Monday

Brown hair.  Pale skin.  Long, sooty eyelashes cast a crescent on a smooth cheek.

The body lay in the middle of the muddy alley, limbs akimbo as if it were a broken doll a child had carelessly cast aside.  A satchel and school books were shoved unceremoniously beneath the metal dumpster.  The blazer and tie from a boy’s school uniform were heaped beside a head of brown hair.  The boy’s uniform grey slacks and his neat black shoes were splattered with blood.  Someone had torn open his white Oxford shirt, and the buttons were scattered through the rubbish littering the ground.

The boy’s body was cold.  The gashes marring the smooth skin of his chest were already crusted over with dried blood.

His young, flawless face was peaceful in eternal repose, as if in sleep he was unaware of the anarchy his beautiful corpse was going to cause.

As if he was unaware of the anarchy in the symbol carved upside-down on his chest.

A note was crumpled in his limp fist.

“I take only the best.”

* * *

Brown hair.  Pale skin.  Long dark lashes fluttered against a smooth cheek.

Tom yawned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow.

“Thomas Malvolio Phillips, out of bed now!” his mother yelled from the kitchen.

He cringed at the sound of his middle name, then forced one eye open and glared at his alarm clock.  He really did have to get up and get ready for school.

“Thomas!” his mother called again.

He groaned and shoved himself out of bed.  “Yes, Mother.”

Twenty minutes later, Tom stepped into the kitchen freshly showered and dressed in a clean uniform.

“Morning, Mum.”  He leaned up and kissed her on the cheek.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake,” she said.  She handed him a plate of eggs and toast and ushered him over to the kitchen table.

Tom ate leisurely, poking through the Daily Mail for football news.  Arsenal had defeated Manchester City.  Liverpool sank under Blackpool’s vicious offense.  Portsmouth crushed Nottingham.  Tom scanned the players’ stats and wondered which ones would make the World Cup team next year.

“Go to school already,” his mother scolded fondly.

Tom smiled up at her and set down the newspaper.

“I’ll see you later.”

Even though Tom had both a driver’s license and a car he rode his bicycle to school.  The air was cool and fresh on his face.  He smiled.  It was almost the end of March and the days were getting longer again, and when Tom reached the top of the hill sunlight burst upon him.  He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.  The sun was warm on his face, and the wind ruffled his hair.  Tom threw his head back and laughed joyfully.

He was back at school.

Tom opened his eyes as he reached the bottom of the hill.  The school gates were open and the prefects stood at the threshold of the quad like a miniature army, checking uniforms.  Tom glanced down and made sure that his uniform was still neat.  His bike slowed to a stop, and he hopped off, chaining it to the bike rack.

He hadn’t seen his friends in months - all of first term was spent between sound stages in London and on location in Wales shooting for a film.  Tom loved acting, had loved it since the first moment he’d stepped onto a stage and become Shakespeare’s Robin Goodfellow.  After spending years in live theatre with Shakespeare’s Junior Players, Tom hadn’t been prepared for the media coverage that came with heading for the big screen.  Fame for Shakespearean actors ran in select circles, and Tom had been hailed as a prodigy, but the fame hadn’t invaded his private life.  Tom hadn’t missed school or been away from his friends all the time like for the film - he had spent his summers at the theatre but been an ordinary schoolboy for the rest of the year.

Until he had singed on for a series of films.  The concept of celebrity was horribly misconstrued with the public.  Tom loved nothing more than going to school and hanging out with his friends.  

He ducked past the prefects and crossed the quad in search of Jono and Mike.  They stood outside Mr. Harrison’s history classroom.

Tom strode toward them, grinning.  “Hey lads!  I’m back--”

Jono and Michael leapt upon him as soon as they saw him and pulled him into a tight, desperate hug.

“Aw, mate, you’re all right,” Mike breathed into Tom’s ear.

Tom hugged them back awkwardly, confused by this sudden out-of-character display of affection.  “I’m all right.”  He managed to pull back.  Jono and Mike gazed at him with worried eyes.

“Are you two all right?” Tom asked.

Jono nodded.  “Yeah.”  At Tom’s arched eyebrow, he added, “Really.”

Tom glanced around at the rest of his form group and saw that they were looking at him strangely as well.

“Mike, Jono, why are all of you looking at me as if I’m a ghost?”

Mike blinked at him.  “Tom, didn’t you read the paper this morning?”

“Why?” Tom asked warily.

Jono reached into his backpack and drew out a crumpled copy of the Daily Mail.  He handed it to Tom solemnly.

By now Tom was unnerved by his friends’ and classmates’ strange behavior.  In the back of his mind he prayed it was an elaborate practical joke, something to welcome him home.  Warily, Tom unrolled the newspaper and smoothed out the front page, which he’d skipped in his morning haste for football news.

A picture of him was splashed across the newsprint in full color beneath the headline “Grisly Murder Rocks Solihull Community.”

Tom lifted his head and glanced at his two friends.  “What are you playing at?”

“Read it,” Mike said.

Tom scanned the article.  A seventeen-year-old boy had been found in an alley behind the Tesco’s in Solihull.  His parents became worried when he didn’t come home from school on Friday afternoon.  An elderly woman discovered the body that morning.  The boy was still in his school uniform.  According to police, the boy had been strangled to death and his corpse has been mutilated.  No leads on the killer.

Tom swallowed the horror that rose in throat and turned to the picture again.  The boy certainly looked like him at first - and second - look, but they had slightly differently-shaped faces.

“You should have known it wasn’t me,” Tom said.  “This bloke went missing on Friday.  I wasn’t home till Saturday.”

“You said you might’ve been home on Friday in time for school,”Jono said quietly.  “For all the police know, the boy didn’t even make it to school.”

Tom read the fear in his friends’ eyes.  He offered a smile, one that was brave but falsely cheery.  He was an actor for a reason, though he usually loathed using his skills on his friends.  “I’m here, lads.  Live and kicking, eh?”

Jono and Michael smiled weakly, not entirely reassured.

Tom strode into the classroom, head held high.  Michael and Jono followed, bolstered by his confidence.

* * *

“Where d’you want to eat?” Jono asked.

Tom grinned.  “Anywhere you like.”  Only students in fourth form or above were allowed outside school gates for dinner.

“We could go to the pastry shop and then eat in the park,” Mike offered.

“Smashing.  Let’s go.”  Tom shrugged on his blazer, scooped up his satchel, and strode for the gates where the prefects weeded out younger students.  He was determined to keep up his good attitude.  He was glad to be back at school with his friends, and he wasn’t going to let an aberrant murder dampen his good time.  After all, it was only a coincidence that the murder victim looked just like him.

* * *

Long, graceful fingers handled the blade precisely, cleaning it of all traces of blood.  The hilt, glossy antique ebony, remained unscathed after the first move.   A thin mouth curved in a faint, wicked smile.  He took only the best, it was true, and if those police had the best they would catch him; their trial would be easily won.

Deft fingers pressed a red pushpin into a map, into a point marked “Solihull.”  On a chart on the wall, beside an inverted anarchy symbol, someone had printed the date of the schoolboy’s murder.  Tacked neatly on the wall between the map and the chart was a picture of a boy, seventeen years old, with brown hair and grey eyes framed by long, dark lashes.

“First the Camarilla.”

* * *

Jono, Mike, and Tom stood at the edge of the park, scanning the crowded benches for a place to sit.  Half of the upper forms of their school had decided on the park as well.

“There’s no one sitting at the fountain except...her.”  Mike’s voice faded on the last word when he saw the figure sitting on the edge of the fountain.

Jono swallowed convulsively.  “She probably won’t mind - if we leave her be.”

Tom stared at her in unabashed horror.  She was diminutive, hunched over as she was, wearing a long black dress.  The boy’s couldn’t see her face, for her head was bowed and her long, black hair hung like an impenetrable curtain.  Her fingers were long and spidery, curled around a copper comb that she dragged through her hair over and over again, slow and deliberate.

The stone edge of the fountain beside her was wide, and there was plenty of space to sit.

Tom squared his shoulders and approached the girl.

“Do you mind if we sit here?” he asked, addressing the portion of her hair that probably hid her face.

Her hand stilled, spidery fingers wrapped around the comb.

Jono and Mike flinched when she lifted her head slowly.  The silk curtain slithered back from her face, leaving a sliver of space.  Behind the curtain lay only shadow.

“No.”  Tom glimpsed a flash of white teeth and the gleam of dark eyes.  “I don’t mind.”  And she bowed her head again, resuming her methodical combing.

“Thanks.”  Tom sat down on the edge of the fountain, leaving a space between himself and the girl.  Michael and Jono sat on the other side of him.  Studiously ignoring the girl, the three boys reached into their paper bags and began eating their pastries.  Jono started a conversation about football.  Mike and Tom joined in.

“Beckham’s a prat,” Mike insisted.  “He married a flippin’ Spice Girl!”

“Who he’s married to doesn’t affect his playing,” Jono replied.

“I vote Owen,” Tom said.  “He may play for a crap team, but he is a fantastic scorer.”

“Liverpool’s not a crap team.”  Mike glared.

Jono rolled his eyes.  “You are a northerner at heart.”

“Arsenal’s goalie.  He’s perfect.”  Tom grinned.

Immediately Jono and Mike pounced on the subject of the British goalie who had been traded to an American team.  Tom smiled at their enthusiasm and finished his sausage roll in silence.  He was still starkly aware of the girl sitting on the edge of the fountain.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see she was still combing her hair.  Tom had to admit that her hair was very pretty.  It was shiny and soft-looking and perfectly straight, and impossibly long.  The last girl Tom had seen with hair nearly that long was a Sikh girl.

Jono and Mike argued about the merits of international player trading.

“I’m glad Beckham was trade to Real Madrid,” Mike said.

“Yes, but you won’t be so glad when Owen gets traded as well,” Jono countered.

Tom chuckled.  He crumpled the paper bag and glanced at his watch.  Half an hour left of dinner break.

Something gleamed and caught his eye.  Tom turned.  The girl’s copper comb lay on the bench, glittering in the sun.  The girl sat slumped over, utterly still, hands drawn behind the curtain of her hair.  Was she asleep.

Her had came up sharply as if someone had yanked her marionette string.  Those pale. spidery hands swept up and drew the curtain back.  Tom flinched.  Her face was pale, cheekbones sharp against the gauntness of her face.  Quick hands swept the hair up into a high ponytail and secured it with the copper comb.  Tom swallowed convulsively.  A dark scar bisected the left half of her face; someone had tried to slice her open and just missed her eye.  Her eye was dark, iris black and endless and indistinguishable from any pupil.  Then it moved, slid mechanically, and fixed on him.

And she grinned.

Her teeth were clean and white and sparkling, but her eye-teeth were eerily sharp.

She turned her head then.  The motion was slow, jerky, as if torn from the stiff joints of a puppet.  Tom’s breath caught in his chest.  She looked like an antique porcelain doll that someone had used in a voodoo ritual.  Her face was scarred, remnants of nicks and cuts marking her pale skin starkly.  For one horrified moment, Tom was sure she was an animated corpse.

She stood up.  She was tiny, a whole foot shorter than Tom, and thin, like a child.  Her black dress swirled, and in a few quick strides she was leaning over him.

Beside Tom, Mike and Jono fell silent.

Still grinning, the girl leaned closer.  Tom flinched when her cold breath caressed his ear.  His gaze fixed on the golden pin at her collar, an illuminated capital G, some sort of family crest.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Tom Phillips,” she whispered.

His eyes darted from the pin to the stark lines of her collarbone to the little black leather pouch that hung from her throat.

“If I didn’t know better,” she continued in that light, eerie voice, “I’d say you were afraid of a little girl like me.”  She straightened up and fixed those abyss-black eyes on him.  “Your classmates are leaving.  You should probably return to school.”  She spun on her heel and strode away in a dazzling swirl of black skirts.

“What’d she say to you?” Jono asked.

Tom snapped out of his daze.  “I’ll tell you later.  We should go - break’s almost over.”

Mike nodded and stood up.  “Yeah, let’s go.”

* * *

“How was your first day back, dear?”

Tom blinked when he opened the front door and his mother stood waiting to greet him.  She helped him take off his blazer and hung it up on a peg in the hallway.  When she reached up to ruffle his hair, her hand was shaking.

Tom stayed her head.  He looked down and saw terror in her eyes.  “Mum, what’s wrong?”  He gave an undignified squeak when she yanked him into a bone-crushing hug.

She buried her face against his shoulder and sobbed.  Tom patted her back gently; he was suddenly aware that he was taller than her.

“You saw the paper, didn’t you?”  He smiled to himself.  For al that his mother had put up a tough act raising three boys on her own, she was sensitive.

She nodded.  “You walked out the front door and I picked up the paper and I saw your picture - I wanted to call you back.”  She sniffled.  “I knew it couldn’t be you, I knew you were fine, but I worried all day.  I wanted to phone and make sure you were all right, but I didn’t want to be too overbearing --”

Tom felt alarm rocket through him.  There was a catch to his mother’s voice; she was worried about something else as well.

“Mum, what is it you’re not telling me?”

Elaine Phillips pulled back and gazed up at her youngest son.  She sighed, defeated, and wiped her tears away with a handkerchief.

“Come into the kitchen,” she said quietly.  

Tom followed her, filled with trepidation.  He knew that his mother sometimes regretted his passion for acting.  In her encouragement of it he had grown up too quickly, and in learning to mimic other emotions he had learnt to read them too well.  

Tom pushed open the kitchen door, determined to wring the truth out of his mother, and paused.  A strange man in a tweed suit and a bobby in a uniform sat at the dining table while Elaine served them tea.  Tom’s elder brothers, Chris and Shane, stood beside the refrigerator and wore carefully blank expressions.  Their eyes held worry as well.  Tom glanced at the two strangers and felt their measuring stares.  He immediately schooled his face into a neutral expression and let the door swing shut behind him.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

The bobby nodded briefly and then sipped his tea.

The man in the suit said, “Good afternoon, Tom.  Tell me, does the name Nicholas Felton mean anything to you?”

Tom managed not to blink in surprise.  “I believe he was the Bishop of Ely sometime during the Stuart Dynasty.  He received one of John Milton’s better elegies upon his death.  Why?”

The man looked surprised.  “That wasn’t quite the response I was expecting.  Actually, young Nicholas Felton is the poor fellow on the front of this morning’s paper.”

Tom did blink this time.  “I see.”

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Roland of the Birmingham Police,” the man said.  “Your mother has told us that you are quite the mature young fellow and that we can be honest with you.  Let me be candid: we have reason to believe that there is a serial killer on the loose and that you fit the profile of his victims.”

“ ‘Victims’?” Tom echoed.  “There has only been one murder.”

“Do either of these mean anything to you?” Roland asked.

The bobby slid a manila folder across the table.

Tom flipped it open.  The first item was a photocopy of a piece of crumpled paper that read “I take only the best.”  Beneath it was a sketch of an inverted anarchy symbol.

“No,” he said.  “They hold no special significance.  Should they?”

“The original note was written on the back of a picture of you,” Roland said.

Tom shifted his gaze to his mother.  She looked ready to cry.  Chris and Shane both wore grim expressions.

“Do you have any clue what this person wants from me?” Tom asked.

Roland shook his head.  “None.  But we have to extend all caution.  We believe that the killer will not immediately strike for you - if at all - but we’re almost certain that all boys of your age and appearance are potential victims.”  The man paused and sipped his tea.  “At this time we ask that you act with caution and report to us immediately if anyone acts suspiciously around you.”

Tom nodded.  So that’s why Chris wasn’t on campus and why Shane wasn’t down in Surrey with his wife - mother thought he needed protection.

“I understand.  I’ll be careful.  I won’t go out alone at night.”  Tom glanced at his mother and brothers as he said this.  His mother mother smiled tightly.  “What about the other poor blokes who look like me, though?  Have you warned them?”

“We are warning everyone to be cautious,” Roland said.

“No one will take you seriously.”  Tom frowned.

“Thomas!” his mother cried.

“The boy makes a fine point, Elaine,” Roland said calmly.

Tom bristled at the man’s presumptuous familiarity with his mother.

“However, if we compromise our case by showing our hand, we may never apprehend the killer,” the inspector continued.

Tom kept his face impassive; internally, he was fuming at the man’s perfect suit and mature good looks and unfettered calm.  How could the man be calm in his situation?

“Be careful, Tom.”  Roland rose to his feet.  “Thank you for the lovely tea, Elaine.”

Tom fumed silently while the man and his tag-along bobby showed themselves out.  As soon as they were gone, Chris spoke.

“No worries, mate.  Shane and I will help your friends keep an eye on you.”

Tom flashed him a falsely reassuring smile and counted to ten to let his anger dissipate.  Then he crossed the kitchen and drew his mother into a hug.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” he whispered.  “Everything will be all right.  They’re probably being overly-cautious.”

“We’ll take care of our baby bruvver.”  Shane reached out and ruffled Tom’s hair.  Tom pulled back and scowled at him.

Chris leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek.  “I’ll be in my room studying.  Call me if you need anything, Tom.”

Shane started for the kitchen door.  “I’ll go call Shelley.”  

Elaine gazed up at her son once they were alone.

“You’re taking this awfully well, Tom.”

He sighed.  She was the only one who could see past the artifice of his craft.

“I’ll admit that I’m worried, but I refuse to be paranoid all the time.”  He felt some of the anger from before rise in his chest.  “I also think that Detective Chief Inspector Roland is a git.  Something about him annoys me.”

Elaine shrugged.  “Can’t help you there.  Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

Tom hugged her again.  “I promise.”

She held him tightly for a moment, then stepped back.  “Good.  Now go do your homework.”

* * *

Tom lay awake in his bed, staring at the blank ceiling and wondering why a serial killer would be after him.  Apart from his acting skills he was no one special, and the bizarre clues that the murderer had left behind didn’t relate to Shakespeare or any of the films Tom had been in.

Of course, there was no making sense of serial killer.  Tom sighed and forced his mind to other thoughts.  Should he toll Jono and Mike about the danger he was in?  DCI Roland hadn’t exactly told him not to tell anyone.  Jono and Mike would just worry about him too much, if this morning’s reactions were anything to go by.

Tom groaned and threw his arm over his eyes.  He didn’t want to think about some psychopath trying to kill him.  He turned his thoughts to the strange girl at the fountain in the park.  A shiver ran through him.  Her imaged burned in his mind, and he sucked in a deep breath.  Those endless black eyes were inhuman.  That girl had been striking in an unsettling fashion.   Her skin was translucent gold, as if she didn’t see enough sun.  Her features were too sharp to be pretty, and the scars that marred her skin were almost painful to look at.  The girl looked like the china doll of a corpse.  Tom shuddered at that thought.  For all that she seemed small and delicate, there was a severity in the way her long black hair was cinched high on the back of her skull in something too neat and civilized to be called a ponytail.  And those scars - one didn’t earn a scar like the one over her eye and just walk away to tell the tale.  Tom was sure she was dangerous.  A dark aura had swirled around her like the folds of her skirt, the same darkness that drifted endlessly in her eyes.  The gold pin on her collar blazed in his mind.  G.  Was that her first name or surname?  And the black pouch that hung from her neck - what did she keep in there?  Tom had to admit he was intrigued.  That girl, whoever she was, was dangerous.  Even if he was intrigued, he wasn’t sure he wanted to meet her again.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Tom Phillips,” she’d whispered in his ear.

HIs eyes flew open wide, and he sat bolt upright.  That girl had known his name.  People knew his name from the films, but most fans were too shy to approach him so boldly.  That girl was warning him about something - did she know he was in danger?  Those dark eyes had held a warning - she knew something.  Ought he tell DCI Roland?

Tom closed his eyes and sighed.  He had to get some sleep if he wanted to be ready for tomorrow.

* * *

The boy lay sleeping in his bed, unaware of the danger that lay in wait.  Deft hands unfolded a piece of paper and smoothed it out fondly.   The boy had dropped it earlier in the day while out at dinner with his friends.  The poor lad had been oblivious of his folly, busy trying to talk to a girl.  This piece of paper held every detail of the boy’s life, where and he would be for every day of the week.  All it would take was some simple observation, and then it would be easy to catch him alone.  The boy had perfect eyes, witches’ eyes, grey ringed with unholy bright blue.  Too bad the clan called witch was spoken for.  Those deft fingers splayed against the window, warm breath misted on the pane of the glass.  Behind the window, the boy’s flesh looked as soft as the petal of a rose.

A rose...