She didn’t hear the door. She didn’t hear the slice of bladed fingers breaking every one of her locks with metallic snaps. Their apartment had been burgled many times. They had many locks. The door was scarred from battery – kicked in, bashed in, broken with hydraulic jacks. This stealthy entrance was gentle compared to the boots that had put the panels through, or the blowtorches that had reduced their first lock to a puddle of metal. Entrance was conducted with respect for the occupants, the intruder keen to inflict no more damage than was strictly necessary. She was still weeping and didn’t see him when he bent double to pull his cadaverous frame through and stand, willowy yet hulking, with his inhuman head brushing the ceiling.
But she did smell him. His pungent odour overcame the awful reek of the air exchanger. A heavy smell, redolent of death.
Her sobs died. She took in a hitching breath, removed her hands from her ears and turned to face the creature that had come into her sanctum. She kept her eyes closed for several seconds, listening to him breathe, quiet yet audible over the thundering fans a hundred thousand lives depended on.
’Night Haunter,’ she said, opening her eyes as she spoke the words.
’I have come for you,’ Night Haunter said. His body was swathed in black rags stitched together from the garments of a dozen looted corpses; no tailor on Nostramo would dare outfit this nightmare.
’Why?’ she said. She was too drained to feel fear. The situation was surreal. ‘I have done nothing wrong. I have lived all my life as well as I could.’
’You did not dream of City’s Edge?’
’Everyone dreams of City’s Edge,’ she said, her voice small yet defiant. ‘I tried to make myself into someone who could go there. I failed. But I did no wrong in trying. I have never harmed anyone, or wished to. I have suffered life here without complaint. Why are you here?’
Night Haunter’s eyes glinted. ‘The manner of your life is not my concern. It is the manner of your death. The manner of death you have chosen is a crime.’
He took a step forwards, looming over her.
’There were, in ancient places, laws against self-murder,’ he said. ‘Suicides were buried without ceremony, in shame, and those caught attempting to kill themselves were often executed.’
’But I want to die,’ she whispered.
’Not the way I will end you,’ he hissed. ‘What I will do to you will make you wish you had opted to live. I am going to hurt you as much as it is possible to be hurt.’
’Why?’ she breathed.
’There are no taboos against taking one’s life here,’ said the Night Haunter. ‘Many do. This is not a happy world. But it can be a better one. By killing yourself, you take the easy way out, you encourage others to do the same. You might think you add yourself to a statistic, but your self-murder is much more than that. Every suicide adds to the rot weakening your culture. Every life abandoned is a signal that change can never be effected. You throw your existence away, and in doing so lessen the value of humanity.’
He reached out a hand and ran a ragged nail gently down her face.
’I am going to save you. I am going to save you all. The people of this world will rise above the station of beasts. I will make them. If I have to bathe in the blood of you all to make that happen, then so be it. Justice is my purpose. The only route to total justice is fear. Without fear there can be no order. You will suffer now to feed that fear, so that many others will live, and this decaying society take the slow road to salvation.’
He pulled out a long knife he had made himself. It was unlovely, a murderer’s blade, but with it he could carve the most excruciating agonies.
’Wait!’ she said. The blade hissed through the air.
’Do not try,’ he said. ‘You plead for something you have already forfeited.’
The first cut parted the skin on her arm, shoulder to little finger tip, no deeper than the dermis, for he did not want her hide to tear when he ripped it from her living body. It was so swift a movement, the blade so sharp, she did not feel it. Her first unbelieving gasp of pain only came when the blood pattered to the floor.
She clutched her arm, her hand hopelessly unsuited to the task of closing the wound. She began to cry again, this time from fear and pain.
Curze grinned. ‘You do not wish to die any longer. I can tell. That is unfortunate, but it must be done.’ He advanced on her. ‘Feel joy that your death will bring justice to this world. Feel joy that I bring order.’ He cut again. This time she screamed. A droplet of warm, wet red dotted his cheek. He fought the urge to lick it off. He must be sober, and serious. ‘I assure you I do not enjoy this at all.’
