Now he never would.
The memories were better than the pain of drowning.
He remembered his first kill. A human that had raised a hand and struck some of his sister’s “merchandise.” And bruised merchandise earned less on the market.
So there he was…asked to not only deal with the man, but to make an example of him. He easily picked the lock of the man’s apartment when he wasn’t home and relocked the door behind him. Perusing the man’s sad, pathetic little space for ten minutes, he became quickly bored with it.
It didn’t shock him that a person who paid for a night’s company only to strike the woman in frustration was a miserable sack of shit.
Sitting down on the cleanest piece of furniture in the man’s living room, Raziel took out a coin from his pocket and began walking it across his knuckles. He waited.
The man returned home a half an hour later from work. He’d been to the bar already and stank of cheap alcohol. Damn. It meant he’d feel Raziel’s efforts all the less.
Whatever.
Once, a man walked into the kitchen and got himself a beer from the icebox without even noticing Raziel sitting in his living room. That had made Raziel smile.
It had turned into a game after that night. He would sit in a person’s home and just quietly wait to see how long it took them to figure out they weren’t alone.
Some people figured it out instantaneously.
Some people took embarrassingly long.
A different time, someone had made dinner, eaten it, taken a shower, and was about to go to bed before Raziel had finally made his presence known. Or else he would have had to sit there all damn night.
But this particular man noticed, finally, when he walked into the living room, intending to likely drink his beer on the sofa. He froze.
“Who the fu?—”
“Sit down.” Raziel kept the faint smile on his face.
The man sat on the floor right where he was standing. Right. Yes. He was still adjusting to how extremely literally people took his instructions. He had to learn to be very specific with what he told them. “Why did you strike the woman you spent last night with?”
“Huh?” The man made a face as if his question made no sense. “You’re here about a whore?”
“I am here—” Raziel sighed. “Because I was told to be. Now. I’m asking you a question, and you’re going to answer me. Why did you strike the woman?”
The man paused. “She wouldn’t put my dick down her throat.”
“Why?”
“Claims it made her choke. Bullshit excuse for a whore. So I smacked her once or twice, then made her take it anyway.”
“Hm. Well.” He despised the man. He was going to be rather glad to kill him. “Did she choke?”
“Yeah. Felt good. And?” The man furrowed his brow. “Why can’t I move?”
Standing, Raziel brushed off his pants. “Listen to me very carefully. Once I leave your apartment, you are going to swallow that beer bottle, neck first.”
“But I’ll—I can’t?—”
Raziel walked toward the door, patting the man on the shoulder as he slipped his coin back into his other pocket. “Who knows. Maybe it’ll feel good. Have a lovely night.” Opening the door to the hallway, he shut the door behind him with a click.
At first, he’d made sure the punishments fit the crimes. At first, he tried to care. But little by little, it chipped away. It wasn’t about the person he was killing anymore. The part of him that felt remorse for taking lives was gone.
If it had ever existed in the first place.
Honestly, he doubted it ever did. At least, not human lives. Or fae. Or those he was simply told to kill. When he knew the people he had to end, cared about them, of course he felt remorse.
