Veronica
The Architect
I really don't want to give anything away, but this is the beginning of a crime novel I'm writing. From the point-of-view of the FBI and the victims. I really dont know how long this will be, but it is split into parts based on POV.
Yes, this is rated R, for explicit violence, death, and other heavy themes.
Feed me and give me some criticism, please.
Dana wasn't afraid of the dark.
Darkness wasn't death, but only its shroud, cloaking the monsters and murderers, the rapists and demons. Those were the things to be feared -- not that which concealed them.
Darkness was kind. It allowed for self-delusion. Hidden beneath night's blanket, she could explain away every sound, every scent.
No, she wasn't afraid of the dark.
It was light, terrifying and merciless, that ripped away the protective veil and revealed the phantom as something tangible. In a flashlight's beam, her fear took form, and it was worse than anything she had imagined.
He moved impossibly fast to cover the distance between them, agile as a panther and just as feral. Her mace had slipped from her grip while she stood in shock. She stretched her fingers, hoping to find the weapon without drawing his attention to her search, but he countered her subtle movement with a clear warning.
His hand closed over the hilt of his blade and he nudged it infinitesimally forward.
A cold white spear of pain radiated from her shoulder and swept like an icy tide across her body. She gasped for breath and fought to keep her eyes open; strength deserted her and her hand fell away from the spray. With a victorious grunt, he reached down and snatched the weapon. He studied it for a moment, then flung it across the alley.
Too horrifying to be real, too painfully real to be a dream, nothing about the situation made sense, no matter how often she shuffled and reassembled the facts. Seeing the face of her adversary only compounded her confusion. This man was nothing like she expected: not an ex-convict or a suspicious figure in a hood. He looked almost pretty. He didn't cover his face. A gentleman with neat black hair spilling over his shoulders in gentle waves. His eyes were soft and dark, but they eyed her with cold amusement. A savage in a button-down shirt.
An absurd contrast to the monstrous killings, but the students' death and her own injury were testament to his desperation, or his insanity. Except his expression was neither desperate nor insane. It was amused. As Dana gritted her teeth and glowered, his eyes shifted, and then they were dangerously watching her with narrowed, distrustful eyes.
His hand hovered near the knife and she didn't doubt he would drive it completely through her shoulder the instant he sensed a threat from her. She laid utterly still as he crouched over her.
For a few minutes he stayed as still as she, never looking away. Studying her, even as she studied him. He was a small man, no taller than she, but his limbs were long and rangy. The little fragments of a theory she'd been trying to paste together splintered apart at his first touch. Oh, God, he was touching her. Every impulse screamed for her to pull out of reach, to slap him away, but while his left hand was sliding up her arm, his right hand remained only a breath's width from his weapon.
His touch was tentative, sinister as the tickle of spider legs, as he ran his fingers over her chin and cheeks and forehead. When he reached her hairline, he jerked away as if he'd been burned. He examined his fingers, then touched her again, carefully at first, then with lingering strokes over her hair, again and again, as if petting her.
The gentle caresses would have been soothing if given by a friend or a lover, but not by a knife-wielding lunatic in khaki pants. Her anger sparked and caught fire, consuming all good judgment in its inferno. If he was a hunting animal, she was a wounded one, trying to mask her vulnerability with a growl.
"Stop it." Her voice, or the hateful tone of it, startled him and he pulled his hand from her hair, though scarcely for a moment. It had been a pitiful show of force, considering she couldn't even sit up without passing out, and her impulsive outburst cost her dearly.
Once he'd recovered from his surprise, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her forward. As her head and shoulders left the ground, she felt every cell, every muscle fiber that ripped apart beneath the shifting knife as it plunged into her chest. Just as suddenly, he released her.
Brilliant, blinding light flooded her vision when her head struck concrete. Her legs wouldn't obey her command to kick, her fingers refused to curl into a fist, even her voice abandoned her when she tried to call for help. She was adrift, lost in the brightness, groping frantically for the control she'd lost.
When darkness came to her, she wasn't afraid. She relaxed as it enfolded her in a sweet embrace, and closed her eyes at its murmured promises of painless sleep.
Yes, this is rated R, for explicit violence, death, and other heavy themes.
Feed me and give me some criticism, please.
XXX
Dana wasn't afraid of the dark.
Darkness wasn't death, but only its shroud, cloaking the monsters and murderers, the rapists and demons. Those were the things to be feared -- not that which concealed them.
Darkness was kind. It allowed for self-delusion. Hidden beneath night's blanket, she could explain away every sound, every scent.
No, she wasn't afraid of the dark.
It was light, terrifying and merciless, that ripped away the protective veil and revealed the phantom as something tangible. In a flashlight's beam, her fear took form, and it was worse than anything she had imagined.
He moved impossibly fast to cover the distance between them, agile as a panther and just as feral. Her mace had slipped from her grip while she stood in shock. She stretched her fingers, hoping to find the weapon without drawing his attention to her search, but he countered her subtle movement with a clear warning.
His hand closed over the hilt of his blade and he nudged it infinitesimally forward.
A cold white spear of pain radiated from her shoulder and swept like an icy tide across her body. She gasped for breath and fought to keep her eyes open; strength deserted her and her hand fell away from the spray. With a victorious grunt, he reached down and snatched the weapon. He studied it for a moment, then flung it across the alley.
Too horrifying to be real, too painfully real to be a dream, nothing about the situation made sense, no matter how often she shuffled and reassembled the facts. Seeing the face of her adversary only compounded her confusion. This man was nothing like she expected: not an ex-convict or a suspicious figure in a hood. He looked almost pretty. He didn't cover his face. A gentleman with neat black hair spilling over his shoulders in gentle waves. His eyes were soft and dark, but they eyed her with cold amusement. A savage in a button-down shirt.
An absurd contrast to the monstrous killings, but the students' death and her own injury were testament to his desperation, or his insanity. Except his expression was neither desperate nor insane. It was amused. As Dana gritted her teeth and glowered, his eyes shifted, and then they were dangerously watching her with narrowed, distrustful eyes.
His hand hovered near the knife and she didn't doubt he would drive it completely through her shoulder the instant he sensed a threat from her. She laid utterly still as he crouched over her.
For a few minutes he stayed as still as she, never looking away. Studying her, even as she studied him. He was a small man, no taller than she, but his limbs were long and rangy. The little fragments of a theory she'd been trying to paste together splintered apart at his first touch. Oh, God, he was touching her. Every impulse screamed for her to pull out of reach, to slap him away, but while his left hand was sliding up her arm, his right hand remained only a breath's width from his weapon.
His touch was tentative, sinister as the tickle of spider legs, as he ran his fingers over her chin and cheeks and forehead. When he reached her hairline, he jerked away as if he'd been burned. He examined his fingers, then touched her again, carefully at first, then with lingering strokes over her hair, again and again, as if petting her.
The gentle caresses would have been soothing if given by a friend or a lover, but not by a knife-wielding lunatic in khaki pants. Her anger sparked and caught fire, consuming all good judgment in its inferno. If he was a hunting animal, she was a wounded one, trying to mask her vulnerability with a growl.
"Stop it." Her voice, or the hateful tone of it, startled him and he pulled his hand from her hair, though scarcely for a moment. It had been a pitiful show of force, considering she couldn't even sit up without passing out, and her impulsive outburst cost her dearly.
Once he'd recovered from his surprise, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her forward. As her head and shoulders left the ground, she felt every cell, every muscle fiber that ripped apart beneath the shifting knife as it plunged into her chest. Just as suddenly, he released her.
Brilliant, blinding light flooded her vision when her head struck concrete. Her legs wouldn't obey her command to kick, her fingers refused to curl into a fist, even her voice abandoned her when she tried to call for help. She was adrift, lost in the brightness, groping frantically for the control she'd lost.
When darkness came to her, she wasn't afraid. She relaxed as it enfolded her in a sweet embrace, and closed her eyes at its murmured promises of painless sleep.