even with the lights on, the room had the permeance of a closed coffin. Furthermore, a vast collection of dust had welcomed itself onto every visible surface. Thin, white strands of spider webs hung by the corners, trapping dead mosquitoes and flies alike. Strange to Alex was the fact that in spite of the well-crafted silk nets, there were no spiders to be seen.

"You will sleep here," said Lord Combermere. "I assume you will be going to school in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Then when you return, perhaps you and I will go pay a visit to whomever it is you have in mind to kill."

Alex agreed, secretly anticipating the experience that lay ahead of her.

"Well then. Don't let me keep you up. I trust you're going to need all your energy for the day ahead."

Lord Combermere proceeded to leave the room. His hands reached for the doorknob when Alex called for his attention.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Thank you, Lord Combermere," she said again. And rather than bring out another irksome reply, an entirely different mood came out.

Lord Combermere lowered his head. "You're welcome. And please, call me Henry."

"Henry," she tried it out.

"Better."

Lord Combermere closed the door right before Alex had the time to utter out another commonly-said phrase. Good night, something her parents told her on so many bedtime occasions that she had unknowingly picked it up as a habit of her own.

As Alex hopped onto the king-sized bed in front of her, the mattress aired out hidden particles of fabric that hung in the air before showering back down. Alex removed the comforter, let it drop on the hardwood floor while she slept with her clothes and shoes for warmth.
Chapter 10

Apt Pupil

When Alex returned to Elsinore Academy the next morning, things had changed. And by change, I don't mean that they were different from normal, only that they were normal from different. In the span of a single day, it seemed that everything had magically reverted back to the way they had always been.

For one, nobody paid any mind to Alex or the cheap car she came in on since today, she had walked from the Combermere estate. In the echoing school halls, she found students walking together, chatting the way they normally did, Principal McLeary finding and grumpily scolding at them the way he normally did, and the sound of the first bell blaring all across the campus the same way it normally did. All was as it had always been. As though the police had never stepped foot on campus the previous day, Tommy Hargrave was still alive, and Alex walked to school from her home like she always did. Elsinore had finally returned to its former self; a notion that Alex didn't fully believe, but fully encouraged.

Six hours later, back in Pleasant Grove, Alex Frost and Lord Henry Combermere hid behind a row of bushes, eyeing the residence of the man that Alex had spied on last night.

"Things were better in school today," said Alex, recounting the early morning's events. "Amy and I got to talk again since, well, you know. She's been doing a lot better since what Tommy Hargrave did to her."

"Alexandra," Lord Combermere shot in a low but no-less-brash voice. "Stop wasting time. Focus. What have you gathered about the prey?"

"In half an hour from now, he'll go to bed," Alex reported. "Approximately."

"This is the man you want to kill?"

She gave an affirmative nod.

Lord Combermere looked around the empty setting, settled his eyes back to the man watching his television through the window of his shoddy home.

"Seems simple enough. And you say he lives alone?"

"There's only one car on the driveway. He watches television by himself, and there's only one name on his letterbox and mail."

"And what name would that be?"

"Robert Savage."

Robert Savage, as far as Lord Combermere could tell, was a man of horridly simple taste. He wore cheap clothes, drank from a bottle of cheap beer, and ate cheap, dangerously unhealthy food. He also didn't seem to place much value in exercise, as he had thick, flabby arms.

"Not a very savagely looking man is he?"

"Maybe on pastry."

To that, Alex could sense Lord Combermere's lips barely twinge.

"So how do we do this?" Alex inquired.

"Never underestimate the lesson of experience. This is your hunt, Alex. I leave that in your hands. I'm only here to observe. To critique, if you will." And in observing through the window, at the obese man blankly staring at his television, "You should probably start soon."

She nodded in firm agreement.

At that point, it was up to Alex and her trusty bag of materials. She rummaged through them one more time to make sure she had all that she needed. Chloroform? Check. Knife? Check. Rope? Check. Duct tape? Check. Lockpick tools? Check. She zipped up the bag, went forth to hunt.

She couldn't have snuck in through the window the same way she did the previous night. Her victim was still awake, and would likely see her if she made such an entrance. Given that, Alex resorted to plan B.

In less than a minute, the girl undid with the lock on the back door with her gadget of picks and tension wrenches. She snuck inside, tip-toeing every step of the way. In doing so, she had to avoid landing on the many obstacles on the floor. The familiar scent of the house sifted into her nose once again (though slightly more so now). The entire house, from the entryway to the living room, carried the smell of rotting sugar. Plastic soda bottles of every kind lay across the path, their liquid contents seeping into the carpet floor. Newspapers and magazines had also been strewn about in senseless disarray. In order to traverse without being heard, Alex had to mind her every step. And in the poor lighting of her surroundings, it was easier conceived than practiced.

In the end, she narrowly made it. She came close enough behind her prey that she could smell his rank body odor. Alex readied the chloroform. She dabbed the liquid onto a dry hand towel. Unfortunately, her face was much closer to the bottle than it should have been. Its potent scent sifted into her nose as she inhaled, causing a brief sensation of wooziness. Not enough to avert consciousness, but certainly, it was enough to make her land on the wrong foot.

Alex's right heel crushed against a stray potato chip. Doing this not only alerted her prey, but it also made him furious.

"Who the hell are you?" he growled. And from his pant pocket, he brandished a pistol in front of her face. One that Alex never knew he had until it was a mere second away from ending her life.

A shot fired. Luckily for Alex, she threw herself on the ground just in time to avoid a bullet in between her eyes. But because of this, she lost her balance. The man was slow, to the extent that as he took aim again, Alex was already on her feet, wrestling his hand for control over the gun.

The effort was futile. The man was at least ten times stronger than she was, and so whichever way she tilted the weapon, the man forced it away with less than half the amount of effort. Her only choice was to make him lose his bearing.

With that, Alex sunk her teeth into the man's neck.

He yelled. To further weaken him, she stomped on the man's bare foot. He lost control of his firearm. Yet just as she was about to grab it from him, he regained his strength, pushed her as hard as he could against the wall. She was now much too far for a second chance at taking his weapon. The black eye of the pistol was already aimed to fire.

Lord Combermere appeared behind the man. Before Robert Savage could pull the trigger, Lord Combermere pierced his dagger into the man's nape. He froze like a slab of stone, landed with a hard thud on his carpet floor.

"You still have much to learn."

"I suppose I do."

She was also beginning to suppose that this might not have been what she was cut out to do. She'd already made too many mistakes, scarcely got caught for them. If this went on for any longer, she knew that her luck would eventually wear out.

"Do not worry about it," Lord Combermere touched her on the shoulder. "We'll make this up later. The very fact that you survived an armed man twice your strength speaks volumes for what you can one day accomplish."

"Are you sure?"

Lord Combermere looked into her eyes.

"Absolutely."

From out the window, Alex heard a heavy commotion, followed by footsteps, followed by voices.

"It's the police!" a voice shouted from outside. "We heard gunshots. Come outside now!"

"We have to leave," Lord Combermere told.

Alex, who realized this night was a much bigger failure now than it had been just a few seconds prior, feigned her head in agreement.

"Quickly. Through the back."

At this point, a thunderous barrage of feet thumped against the door, each kick loosening the lock.

Alex picked up the handgun on the floor. She and Lord Combermere made their way through the backdoor, climbed past the home fence only to come eye to eye with a policeman in uniform.

"Halt!" he ordered.

But that was all he had the time to do. In a swift, almost unseeable motion, Alex took aim of the policeman's leg and fired. The recoil pushed her arms back, and the gun in between her palms turned hot. Within an instant, the policemen fell to the ground, writhing in pain.

"Finish him," Lord Combermere instructed.

But Alex didn't want to kill him. Not when she wouldn't have the time to savor her kill. Not when she should have been running instead.

"Let's go."

A downed policeman would have slowed down anyone else that might be chasing after them. Hopefully more so than a dead one. And though the distinct possibility existed that he'd seen their faces, she counted on it being too dark for him to make out anything definite. In fact, Alex herself had hardly been able to see the policeman's face when she shot him. All she could attest to was his shape, his silhouette. The lighting in the avenue was much too poor. Hopefully it was all she needed to keep her identity intact.

For the better part of a minute, they sprinted as fast as their lungs allowed. Then Lord Combermere stuck his palm against the wall, leaned on it while he caught his breath.

"Come on," Alex insisted. "We have no time."

"I can't," he gasped.

They were on a dark alleyway. Alex could sense by the trembling ground that more police were on their way.

"If we both stay here, we'll get caught."

"I can't go on any further."

His knees were stiff, and his heart began beating so hard she could hear it.

Alex quickly studied every detail of her background, searching urgently for anything that could help her.

"There," she said, pointing Lord Combermere to a dark, empty corner directly beside an open dumpster. They squeezed in between the garbage lid and the corner of a wall. There was space enough for them to fit, but that was all. They had to squeeze their arms together, duck as low as their backs would allow.

The dumpster was so foul, so horrendously nose-numbing that no amount of body odor or skunk spraying would have even come close to matching the fumes coming from the open lid. On top of spoiled and rotten food, it stunk to high heaven of dead animal carcasses from those who hadn't the heart to bury their pets nor the care-to to have them cremated. And to make a bad matter worse, since the lid was open, crows and stray dogs had ripped every trash bag apart. This allowed every odor to roam free in the air, corrupt it with its toxic scent. If either Alex or Lord Combermere had souls, they would have caught the horrid stench emanating from the dumpster, and they would have considered hiding someplace else, or better yet considered getting caught. For this was the ultimate stench of all things rotten and dead.

However, since neither Lord Combermere nor Alex Frost had ever been born with souls, escaping the smell was hardly a concern. They could breathe in the smell around them, but they hadn't the ability to tell if it was a bad smell or a good smell. If they could only understand just how horrid it truly was, they would have continued to run for miles on end rather than endure another second of such a putrid stink.

One might say that at that moment they were fortunate enough not to have souls, because in the end, it worked. The policemen left the alley none-the-wiser, and Alex and Lord Combermere were safe.

* * *

Back at the Combermere residence, Alex held Lord Combermere by his arm and accompanied him to his room all the way up the sixth floor. She realized as she opened the door to his quarters that this was the first time she'd seen his room. It was just as black and emotionless as all the other rooms in the house. Not surprising, considering how little he cared about cosmetics.

Alex helped Lord Combermere to his bed.

"Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine," said Lord Combermere. His frail skin leaked beads of sweat. His muscles tensed, and his mouth was dry.

"I'll get you some water."

"Years ago, this never would have happened."

Alex wiped his sweat with a towel on the nightstand. She went to one of the many bathrooms on the sixth floor and fetched Lord Combermere a glass of water from the sink.

"This will help."

She brought the full glass to his unchapped lips. Lord Combermere drank the cold tap water, raised the glass to his head until none was left. His monocle no longer covered his left eye. Instead it was lying right beside him on his bed. When he was done with it, Alex placed the now-empty glass of water on the nightstand, where she saw something spark her curious mind.

A picture frame, lying with its backing board to her face. She picked it up, turned it around.

"That's my family," Lord Combermere mumbled in a low, exhausted voice. "Well, before they left me at least."

"You never told me you had a family," Alex replied. And if she had the capacity to gasp, she certainly would have done so upon seeing the picture.

It was a black and white photograph, and based on the wrinkles around the edge, taken a long time ago. A young woman stood facing the camera. By the light tone on her hair, it was clear she was a blonde. Beside her was a young Lord Combermere in a much more vibrant, youthful body. He didn't have a monocle, and unlike the way he dressed nowadays, he didn't have a coat nor did he even have long sleeves. He was dressed for summer; with shorts, running shoes, and a colorful checkered t-shirt. Standing one-sixth their height was a young boy with a mushroom hair and his father's smile.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"It didn't occur to me to mention them. Besides, they're long gone anyway."

Alex sat with one leg on Lord Combermere's bed, silently contemplating what that could have meant.

"And no. I didn't kill them."

"Oh."

"For my entire life I pretended I was a normal person. Someone who could understand love, hate, the capacity for emotional connection. I tried so hard, eventually I thought that getting married would bring me to life. Elizabeth," he indicated. "The woman in the picture. She genuinely loved me at one point. I remember thinking to myself that of all the lies, making someone believe that I loved them was by far my biggest. She felt so much for me, while everything I said and did were nothing but fa _ç_ ades. Two years later, once we had our own child, things changed. Eventually she stopped caring about me. When she told me that she no longer loved me, that she was going to take my son Micah and leave for Barcelona, it was I in the end, who found myself lost. I thought I knew everything there was to know about her."

"Your son. Was he anything like you?"

"No. He had, has, a soul, just like his mother. I could see it in his eyes the day he was born; we have nothing in common."

"Do you miss him?"

Lord Combermere gandered at the ceiling.

"I used to think I did. But now, I realize that's not what it was at all."

"What was it then?"

"Please," Lord Combermere waved the question away with his hand. "Let's save this for another time. Now I must sleep, as I presume you should too."

"You're right."

"The day after tomorrow, we will go out for another hunt."

"So soon?"

"Don't worry. I've already planned everything. All you have to do is follow my instructions. Hopefully things will go more successfully."

Alex didn't know what to say. While she did want to make up for the night's blunder, she couldn't bring herself to believe that going out for a second kill so soon after was in any way discretionary or advisable.

"I don't think I'm ready," she protested mildly.

To that, Lord Combermere gently reassured her. "Trust me. You're ready."

Alex picked herself up from Lord Combermere's bedside, closed his bedroom door as she left.

Of what she had previously read about Lord Combermere (which, admittedly, wasn't much to begin with), there had never been any mention of a family. It struck her as odd that no one had ever mentioned it before. More than likely, that was because his life as family man had taken place long, long ago, and had passed the collective memories of all the journalists and reporters that sought to antagonize the outcast that he had now become.

Possible. But also unlikely.

Regardless, with the revelation of Lord Combermere's past, Alex couldn't help but think of her present. She'd always known in the back of her mind that her charade of normalcy would only last for so long. That there would come a time when she could no longer keep up her humanity act.

Now she learned that even if she could, there was no guarantee that any of it would matter. If Lord Combermere's experience was indication of anything, it was that even relationships that went for years could come to an untimely end. Even if Alex remained a loyal friend to Amy and those around her, there was no guaranteeing it would last, that they wouldn't shun her out no matter what she did. As time changes, so do people. Was it wise for her to continue being a friend of the normal, or was she better off seeking the company of those that were more like her?
Chapter 11

Wine With Fish

Among us there are a great many men and women who go beyond the call of duty in times of dire need. People who go to war to serve and protect what they know as their homeland. I will not make a list of all these people, but I assure you, there are many. My mail man was one such person, as was a close friend I once knew. My uncle also recently made a friend who had served during a great number of wars, although this man had the unfortunate disposition of being completely imaginary.

While in the asylum, my uncle told me of the many harrowing tales of a Captain Arthur J. Mugglepuffs, a giant with a body composed of steel, the strength of a thousand albino polar bears, and a retractable moustache that went either up or down depending on the weather.

According to my uncle, Arthur J. Mugglepuff had fought in nearly every war in the 20th century, including World War I, World War II, and the Cold War. He recalled events of him smashing planes while standing atop a skyscraper, and foiling the evil plans of the Red Skull. All these he did as a hero to his country, to serve and protect the people of his native land of Krypton, years before it met its unfortunate demise.

Shortly after my uncle told me this, I thought it best to cut my visiting hours, and to stop sending him comic books.

If there was one thing that my rambling uncle told me though that made an inkling of sense however, it is that there are indeed many a soldier who sacrifice and risk their lives to ensure the freedoms of others. Arthur J. Mugglepuff, despite being entirely fictional, could be considered one of these special brands of people. Edward D. Kipper on the other hand, who was very much real and alive, could not.

Approaching the fragile age of seventy two, Edward Kipper had accomplished more in his own life than anyone else in his family. The fact that he had fought multiple times during World War II and survived the rest of his bloodline was what he considered to be a testament to his own inner strength.

To him, the only ones that mattered in life were those who had the strength to survive on their own. And though he did serve as a British soldier during World War II, he did so not with the intent of serving his country, but himself. Every day during his station in France, he would eagerly count the days, hours, minutes, and seconds until he had the chance to kill enemy combatants. With each man that fell by his gun was a number that he boasted openly to his fellow soldiers. During his first month, that number was two. Five during his second, and it increased to twelve during his third.

Of his many accomplishments, what Edward felt most proud of was that by the end of his tour, he was responsible for the deaths of fifty enemy combatants. To him it mattered not what they were fighting for or what he himself was fighting for, only that he proved his dominance, his strength. A strength that had served him well in the past, and one that had all but left him in his present.

Nowadays, Edward lived in the home of his grandparents, the only member left of the Kipper biological family. And though this may have saddened any ordinary human being, Edward took it as yet another accomplishment, another testament to his strength as a man.

Of course, now that he'd survived every challenge in his entire life, there was nothing left to do but wait and die. Sitting alone on his couch, coughing anemically into his hand, feelings of self-pity came over him as they often did during his old age. After all he had gone through, he had prayed and hoped for a better way to die than this. Lying around with nothing to do, rotting with age each day that passed him by; this was not the way that a warrior was meant to pass. What he wanted above all else was one more battle. A way to test what little he had left of his strength.

Little did he know that sooner than he could think, he would find precisely that. And when he did, like it or not, there would be no turning back.

Night fell over the city. Under the cover of darkness, Alex Frost stared into the window of the one-story home, at the grey-haired man who did nothing but sit by himself in absolute boredom.

"This is the man you want me to kill?"

Lord Combermere stared alongside her, his hands placed deep inside his pockets as a wave of cool air blew past. His monocle rested on his eye, fogging up due to the fifty below climate.

"That he is."

Maintaining her distance, Alex observed Edward's scrawny build, his bones nearly as thin as paper.

"Seems simple."

"You have to start somewhere. After all, you bit more than you could chew with your previous victim."

"Robert Savage?"

"On top of being twice your size, the man had a gun. He could have killed you."

"I didn't know he carried a gun. It wasn't something I expected, especially not when handguns are illegal."

"Well, there's a valuable lesson to be learned in that."

"Expect the unexpected," Alex mouthed, as though she had been forced to repeat it to herself over and over again.

"Our Edward Kipper has killed fifty men during war. That takes talent. He may be old now, but I wouldn't underestimate him."

"Note taken."

Alex checked her bag of supplies. Present was the bottle of chloroform, a roll of duct tape, her lock pick set, and the most important tool of them all.

"Don't take the knife," Lord Combermere instructed.

"Why not?"

"Because your goal is not to kill him."

Alex paused. "I don't understand."

"What I want you to do is something that takes more skill than simply running a knife in his chest."

"And what would that be?" Pray tell, as Amy would often say.

"You are going to abduct our dear Mr. Kipper, and together we will bring him to my home. Then, we finish him off there."

After she mulled it over to herself, his instruction made ample sense.

If Alex was going to continue to do what she was doing, she had to train herself to be as physically capable as she could. Not to mention, the less of a mess she left at the crime scene, the less likely it would have been to leave behind any unneeded residue of evidence.

With the bag strapped to her back, Alex was ready for what awaited ahead.

"Wish me luck."

"I do hope you're not relying on luck to get you through."

A simple Yes would have done, Alex thought. Or a Good Luck, Good Hunting. Don't Get Hurt, Safe Journey. For just a short while, Alex remained where she stood, wondering if Lord Combermere had anything else to say. He didn't. His eyes were aimed at the window, at the panoramic view of Edward Kipper.

Say what one would about humans, but Alex didn't think she would ever get used to her mentor's penurious demeanor. It was as though any aspect of human behavior she picked up, he was more than willing to crumple up and throw away.

Alex circled the house, decided that the best entrance would have been through the back. She pulled the knob from the backyard door. Lo and behold, it was open. It appeared that her soon-to-be victim liked to live dangerously, without fear of potential robbers or serial killers. That was just as well. It saved Alex the five minutes of having to pick the lock.

She opened the door in front of her, shut it just as carefully behind. Aside from a whisper of a squeak, all was silent. If Edward Kipper was aware of her presence, she heard no signs of it.

Drops of chloroform were dabbed onto a white handkerchief. She was careful this time to keep it as far away from her nose as she could.

Skulking in tight jeans, black cotton gloves, and a pair of sneakers, Alex took her steps with utmost grace. Not one foot dropped heavier than the other. It helped that because she didn't have a soul, she was able to maintain her calm all throughout, fearing no reprisals or unexpected surprises. She was incapable of flinching. It helped also that the floors were all carpeted, making her every move as easy as one-two-three.

One. Finding Edward Kipper's back, his grey head sticking out from the furniture he was sitting on.

Two. Approaching him, bearing a handkerchief with enough toxic chemicals to put him out for at least fifteen minutes (that was, assuming it didn't rupture his degenerating body organs first).

Three. Catching him by the throat the instant he saw her reflection on his television. Subduing him into unconsciousness before he had the time to stand on his feet to react.

"Hmph!" he cried, muffled by the scent of the cloth sifting into his nose, into his mouth. Edward's arms and legs kicked wildly at the air, showing no thought or objectivity. For as long as he was still awake, Edward Kipper panicked in hopeless desperation.

Hardly five seconds in, and he was gone.

"You did it," Lord Combermere observed before Alex had any way of knowing that he was in the same room with her. "Flawless performance."

From her knapsack, Alex pulled out a heavy line of duct tape. She tied him down like a spider would trap its prey, so that even when he woke, he would be too helpless to do anything other than squirm.

In the corner of the room was a folded wheelchair. Alex unfurled it, parked it beside Edward Kipper. As she lifted the lanky old man on her shoulder, she had found much to her chagrin that he was heavier he looked. Significantly. To the point that with his short height, thin muscles and his soft bones, she was left wondering where all the extra pounds came from.

With bare success, Edward was able to fall on the wheelchair. Uncomfortably. He was unconscious, so that didn't matter much. He wasn't likely to wake up soon. Alex took the man to a rented van outside that Lord Combermere had recently acquired. She threw Edward into the back of the van, relieved to be rid of the weight of his body. He smacked head-first against the cold, metal base.

"Easy," said Lord Combermere. "You don't want him to wake up just yet."

But it was too late. Edward Kipper was coming out of his short, drug induced nap, groaning as he slowly came to.

"Just great."

Lord Combermere climbed to the back of the van, and with a swift kick from his heel, knocked him back to sleep.

"We should leave now."

The van left at precisely 12 A.M, going neither too fast nor too slow. Traffic was hardly present as they went along back roads and city neighborhoods. But when they reached the highway, they were taken in by a vivacious party of yellow headlights, and a series of cars jam-packed on the interstate Northridge bridge.

Lord Combermere kept his hands firm on the steering wheel. Alex reared her head out the window as the vehicle came to a stop behind a dark blue sedan. The line, as far as she could tell, went for at least a mile. From the looks of it, they were going to be around for a while.

"What's going on?" Alex asked, though it didn't seem that her mentor shared her curiosity.

"Most likely a car accident," he conjectured. "Keep your head in the car."

Without a word of protest, Alex obeyed. An entire hour slowly trudged by, and the van hadn't been able to move as much as a single yard. They waited all that time in silence, until Alex thought to speak.

"You know," she started. "Amy and I used to come to this bridge a lot when we were fourteen. We would borrow her father's Porsche every night, and we would take it anywhere."

"Please," interrupted Lord Combermere. "As I have mentioned before, I don't need to know about the time you spend with your plebian friends."

If Alex considered what she had with Amy and the rest of the students of Elsinore Academy to be a genuine friendship, she more than likely would have resented that statement. Since Alex didn't, she thought nothing of it, though asked herself why the need for her mentor's hostility.

" Well, then what do you want to talk about?" she asked him.

"Nothing," was his answer, and nothing, he gave in return.

"Why don't you tell me about your family?"

"I would rather not."

"Why? Too personal?"

Lord Combermere glanced at the road, then at the front passenger seat. "It's not something I want to discuss at this moment."

With that, Alex Frost leaned back, stared out the window to her left.

The river below glittered with the moon's aura, giving a distorted reflection of its crested face.

The surface of the water bounced up and down, turned left and right, unaware of what it was doing, unable to care either way. The black of night, combined with the blue of the sea and the white of the moon came together to form a picture perfect image. She watched it, thinking that if she did it long enough, maybe she would start to understand what was so attractive about it.

Alex knew in the dank pits of her soulless heart that it was a hopeless endeavor. It wasn't the first time she'd looked at beauty and tried to convince herself that it was beautiful. She had seen many a Monet, many a Picasso, a Matisse. And while she could compliment them for their stark attention to detail, she failed to muster any emotions from looking at their work.

It has been said that art is most effective when the viewer allows it to leap beyond the boundaries of the canvass, and let it climbed in their souls. By now I need not tell you why this would have been impossible for Alex Frost.

The tragedy of our girl without a soul was that the only chance she had of finding any inkling of joy in life was in killing. Nothing else could give her the ability to feel life. Not the sight of the river before her eyes, nor the city traffic lights at night, not even the moon that hung like a shining pearl in the black sky.

Maybe the time would come when she could feel like any ordinary human being. But until came that day, killing would have to do.

* * *

Alex and her mentor took the unconscious body of Edward Kipper down to the Combermere basement, and kept it under the sustained influence of sleep medication. His wrists and ankles were strapped onto a clean bed, his arm connected to an IV stand that steadily pumped sleep inducing drugs into his system.

"Why aren't we killing him now?" asked Alex, who failed to see the logic behind her mentor's decision. In what was meant to be a reply, he recited an old proverb.

"All good things come to those who wait."

"But he's right here," said Alex, bemused over her mentor's sense of logic.

When she was a young child, her parents would often teach her the value of patience. Not because our girl without a soul needed to be taught such a discipline, but because they wanted to tell her the things that normal parents would have told to their normal children.

All good things come to those who wait, was just one of the many words of wisdom they thought to share. And while their daughter failed to learn anything useful from the old adage, tonight, as her villainous, serial killing mentor mentioned these very words to her, Alex took from it one important message.

"You're senile."

"I am not senile," he responded. "I am simply trying to express the fact that the experience gets better the longer you wait. You've already had your kill last night. To kill again right now would be too soon. It wouldn't be as rewarding. By tomorrow, your appetite should return to its fullest. Until then, we leave him here to recover."

"What do I do until then?"

"You can read a book. My library should keep you busy for a while. Or you can go to bed. It is late after all. And you have school tomorrow morning."

"But I don't feel like reading, or going to bed."

"Dear child, you can wait a day until you kill."

"I can, but-"

"And you will," retorted her mentor, in a tone that suggested the conversation over. "Now, I am going to bed. Do with your time what you will, but leave the victim be until tomorrow."

* * *

Our lives are impacted the most not by the things that happen to us, but by the choices we make; for instance, the choice to buy flood insurance.

These are the sage words of Alphonzo Martinez, an insurance salesman with a tongue of silver and a heart of gold, who recently died of mercury poisoning.

If Alex Frost could be said to have had any choice on the course of her life, then perhaps her biggest choice was the one that ended Tommy Hargrave's life. For not only did this result in the death of a Suburnia boy, but it also brought to light a soulless girl's inhuman taste for blood.

How appropriate it be, that in trying to drown away her urge to kill until tomorrow, Alex Frost took a stroll down to the O'Mallery Park, where she took the life of her first victim.

The scene of Tommy Hargrave's death was once again divided from the public via yellow police tape wrapped around surrounding trees. There was no one there to guard the area, leaving any potential passerby the choice to respect the stern rules of the yellow police tape.

Alex Frost, deciding that it was wise not to frustrate the police any further, kept herself within safe distance of the crime scene, observing it from just a few safe yards away.

Chapter 12

The Measure Of A Girl

First class of the day; biology. In lieu of the conventional classroom setting, this took place in a large laboratory filled with measuring equipment, test tubes, caged mice for running experiments, and various chemical substances spread throughout the room. Some relatively harmless, some unknown, and some that had no business being in a school with children present.

The biology teacher, Professor Jacob Eldridge, was on top of being a handsomely paid teacher, a renowned scientific researcher. He was an eccentric, schizophrenic man, and enjoyed conducting various tests on animals, such as feeding foreign chemicals to mice and then determining what he'd just fed them after the fact (though whether or not this was done because he was schizophrenic or regardless of it remains to be seen). Once he offered to one of his guinea mice a sip of some strange green liquid, which by the fact that it soon grew more than twice its size, turned out to be an experimental growth hormone. On another occasion, he'd fed some golden brown liquid to another mouse, and by judging its behavior, determined that it was beer. One time, he fed some dark purple substance that a fellow scientist once gave him. The creature's I.Q skyrocketed to the point of being a scientific breakthrough. On the next day, when the professor was eager to experiment on it some more, the cage lock had been opened, and the mouse was missing.

Alex went to the furthest station in the lab room, where Amy hung her mouth disgustedly over metal trays of dead frogs. Ben, standing right next to her, seemed only too eager to participate in what the professor had in mind for class.

"Alex," Amy said. "You are my lab partner. I'm not touching this thing with a stick."

"Don't be such a girl Amy. It's going to be wicked."

Ben rubbed his hands together, excitement flowing inside him. Alex furrowed her brows upon seeing the boy's reaction. With Ben anxious to carve out a frog's intestines, she had to wonder if humans born with souls were really that much different from those without them.

"Good morning class," came Professor Jacob Eldridge, more commonly referred to by Alex and her classmates alike as professor. He wore a long white lab coat over a collar shirt, a tie with red and black checkered patterns, and wire framed glasses along his ears.

The professor began to take roll count when he saw some bratty students in the back playing with his bottles of chemicals. The young delinquents senselessly poured and mixed compounds into test tubes, holding their heads in awe when they saw smoke wafting steadily out.

"Boys," the professor called.

They ignored.

With a fit, the professor snatched away the smoking tube. The boys faced him then, first with anger, then with guilt.

"Let me guess," the professor studied the test tube, swirled it in his hands. "A mixture of hydrogen peroxide and potassium permanganate."

"Actually," one of the delinquent students cut in.

But the professor had him penned. Feeling proud of himself, he added, "You children are too easy." He then proceeded to pour the liquid substance into the sink. The delinquent boy didn't seem to think this was a good idea. As such, neither did the professor once the chemicals began cascading out.

The liquid substance burned through the sink and straight down the ensuing pipes. Bits of smoke came out, accompanied with the sizzling sound of something frying.

"Hmm," observed the professor, curious and dreadfully embarrassed at the same time. He leaned his eyes towards the hole in the sink. He backed away.

"I believe it would be for the best if none of us mentioned this to the headmasters."

The class agreed in silence.

"Excellent," the professor said. "I see that most of us are here today. That is excellent. For our purposes today, we will be dissecting a frog, as you can see before you. The purpose here, is so that we will understand more about the anatomy of a frog, study its organs, and the motors that make it run. Hopefully, if we observe closely enough, we will find that we have more in common with these small, wild creatures than we might at first think. Now, ideally, I would have preferred that we dissect a human being. Unfortunately," and with that he began to gnash his teeth so that what he would say next would sound less than complimentary. "Our Elsinore headmasters have it in their heads that such things are inappropriate. So," he sighed. "We will instead be working on frogs. However, I still expect you to study as much as you can about the human organs as you will be tested on the subject next week. Wait a minute. I'll be in Kilimanjaro next week. We'd better make the test tomorrow instead."

A simultaneous groan erupted.

"Now now. We have no time for dilly-dallying. Get on with your assignment. Students pick up your scalpels. Raise them up so I know that every lab partner has one."

Alex raised hers at the exact same moment as everybody else.

"Good. Now I want you to start cutting open the frog's stomach nice and slow. Nice and slow."

* * *

"Nice and slow," Lord Combermere instructed.

Alex lowered the scalpel. She formed a straight cut down the torso of her subject. Blood eeked out from the incision lines, trailed down to the sides as her subject lay on top of Lord Combermere's operating table.

The previous night's hunt had gone surprisingly just as well as Lord Combermere predicted it would. In many ways, better. Alex had been able to subdue Edward Kipper all by herself, a mighty accomplishment for a girl so young. Fortunately for her, Edward Kipper took very little convincing. Now here he was, a study buddy for Alex's test tomorrow. And did I mention he was still alive?

"Let me go! Let me go let me go let me go! Aaaahhhh!" Edward screamed.

For the better part of five minutes, he thrashed about, unable to move due to the tight straps wrapped around his naked limbs. Then, whether due to shock or blood loss, he died.

Just as well, decided Alex. Besides, it was hard to study someone when they were constantly shaking about.

Once Alex was done loosening the man's skin, she separated his flesh and saw what hid inside.

When people often told her that it is what's inside a person that truly matters, Alex wasn't so sure if this was what they meant. Blood, organs, and bones, all visible for the eyes to see. Surely, one needed all these things to survive. Given that, there was no doubt that they did in fact, matter. But when the motivational speaker ranted on about the importance of a person's inner being, internal body parts never seemed to find their way in any of their speeches. Well, except for the heart.

Strange though it may be, Alex didn't fret about it either way. Her main concern was passing her human anatomy test tomorrow. And what better way to study than to have a first-hand account right before her eyes?

"That is the liver," Lord Combermere pointed his latex-gloved finger at a brown colored organ. "And down there is the gallbladder." He raised his finger up to the man's opened breast. "I'm sure you know what that is."

"That's the heart."

"The key element of all life."

Alex disconnected the bodily tubes that held the heart in its place. She held it in her palm, studied it in the light. It weighed less than she expected.

"Is this where the soul comes from?"

"Please. The heart is just an organ like any other."

"If all we are is a suit of skin on top of organs, then what makes us all so different?"

"Science. Nothing more. Genetic structures forming together to create different patterns of beings. That's all we are. There's nothing special about the human anatomy. Nothing magical."

Alex placed the heart back in the concaves of her subject's carcass. Her encyclopedia of human anatomy was standing beside her, turned to a page with a map of a silhouette man with different organs labeled with arrows. With her rubber hands, the thing she touched next was an organ that stood out like a dog's tail. A pancreas, it was called, and it was also much more yellow in her book than it was in front of her. She dropped it, proceeded to study his raw intestines trailing in a strange path below his stomach. Interested was she, in how awfully weird and yet sophisticated the human body was. Everything was wired together like a computer, or a pipe line. If there truly was a God of the universe, he/she/it had a lot to be proud of.

"Satisfied?" Lord Combermere asked.

"Very," Alex replied.

"Perfect."

"Lord Comber-, I mean, Henry?"

"Yes?"

"How would you dispose of the bodies?"

Such a demented question, asked in such an innocent voice.

"It all depends on what's accessible. There are so many different ways to get rid of a body, but not all these options are available to everybody. Tell me Alex. What, specifically, is accessible for you?"

"The ground?" she conjectured. "Suburnia's practically filled with forest trees. I could bury him anywhere."

"Suburnia does have a lot of forests in the nearby vicinity. And you could certainly use it to your advantage. However, forgetting for a moment the effort required in digging graves, a burial ground is not something that's easy to conceal. Add to that how often the people of Suburnia hike up along the trails each morning. Trust me. It won't take long for them to find it out. And when they do, all it takes is a spot of your own DNA near the scene, or around the victim, and they will find you too."

Alex considered his rebuttal, and believed that he was right.

"Take a second guess," offered Lord Combermere.

Her eyes trailed off, searching the nearby environment for any helpful suggestions. She paid close attention to the open stomach of her subject. It laid inside him like a pouch strapped to his guts. And just like that, a flash of brilliance entered her mind.

"Acid."

"Acid," Lord Combermere thought aloud. "That's certainly creative."

"My science teacher Professor Eldridge keeps his lab stocked with chemicals. If I can get some, we can use it to dispose of everything. He'd burn into thin air."

"Technically my dear, he would burn in a pool of concentrated acid. But you definitely have the right idea. The problem with what you're suggesting lies in method. Now, I do not know your Professor Eldridge. But any responsible scientist would know well enough to keep their equipment in check. And to keep charts and data of their inventory in case one of their students comes upon the desire to perform a few scientific experiments of their own."

Professor Eldridge had never been once to keep his materials organized. But Lord Combermere had a point nonetheless. Even a remote suspicion that some of his chemicals were missing would be enough to bring even bigger problems. And with the amount of acid it would take to burn a human being, suspicion was likely.

"So how would I find what I need?"

"The same way you find everything in life. Buy it."

"How?"

"Simple. With money and a few friends in the right market."

"I have no such friends."

"But I do."

Alex wasn't sure which was harder to believe. That a man like him had use for a black market, or that he had friends. She ended with the latter.

"I will go bring what we need. While I'm out, there's some porridge in the fridge you can have for supper. Stay here. I'll return soon enough."

Alex took note of the time on the clock. It was fast approaching seven at night. She hadn't realized all the hours that flew past until now. As Lord Combermere left her presence, she found herself with nothing to do.

She loomed over a dead Edward Kipper, studied his organs for a few more minutes until she was confident in her ability to label all the different internal systems of the average human being. What she still wasn't able to identify, what her encyclopedia and Edward Kipper's open guts hadn't been able to tell her, was where the human soul was located. What had been growing inside Edward Kipper for all his years of being alive that wasn't in Alex Frost since the day she was born? Where was that part that allowed him the ability to love, hate, fear, admire, regret? What had he done to deserve such an ability, and what had she done to lose it before she even had it?

As she felt her stomach pang, Alex went upstairs to the Combermere kitchen. In the fridge, she found a bowl of plain white porridge. Without warming it up, she placed the cold ceramic bowl in front of her on the dining room. She was about to dine when her pocket began to vibrate.

"Hello?" Alex spoke into her phone.

"Alex?" It was Aunt Melanie.

"Oh hi Aunt Melanie. How have you been?"

There was static interference on the other line. Or was it coming from her?

"Why aren't you in the apartment?" said Aunt Melanie in the midst of electronic hissing and buzzing.

Alex got up and exited the Combermere estate, stepping far and away until the signal cleared up, and her Aunt Melanie was perfectly audible.

"Why aren't you in the apartment?" Aunt Melanie reiterated. "I've been calling the phone over and over, and the landlord tells me that there is nobody there. Where are you Alex?"

"I'm staying at a friend's house," Alex retorted. "Right here in Suburnia."

"But blazes, why? I told you to stay in the apartment."

"It's safer here than it is in the apartment. It's a better neighborhood. And besides, it takes less time for me to get to school from here."

Aunt Melanie requited, and her temper quickly died down into despondent worry.

"You should have told me Alex. I was scared sick."

"I'm sorry," she said, and could not help but feel as though she honestly meant it. "I'll come visit you tomorrow ya?"

"Please do. You've been a good niece, and a good friend."

Trailing up the steep hills that led to the Combermere residence, her mind was heavy with the word friend. Why had it slipped from her Aunt Melanie's mouth? What did she mean when she said it?

For those of us fortunate enough to have friends, we all know why we call people our friends, and we also know what friendship entails. When someone is your friend, you enjoy wasting your time in their company, talking to them about utterly unimportant things, and doing completely trivial things together. But to our own Alex Frost, who lived devoid of any need for such close ties, friendship had been nothing more than an act. A social code she lived up to in order to seem normal.

By the time Alex reached the top of the hill, and the front door of Lord Combermere's home was visible in the dark, a thousand or so questions had already run laps around her mind. When she went inside the house, Lord Combermere had already been standing in the vicinity of the doorway, eyeing her curiously.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

After taking in a breath of air, she spoke. "I was talking with my aunt."

"Why?"

Alex struggled to make sense of the question."

"I wanted to see how she was doing. What with her injuries and all."

"So she is the one you protected."

"Yes," Alex answered back.

"And the boy you killed. He wronged your school friend, so you decided to kill him. Tell me. Why?"

"Why what?"

"What do you see in these people that requires so much of your attention?"

Alex had to briefly search her mind before the answer to that question unraveled. When it did, she answered with, "I need them to seem normal."

"And is that important to you? To seem as though you're just like everybody else, when in fact you aren't?"

"It's the only way to survive," she told.

"That's not true my dear."

Lord Combermere approached her, lowered himself so that they were staring one another eye to eye. He gently touched her face, examined it with his icy fingers. Alex didn't react. The cold didn't bother her.

"With me, you'll never have to hide yourself under that mask."

"I have to see my aunt tomorrow," Alex suddenly remembered. "She's expecting to meet me in the afternoon."

"Can I expect you to come back tomorrow?"

Alex paused. "Yes."

Lord Combermere didn't smile, but she could tell that somewhere deep inside, he was satisfied.

"I have a proposition I would like to make," Lord Combermere said.

"What kind of proposition?"

"I am leaving soon for Vienna."

"Oh?" Widened eyes. "How soon?"

"The day after tomorrow."

This, Alex took with complete surprise.

"Being what we are, it's important never to stay in the same place for too long. "

"Why Vienna?"

"I have property there. Ideally, I should have moved back long ago. The only thing that has stopped me is that I've encountered some trouble with the Italian law in the past."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Nothing related to killing I assure you. A man I once defended during my years as a lawyer was a known criminal in Italy. The authorities there have never taken very kindly to my helping him. But that's beside the point. I'm telling you that I'm going because I want you to follow me."

The first few seconds after the question hung in the air, Alex was almost certain that Lord Combermere was trying his hand at humor. As it turned out, he was serious.

"Stay with me indefinitely, and I will teach you everything you will ever need to know. I will be your mentor and legal guardian."

"How would you do that?"

"You won't have to worry about that. For a lawyer, all things are possible."

"But what about my aunt?"

Lord Combermere shook his head. "Your aunt won't be a problem. What's important is that you and I can continue our arrangement. I can take you to a place where you can restart your life from scratch. So you won't be pressured into conforming to those who aren't like you. Stay with me, and you will never have to lie to yourself again."

Lord Combermere reached out his cold, frail hand.

"I want you to consider it. In the meantime, come with me."

She did. Together they went down to the basement where Edward Kipper's unclad body was lying in a large plastic container, the likes of which Alex had never seen before. The container had a dark blue hue, and was big enough that it fit his head and torso. His arms and legs were an altogether different story. They stuck out from the sides of the container, his arms touching the ground while his bare feet stuck in the air.

"The container is acid resistant," Lord Combermere stated. "Polyethylene."

"He's pretty big," Alex remarked.

"It will do."

Lord Combermere unloaded buckets of hydrofluoric acid onto their victim. The liquid corroded his skin, burned through his flesh. Quickly it melted his body to reveal chunks of searing muscle. His bones evaporated, completely devoid of his own meat. Together, Alex and Lord Combermere stood back and watched as Edward Kipper burned in a pool of acid. Burned, until there was no trace of him left.
Chapter 13

Alex, Friend

Against the advice of her doctor, Melanie Joyce insisted that she would be going home by the end of daybreak.

"You'll do no such thing," her doctor, a grey-haired man both old and slim. The lab coat he wore had the scent of cigarettes, and his breath smelled of bourbon rinsed with Listerine. But no matter how much he tried to mask it, Melanie knew the smell. If there was anything she knew like a sixth sense, it was all things alcohol.

Aunt Melanie sat up on the hospital bed. "You're not going to stop me. I have to take care of my niece," she said, as if Alex wasn't in the room with her. She was, sitting on a high stool while reading one of the hospital's many assortments of magazines. Roses and Gardens Digest was the one she chose. From it, she had learned of ten different ways to arrange flowers, as well as why it was important not to water plants and grass during hot, sweltering afternoons.

"I'm going to strap you to that bed if I have to," threatened the well-intentioned doctor.

"No you're not."

"Listen. Your stitches aren't completely healed yet. And if you're not extremely careful, you're going to re-open your wounds. Not to mention the fact that your joints are still too stiff to move. You won't be able to walk."

"I don't care. I am not spending another night in this hospital. I'm tired of being treated by nurses like I'm some kind of baby."

Aunt Melanie kicked her feet onto the cold, hospital floor.

"See. I can move perfectly fine."

She pushed herself off the bed, relying on her legs for support before suddenly realizing that she was given none at all. What followed after was an image reminiscent of a Loony Toons feature, with Wile Coyote standing in mid-air, looking down only to find that gravity was about to send him plunging down. In that very same manner, Aunt Melanie fell to the ground, knee caps spraining.

"Aaah!"

"There goes two days of healing," the doctor thought aloud. He lowered himself and helped her back up on the bed.

"That's why you always listen to your doctor," he pointed a disciplinary finger.

In between grasping her injured knee and moaning loudly, she managed to utter like a curse, "I hate you."

"That's the spirit. Now you remind me of my in-laws."

She groaned facetiously despite the pain.

"Want some morphine?"

Aunt Melanie shook her head.

"I need to get back to take care of my niece."

"The only person you need to take care of is yourself."

Alex butt in. "He's right Aunt Melanie."

"No he's not. I'm going to take you back home, and we'll sort everything out together. And if he tries to stop me, I might have to inquire about whether or not he's really sober enough to be working."

The doctor tensed. It was a threat, and not one that was likely to bode well for him if he didn't do as she asked. He remained quiet, pretending as if he hadn't heard a single word she'd said, yet proving to her by his lack of response that he was willing to comply.

"Aunt Melanie," Alex spoke up. "I've taken care of myself just fine these past few days." Making a new friend, finding joy in serial killing she didn't add. "Believe me, everything is fine."

Aunt Melanie resisted, but when she could no longer deny the facts, she inhaled a deep breath of air to suppress the pain, and she reluctantly agreed.

"Could you pass me my purse?" her eyes were pointed at the hospital hanger that held her clothes. There was no purse.

"You don't have a purse," Alex said, and it was enough to remind Aunt Melanie of the night she was robbed and attacked.

Hopelessly, Aunt Melanie turned to the doctor. "Could you give her some change?" she pleaded.

"Not a problem," the doctor said easily. "Here's twenty dollars."

"I don't need money. I have enough."

"Take it anyways," the doctor insisted. "It couldn't hurt."

Alex took the bill. "Thanks."

"Keep yourself safe."

"I will. Just make sure my aunt gets better. That's what matters the most right now."

"No it's not," Aunt Melanie firmly interjected. "What's most important is that I keep you alive and well for as long as I can. Promise me you won't talk to strangers on your way home, and that you'll stay at the house for as long as you can."

"Aunt Melanie, don't worry about me."

"Just say yes, Alex. It's bad enough I'm going to be stuck here for another day."

"Two, actually," the doctor cut in.

"One," she gnashed her teeth in annoyance, as though she had authorized herself the final say on the matter. "Alex, just listen to me on this. I know I'm not your mother, but I want to do what's best."

Our soulless girl saw the sincerity in her aunt, and she realized that it would be something to remember her by come tomorrow. If Alex was going to leave for Vienna, this would be the last time they would ever meet. And judging from what little was learned of her aunt during their brief time together, Alex knew better than to question her Aunt Melanie's intentions. In spite of her weaknesses, she'd always done what she thought was right for her. Aunt Melanie never asked her to conform to expectations, or to fulfill her own deep-seated wishes. She just wanted Alex to be who she was. Given that, it was starting to become more and more apparent to Alex that unlike her birth parents, Aunt Melanie might have been the one person in her immediate family most likely to accept her for the soul-deprived girl that she was.

"Alright Aunt Melanie."

"Good. Now remember, stay in the house at all times. Don't answer the door for strangers."

"Fine."

"Not even if they say they know me. In fact, make that, especially if they say they know me."

"I understand Aunt Melanie. Honestly, you're too worried about everything."

"Well isn't that my job now? To worry?"

"Only about yourself. That's what the doctor said."

"Please. Don't be ridiculous. Anyway, you should go back to the house now. I don't want you to leave when it's too late. Here, I'll call you a cab."

"No, it's alright. I'll walk back home. The apartment isn't far from here. And besides, I'm in the mood for a bit of a stroll anyway."

"Okay. Fine. But I want you to call the hospital, call the doctor," she pointed her finger directly at the doctor who was now standing several feet away like a statue. "Call him, and let him know the moment you make it back. He'll tell me, and I'll know that you're alright."

"Of course."

* * *

Alex did as she was told. She left the hospital while the sun was at its brightest. And when she went into Aunt Melanie's Wiscott Avenue apartment room, she called the doctor as per requested. And being the polite, obedient girl that she was, Alex remained in Aunt Melanie's apartment for the rest of the day. It was the last time she'd ever listen to her Aunt Melanie's instruction. Come dusk, she would leave to meet Lord Combermere as planned. And after that, Alexandra Frost would be on the verge of an altogether different life.

But that was later. In the mean time, while at Aunt Melanie's, she occupied herself in the company of her school books, and later in the day she prepared herself a bowl of cornflakes for lunch. While taking in spoonfuls of cereal, Alex continued silently reading from her school texts.

Then she came to realize the futility of it all.

After today, Alex Frost wasn't going to be in Elsinore Academy. She wouldn't even be in the same country. Given that today was the last chance she had to be with those she had left, Alex thought it best to at least say goodbye. And so it was with this in mind, that Alex gave Amy a call.

For one final get together.

They met at a fascinating place rife with translucent lighting and noise. Carnival Cazador. It was a show of bright lights, color, and strange people dressed in even stranger disguises. A shirtless man with hair growing on his chest consumed and spat fire. Men and women in stilts towered like giants above the carnival's guests. Clowns impressed little children by juggling balls and turning balloons into poodles, flowers, and balloons.

As nightfall hit, the carnival's effervescence shone like a burning star, giving the impression of a magical place full of happiness and warmth. Alex followed behind Amy, gandering over at the many booths that surrounded them. One of them involved tossing rings on a bottle, another throwing darts on balloons, and one where the main objective was to pitch a baseball towards a bull's-eye, wherein doing so would send a man sitting in a chair to fall into a tank of water.

A tiny man with a pot belly and a purple vest stood outside a giant tent. He balanced himself on a wooden chair, adding an extra lift to his 5'2 height. He blared his voice into a plastic red cone.

"Come one, come all," he announced to the people of the carnival. "Step inside this here tent if you want to witness great magical wonders beyond your wildest imagination. Admission is free. I repeat, free admission. If you have eyes and you can walk, then step right in. We have gymnasts, we have lion tamers, we have contortionists, dare devils, snake handlers, monkey performers, and a man that looks like David Crosby. Enter soon while seats are still available. It's first come first serve, and the show is about to start."

He pointed a wand towards the large open tent beside him, indicating that that was where one would expect to see all the wonderful things he'd mentioned. Crowds of people flocked in two file lines. And at the rate, it was hard to believe that the tent wasn't already overcrowded.

The roof of the circus tent formed a triangle of red and white stripes. It had a support pole on the topmost tip with an orange flag that had the carnival's logo. A crow wearing dark shades, manipulating the shape of his feathers to form a thumbs up.

"Come on now, come on. I say again, all you need are your legs and your eyes, your legs and your eyes. Come on now. If you don't have legs, crawl yourself in. If you don't have eyes, put two hands in front of you and follow my voice. If you can't hear my voice, then read the sign I'm pointing at. If you're blind and you don't have legs or ears and you can't even crawl, then boy do I have a job for you. Everyone else, get in get in get in get in!"

"You want to go?" Alex pointed her eyes at the tent, then at Amy.

"Of course she wants to go," the tiny man answered for Alex. "She's a smart girl is she not?"

"I'm really not," said Amy with a humbling smile.

"What's being smart have anything to do with it?" asked Alex.

"That's a very good question," the tiny man replied. "Go inside and you'll find out."

"Sounds like fun," Amy boasted.

The girls lined themselves amongst the crowd going in. As they ventured inside the tent, they both saw just as equally that there were plenty of people inside. There were seats formed in a large circle for people to sit on, and it was almost half-full. Barely ten minutes after Alex and Amy took to the bottom row closest to the center, the lights in the tent dimmed, and the show began.

The lighting fixture above focused on the center where all the acts were performed. At first came a group of men and women in tight garbs. They performed various acrobatic feats, jumping on top of one another, throwing each other in the sky, and finishing their act with some coordinated flips. Then came a snake handler who danced with a python for ten minutes. Afterwards, there were men eating fire, jumping through hoops of fire, and singing Ring of Fire. A monkey dressed in a ballerina outfit performed tricks, and the man who looked like David Crosby insisted to the audience that he really was David Crosby.

Once the show was over, everyone stepped out the tent and onto the outside world, where the air was cooler, and the night brighter.

"That was great," Amy cheerily said.

"It was," Alex replied, though she honestly had no way of thinking so.

Amy was about to say something else. Her lips were spread apart, and she'd already uttered the letter T, but something immediately pulled away her attention.

"Alex, come check this out." Amy insisted.

She brought herself forth, excitedly led the girl towards what was a giant Ferris wheel. Before Alex could make any decision as to whether or not she had any interest in going, Amy was already asking the operator a seat for two.

"Yes ma'am," the operator said in a polite, cheerfully obedient tone.

"C'mon Alex."

Amy climbed onto one of the cars.

"Come on Alex," she waved her over.

Alex did.

"Keep safe," advised the conductor.

"Thank you."

Alex was next to climb aboard. She took her seat directly opposite to Amy. As the metal gate on the car came to a close, she peered outside, witnessed as the ground began to climb steadily and steadily towards the dark sky. The car lifted sixty meters above the earth. The city lights cast an auroral yellow glimmer in the night. Combined with the carnival lights itself, Pleasant Grove was a rainbow of colors. From their distance, the unending racket of traffic, of people, faded into a distant murmur. There was peace everywhere.

"It's beautiful," came Amy.

"Isn't it?" replied Alex, forcing herself once again to agree.

"Everything looks better in the distance. As long as you can't get close enough to notice the ugly sides, all you see are the bright spots. And it's absolutely gorgeous."

Alex gestured a sign of agreement.

Amy turned noticed Alex peering inquisitively out the car's opening. The minds of Amy and her inhuman friend drifted as they stared out into the peaceful setting that lay below. Amy looked as though a part of her had spaced out, and Alex wondered what she could have been thinking about. The soulless girl, on the other hand, knew full well what was going on in her own internal world.

To leave Surburnia, or not to leave Suburnia? That was the question of Alexandra Frost. And a magnanimous question it was. So much so that she didn't know which answer was more in right, more in wrong, than the other.

In cases such as this, when the best option out of two available ones weren't clear, Alex often resorted to what her father referred to as weighing the pros and cons.

The pro to leaving would have been that she would have been with someone who knew her more than she knew herself. In this instance, that someone was Lord Henry Combermere. Having been a man without a soul for well over fifty decades, there was undoubtedly lots that he could tell her about the experience.

The con, was that objectively speaking, she had no way of knowing if leaving for Vienna would have been all she had hoped it would be. A second con was that in leaving behind the people she knew, she would have had no one of the normal world to interact with. But at the same time, this also could have been a pro. If people weren't around to see her for who she really was, she was at no risk for exposure. As it was now, she had the sense that Amy, for one, was becoming more adept at detecting her inner aberration. If she kept it up, a good chance existed that she would find out the hidden truth behind the girl she believed to be her friend.

The Ferris wheel reached the apex of its height. By now, the tall city buildings were no bigger than gerbils, and every other detail below were as minor and as insignificant as insects. Alex had never been on a Ferris wheel before. And as she experienced it now for the first time, she could honestly say that whatever she felt about it, she had no regrets.

* * *

The Ferris wheel slowly but surely reverted back to ground level, and when Alex stepped off, she sensed that something about her had changed. She couldn't quite place what it was. There was nothing tangible to point to. She looked just as she did before she got on. Her clothes were the same, her long black hair rested along her shoulders like they always did. But something was different.

The cheerful Ferris wheel operator helped Amy back to her feet.

"There you are."

"Thank you," she bowed humbly to the operator.

"You're absolutely welcome."

"Would you happen to know what time it is?" Alex asked.

The operator peeked at his wristwatch.

"Nine thirty," was his reply.

"Thank you."

Nine thirty, Alex said to herself. And she remembered the commitment she'd made to Lord Combermere. Nothing could have been done about it now. It was much too dark to begin driving all the way back to Suburnia if she had a car. And since she didn't, the train and bus would have easily taken at least twice as long. Not to mention the fact that she was steadily getting tired. But above all these reasons to stay, none was more important than the fact that in whatever way girls born without souls were able to do this, Alex Frost didn't want to go to Suburnia. She wanted to stay the night in Pleasant Grove, and make the most out of her time with Amy Lawson; a girl that she would from this point on think of not simply as her human contact, but her friend.

They walked a few blocks from the carnival as it closed, over to a park on Wesley Oaks Street. The place creaked with the constant chimes of crickets, which attracted Amy enough to drag her friend along with her. The further in they went, the more impressed Amy was with what the park had in store. Moonlight glittered across the surface of the pond, painting it in a liquid white.

"Doesn't that look great?" Amy aimed her eyes on the shining water.

"It does."

"You can practically see the full moon on the water."

It was true. Aside from a few ripples on the pond's face, it was as crystal clear as a mirror.

Alex and Amy shared the park bench, kept close as they sat together in silence. Amy admired every second of the view, while Alex tried. After nearly half an hour of unmitigated silence passed, Amy spoke.

"Tonight was fun," she said. "We should do this again sometime soon."

"We should."

"We should also head back home too. It's dark. And I don't want my father to wonder where his trophy car has been all day. You want a ride back to the apartment?"

"No. You go ahead. The apartment's not that far from here. I can walk myself."

"Alright," said Amy. "Take care of yourself Alex."

"I will."

Shortly thereafter, Amy left the park on Wesley Oaks while Alex remained, pondering on what she would do when she saw Lord Combermere the next day, what she would say. She looked down, noticed Amy's friendship bracelet on her wrist, the material so light, so thin it was virtually weightless. She thought of what she had with Amy, and what she'd be saying good-bye to if she left with Lord Combermere.

She and her mentor had in common the fact that neither of them had souls, and that they both liked to hunt. But that didn't mean that they knew each other. And while Lord Combermere held a high regard for his hobby, Alex on the other hand was steadily losing confidence that the risks were worth the momentary pleasures. Even if she never got caught for her crimes, how long would it be until she became addicted to killing?

If she closed herself from the rest of the world, her only motivation in life would be to kill.

Her parents wouldn't have approved of it. Neither would Aunt Melanie or Amy, and whatever she had left of a normal world.

Given all these considerations, the answer cleared in her mind.

"I can't go," she thought aloud.

Come tomorrow morning, that was what she would tell her mentor. She would no longer be his pupil, and that once he left, their short-lived relationship would meet its end. There would be no more killing for Alexandra Frost.

With her decision made, Alex remained in the park to pass the time and absorb the fresh air. She was taken in with a level of relief over having finally made her decision. All that was left to do now was to inform her mentor.

Little did she seemingly realize however, that to Lord Combermere, she wouldn't have to utter a single word. For not more than five meters away hiding in the cover of trees, he could hear her loud and clear. And he was not pleased.
Chapter 14

A Girl

Dear reader. As we come near the end of our tale, I'm sure that your mind is brewing with insurmountable questions. Questions such as What is Lord Combermere going to do next? How will he take the news of Alex Frost declining his offer? People without souls can't truly care for one another, can they? How will Lord Combermere and Alexandra Frost come to terms with who they are?

And as some of you are reading this, you are probably also asking yourself other questions unrelated to the story before you. Questions like Where did I leave my wallet? What time do I get off from work? How does one go about kung pow-ing a chicken? If there is a God, what would he/she/it say about time travel? And probably most important of them all, Who is that dimple chinned man staring at me from across the street?

For those of you in dire need of the answers to such off-topic questions, you will probably find more use confiding in a magic 8-ball than you will this book. But if you were more interested in finding the answers to the first set of questions, I must regretfully inform you that what you will encounter next are a series of sad truths and bitter disappointments.

To those who enjoy a life of happy lies, awe inspiring mirages, and optimistic fairly tales, this is how our story ends. Alex Frost and her mentor reconcile. They decide to stop being killers, and together along with Amy and her Aunt Melanie, they move to Switzerland where they spend their time skiing, climbing up frosted mountains, and drinking hot chocolate. Alex Frost learns to speak German, Spanish, and Swahili, while Amy picks up photography and takes pictures of wild animals in the woods. Aunt Melanie fulfills her dream of being a teacher, and Lord Henry Combermere finds joy as an architect. They all live together happily ever after.

The end.

If this ending suits you, then you need not carry on with this book. As far as you should be concerned, this chapter in the life of Alex Frost has already come to an end. And you can go tell your friends that you read the happiest book in the world.

However, to those who seek the sad truth, I commend your courage. Though I must warn you to be absolutely certain of what you ask. For if it is the happy lie you truly want, then you need not read any further. The pages that lie ahead are only for those bold enough to traverse through the rocky terrains of the sad truth. If this is what you seek, then without further a due, I bring you the rest of our tale.

* * *

Alex ventured into the dark halls of the Combermere estate.

"Hello?" she called, loud enough for anyone inside to hear. But nothing.

"Hello?" she tried again. Feelings of déjà vu struck her mind.

She checked every floor of the six story home. There was no one in sight. What's more, some of Lord Combermere's personal effects were missing. Particularly some of his luggage and his clothes. There were some empty spots on his book shelves, and if memory served her right (which it usually did), the books missing from the shelves were all of fiction literature. Most of what remained were his furniture, and anything else that might have been too big to fit in a carry-on luggage.

Up on the sixth floor, where Lord Combermere's glass wall overlooked the rest of Suburnia, the one eye of his telescope had been aimed at the O'Mallery Park. Glancing down the window with her naked eyes, the park wasn't any more noticeable than a speck. However, leaning into the viewfinder of the telescope, she was able to see every inch of it with amazing detail. From a pack of squirrels sitting together on a branch eating raw acorn, to an entirely different detail that stole her attention.

On the body of that same tree, letters had been carved by way of a sharp blade. She closed her right eye, diverted visibility to her left in order to make out what the letters said. It took a few seconds to make out the details. But before she knew it, the jotted letters formed a series of words.

You have left me no choice.

How Lord Combermere had been able to form such flawless handwriting on the bark of a tree, Alex didn't think she'd ever know. But what piqued her interest more than anything else, was what he could have meant by the cryptic message.

Choice?

Alex didn't remember giving him any choices about anything. In fact, it was he that gave her the option of whether to stay or to follow him to Vienna, which led her to another question.

Why didn't he wait for my answer?

He was packed, probably long gone by now depending on when he left. He hadn't even waited for Alex to tell him that she wasn't interested. He either knew what she was going to say beforehand, or he'd lost interest in her entirely.

Unlikely.

Regardless, no matter how much she thought about it, the end result was still the same. Lord Combermere was gone, and Alex was back to living whatever was left of her ordinary Suburnian life, which, after the death of her parents, wasn't very much.

But the dice had been cast. There was no going back to the way things were. Whatever her future held in store for her, Alex knew full well that it wouldn't be what her parents had in mind. And without a mentor to guide her or a role model to look up to, the threat of uncertainty loomed over her like a shroud. She knew that she would have to be vigilant in the coming days ahead.

At this point, you are probably wondering if Alex Frost was beginning to regret her decision of staying in Suburnia. I can assure you that she wasn't. But if you asked whether she missed her mentor at all, I would answer you, yes. In her own, soul deprived manner, she did in fact wish that Lord Combermere was around to help guide her through the rest of her life. Unfortunately, no one can have everything they want, even if the things they don't get are the things they feel they need to most. With Lord Combermere gone, life would be harder to go through than she'd wished. She would have to make do with being by herself. Trying to understand her soulless condition on her own, avoiding the urge to kill. These were but a few of the problems our girl without a soul would have to overcome. But for what it was worth, she was confident that if she took things one day at a time, the chance existed that she might actually make it after all.

She ended her tour of Lord Combermere's home with his bedroom, to make sure for the last time that he'd left, and that she wasn't somehow foolishly mistaken. There were a few empty hangers, though most of his clothes still remained. Besides that, all that was left were his furniture, and the only photograph he'd kept in his home; the one of himself and his family.

She raised the picture.

Now that he was gone, the picture was the only reference she had of him ever having led a normal life.

She took the photograph out from the frame, and that was when her eyes saw something far beyond the realms of imagination.

The photograph wasn't one photograph. It was a collection of transparencies joined together to form one image. One transparent sheet contained the boy that Lord Combermere called his son. Another, the woman he called his wife. The next, a younger portrait of himself. And beneath it all was the background they shared.

It was a lie.

* * *

Later that day, standing in the elevator of the Sacred Rivers hospital bearing a bouquet of flowers, Alex stretched her arms and neck in the small empty space, scarcely able to spread them apart as far as they could go. Once she reached the second floor, she was met with a lanky old woman with grey hair and a hospital gown. She was plugged to an IV stand with wheels. A tube connected to her arm fed liquid medicine into her bloodstream.

When the elevator doors opened, the old woman moved over to her side, allowing Alex free passage to the second floor from the elevator before making her own departure. Before either of them had the chance to anticipate it, an irate nurse appeared from the hall and called out, "She's here!"

This set the woman in motion. She wobbled her feet towards the elevator. Once she made it in, she pushed one of the buttons on the side. Right as the doors started to close, the nurse rushed towards her with everything she had. Knowing full well that the nurse wouldn't make it in time to stop her, the old woman waved at the nurse with a flash of her opened tongue before disappearing behind the metal doors.

The nurse, whose face had turned plump red with temper, turned to Alex.

"Why didn't you stop her?" she barked furiously, her breath causing the front of Alex's hair to pull back.

Alex kept still, unsure of how to respond. She briefly considered defending herself from the angry nurse's bray of words. But before she could even speak, the nurse grunted loudly and dashed for the stairs.

Alex continued onwards onto Aunt Melanie's hospital room. For some indiscernible reason, she passed by waves of rushing nurses that were all either going in or out of the hallway in a frantic panic.

They must really want that old woman, Alex thought to herself.

Alex dunked her head to the flower bouquet in her hands. The scent of lilies and roses made the hospital smell more like nature and less like rubbing alcohol. Alex dipped her nose once again and consumed a second whiff of its freshness while still hoping that she wouldn't vacuum away all the smell before she got to Aunt Melanie's room. She wondered secretly if that was even possible.

The amount of passing nurses on her way to Aunt Melanie's room increased exponentially the closer she went. One of them even had blood spattered on her freshly pressed uniform. The sight peaked her curiosity, reminded her of the short-lived joy she felt as a killer of human beings. When she saw a doctor with shiny grey hair and a pair of glasses fixated on her nose running alongside one of the nurses with extreme urgency, Alex felt her curiosity shift to eagerness. She turned a corner, to the last hall that led to Aunt Melanie's room. What she found immediately turned her eagerness into shock.

Nurses and doctors huddled around Aunt Melanie. Aunt Melanie's eyes were wide open, and she was staring straight at the open doorway, at Alex. Perfectly still and fixated, like a portrait painting gleaming back at her niece no matter which direction she moved. And as such, Aunt Melanie was neither aware nor alive.

"Wha-?"

Aunt Melanie's throat leaked blood down her neckline to the hospital gown she wore. Upon closer observation, a precise cut had been left on her larynx. A thin line of dark red on her pastry white skin.

"What happened?" Alex asked.

A doctor in the room took note of her presence, and instead of giving the girl an answer, she ordered one of the many nurses standing beside to "Get that kid out of here."

Alex's bouquet of flowers dropped to her feet as a nurse threw her out the room and rudely slammed the door on her face.

"What happened?!" Alex shouted, but was ignored.

Alex's fist pounded on the door several times only to be completely disregarded. She stopped trying. For whatever reason, no one seemed determined to give her any answers whatsoever. Eventually she realized that if she yelled any louder, the only thing she would get in return was a broken voice.

Aunt Melanie was gone. Alex knew it the moment she saw her lifeless expression. Knew it before the doctor came out, her tongue fumbling over how best to tell her.

* * *

For a few hours after leaving the hospital, Alex thought to look up some vital information that she'd neglected up until now. Afterwards, without thinking to herself, contemplating, taking the time to examine how she might or should have felt, Alexandra Frost went back to her home in Suburnia. The place where it all began; the only place she knew.

For the second time since her parents' deaths, she crossed past the line of police tape around the perimeter of the house. She stayed in the living room where most of the family pictures hung on walls. As she looked at every piece of memorabilia encased in glass, she recalled the times in her life that each memento represented. One was taken with a towering Westminster Abbey in the background. Standing in the photo were Alex and her mother, smiling as her father took the shot. Right beside the photo was a second, this one shot during a family trip in Ireland. Accompanying Alex in the shot this time was a background of bright green pastures below a cloudless sky, as well as both her mother and father. They all smiled equally wide at the travel guide who took their picture. She recalled it now just as she knew back then, that of the three, only two of them were actually happy to be there. One of them had no real way of understanding happiness.

But how true is that? Alex had to wonder. If she had been born entirely without emotion, why then had she been able to take joy in killing? It didn't make any sense. What was it about killing that gave her such an ability? And why for such a short period of time?

From behind her came sounds of soles stomping against the marble floors of the Frost residence, echoing in the air. Alex knew who it was without having to turn around and see for herself.

"I'm sorry," said Lord Henry Combermere.

"You really must drop the formalities," Alex replied sharply.

"I did what was right for you. You know that your aunt would never be able to find it in her to accept what you really are. And neither would the others you know."

"Can I ask you something?" Alex turned around, stared straight into Lord Combermere's blank eyes. "What am I? Really?"

"You're a wolf lost among sheep. Your place is not with them, but with me."

"You mean I'm a born killer. Just like you."

"You are. We both know how it makes you feel when you kill someone. It gives you emotions that you would never be able to have otherwise. Trust me, as the days and months go by you will want to do it again, and again. I understand your hesitation. I've tried fighting it several times before. Nothing works. The need builds up inside you. Eventually you will have to let loose. And when you do, your only hope is that you're trained well enough not to get caught."

"I saw the picture in your house. The one with you and your family."

At that, Lord Combermere chose not to respond.

"You never had a wife, and you never had a child."

"Is that all you learned from it?" he then asked.

"I know why you did it."

Lord Combermere opened his ears, waiting to hear Alex's explanation.

"You tricked me into thinking that the people I know would all eventually abandon me. That even if I stayed with them long enough, they would all go away in the end."

"I used a lie to tell you the truth," retorted Lord Combermere. "Sometimes fiction is the best instructor for reality. Surely you understand that."

"I do."

A momentary silence filled the air as Alex held a contemplative gesture.

"I suppose now you're going to ask me to go with you," she said.

"It's your only option."

Alex blinked twice, raised her face to meet his. "You're right."

"We must leave now."

Lord Combermere stood perfectly expressionless. He didn't move a muscle. But solely by the tone on his voice, she knew that there was an emotion coursing inside him. One of satisfaction, of unmentioned joy. Not enough that it showed in his face, but enough that she could sense it was there.

"Should I pack?"

"No time. The flight leaves in only a few hours."

"Alright," agreed Alex.

Lord Combermere went to the front door, held it wide open as an invitation to his apprentice. Alex traversed her eyes around the enormous three story house she'd known for sixteen years. She observed every last detail of her home, recalling the many memories that took place in this residence from the time she could remember up until now. Before long, she proceeded towards him on his way out.

Lord Combermere took one step out the doorway. Then, suddenly, he felt a sharp sting emanating from his spine. Unable to feel it, only to know that it was there, Lord Combermere didn't cry or complain. But he did his hardest to fight it.

Just as he was about to take a second step outside to relinquish himself from danger, he was grabbed by the shoulder, hurled back inside the house.

Immediately after, the front door slammed shut. The vibration from the rapid motion carried around the house. Lord Combermere fell on his back, his clothes damp from where he'd been stung. He saw Alex standing over him, hand grasped onto a kitchen knife that was soaked with his own blood.

"That picture frame wasn't the only lie you told me."

"No," denied Lord Combermere. But it was no use. Alex Frost read straight through his lie.

"I know you've been following me. I know about that night you were following me and my friend."

There was that word again. Friend.

"On my way back from the hospital I did some reading on the man that mugged my aunt. Simon Phelps; he used to be a client of yours. A criminal addict who's been arrested time and time again because of drug addiction.

"What was it then? You were going to pay him after he beat my aunt to death?"

"I can't breathe," wheezed Lord Combermere.

"You killed my parents," Alex continued. "And in the end, I confided in you. Then you killed my aunt, thinking that it would bring us closer."

Alex knelt beside the man too weak, too deprived of blood to defend himself. She gently ran her hand along his wrinkled cheeks, cold and frail. She removed the monocle on his left eye so that she had a better look at him, and he, her.

"You taught me things about myself nobody would have ever known. For that, I thank you. But that doesn't mean that you and I are one and the same. All that you see in me is someone to make you less alone. Humans call it love. It's something they understand more than I ever will. But if there's anything I've learned from them, it's that some will go as far as it takes to be with someone they love. Even if it destroys them both."

Lord Combermere fought hard against his own dying body to open his lips.

"You are the closest," he wheezed. "The closest thing I hav-"

Alex forced the blade into Lord Combermere's heart. He jolted, struggled to breathe. Streams of blood poured out his front and back and stained the floor in red.

"I can't let you take away everything I have left."

She squeezed the knife, twisted and turned the silver tip inside him. Her mentor's chest ceased to move, his gasping lips retreated. It wasn't until Alex was sure he was gone that she let go of the knife.

The handle stood protruding from his torso, warm with her own body heat and her mentor's blood. And just as an array of emotions occupied her senses after each kill, so too did Lord Combermere's death. However, unlike her previous victims, Lord Combermere didn't leave her smiling. Alex didn't bask in joy over what she'd done, nor did she feel remotely alive. Instead she leaned her head against his chest, and she cried.

The emotion that filled her was that of tear jerking, lip scrunching sorrow. For the first time, Alex Frost knew what it was like to feel sadness, to mourn the death of someone she admired, to mourn the loss of a friend. Her gut wrenched against itself, her vision blurred with tears. And in that very moment, she wept for her mentor, her Aunt Melanie, and most of all, her parents.

* * *

In the ensuing week that followed, a few important events occurred in the rich man's town that we all know as Suburnia. Amy Lawson was sent to a juvenile facility fifty miles from town, where she would spend six of her years recuperating. The police issued a statement telling a mob of vicious journalists that Lord Combermere had died, and that they believe he had been responsible for the deaths of Jason and Dana Frost, as well as Tommy Hargrave, and more recently, Melanie Joyce. News hit like thunder that it was Alexandra Frost who killed him in self-defense just as he was about to kill her. That she defended herself from the clutches of the ever-frightening Lord Combermere, and that in an act of utmost heroism, she slew the beast.

This led the townsfolk to ceaselessly praise her as nothing short of a brave soul, a virtuous hand of justice. Rather than tell them the truth, Alex Frost let them have their happy lie. But deep down in the depths of her soulless heart, she knew that it wasn't fair. Lord Combermere, who might have been a monster to them, was a mentor to her. Without him, she would never have discovered the capacity to feel alive.

When the day came of the funeral, a crowd of people dressed in black came together and mourned the deaths of Tommy Hargrave, as well as those of Jason and Dana Frost, and her sister, Melanie Joyce.

"We know they are all up in heaven," said a priest, who really had no way of knowing for sure because he hadn't been to heaven himself. "May the good Lord take care of them forever and ever. We will pray for their souls as we go about our daily lives. And as we do so, we will all know that they are with us in our hearts. Blessed be thy name, thy kingdom come. Amen."

As the priest finished and the family eulogies began, Alex peered behind her, to Lord Combermere's grave. No one mourned his death. There was not so much as a single flower next to or near his tombstone. Anyone that visited either spat on his grave, or they defaced the letters that spelt his name. The rest of the town didn't seem to mind. In fact, from what she saw, some even encouraged it.

The Combermere estate in the hills no longer overlooked the town. It had been demolished by decree of the town's legislators, and was now nothing more than a pile of rubble. The tower that watched over Suburnia was no longer.

As Alex sat on the first row, staring at the four expensive coffins of her parents, Aunt Melanie, and Tommy Hargrave, she came away with one important understanding. Whatever her life was going to be from this point on, it would be entirely her own. If Alex Frost decided that she wanted to become a writer, or a talented musician on top of becoming a writer, it would be because she decided it so, not because her parents willed it.

For Alex Frost, things were going to be different. Her journey, once so crystal clear, was now on the verge of an altogether different path. One with bumps and potholes, the occasional thunderstorms. In order to make it through, she would have to embrace the changes. Make do with what she could and what she had. Life was going to change. What better way to accept it than to change herself?

Once most of the eulogies were done and it came her turn to speak to the men and women of Suburnia, Alex Frost got up from her seat, stood in front of the gathering, and told them all a story. A story of a girl without a soul.

About The Author:

Mortimer Jackson is a student at SFSU currently studying political science. In between school and life, he writes in the hopes of one day becoming an overrated author. Alex Frost Meets The Killer is Mortimer Jackson's first book.

For more of Mortimer Jackson's works, visit his website:

www.themorningdread.weebly.com
