( THE PRIEST OF SANTA MARIA ) - [ CHAPTER 47 ] - { PT. 1 }

 { PT.  1 } - In the pulsing heat of the engine room, the crewman's terror-filled eyes stared down in disbelief at the dagger protruding from his chest. Kristoff waited patiently for him to die. Examining has last moments through his caliginous eyes; watching the motions of his dying body with the eager curiosity of a servant. No one ever died in prace. He could write a book on the subject and draw from his extensive knowledge and experience as a professional assassin. It was his art. He had disposed of many, killing indiscriminately, savouring the high it gave him. He was like the Highlander after decapitating an immortal and gaining all his power. The intimacy of the blade far out-weighed the gun's impersonal distance. He craved the feel of the person's flesh; the ice-cold prickle of the skin. He could be but an inch from his victim's eyes; a witness to his own reflection as the bringer of death--the Grim Reaper himself. The ecstasy he felt as the blade savagely ripped through the epidermis was his carnal pleasure. Tears trickled down the man's cheeks. His agonised face screamed soundlessly the pain he could not express. Kristoff placed his ear close to the fading man's mouth. He lived for the last breath. It came as expected, a hiss, similar to the sound made when he would step on a snail shell as a child. He was fascinated by the hissing sound as the hermetically sealed home released all its air and sealed the fate of the snail. The dead man's frozen eyes pictured the horror of this death. Kristoff withdrew the knife, wiped the serrated blade on the man's shirt and checked the mirrored surface for remnants of blood. The face of a demon reflected back at him. It was the early hours of the morning and most of the crew who were not on night shift were fast asleep in the comfort of their cabins. Most of them would be too drunk to respond to the shrill of an alarm. This poor soul was one of the lucky ones as far as Kristoff was concerned.