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The Saint Slayer	By : BlueberryButton Category: A through F > Aud Torvingen Trilogy Views: 1121 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Aud Torvingen, the Blue Place, Stay, or Always. All of her, and more, belongs to Nicola Griffith. I make no money for the fiction I write.

Chapter List
- 1-The Saint Slayer
- 1
Summer sun is so pleasant, especially in Seattle. Rich and warm, it’s like liquid honey, glimmering and shining with an almost tangible quality. I sat in a small café, reading the paper and sipping a small cup of what was purported to be espresso. Unless it got much stronger further down the cup, the barista had lied.
The paper held the usual news stories: new plans for rebuilding the viaduct and how much it would cost, a new leap forward for Microsoft thanks to their latest flimsy technology, and a few local news stories about urban gardening and newly-opened restaurants. Front and center on the first page, though, was a most eye-catching headline: Grisly Seattle Murders Continue.
So far, the serial killer had been loose for about three months. Three co-eds on sorority row, a jogger in Gas Works Park, and a family of five had all turned up dead since the media-dubbed Saint Slayer started his, or her, work. I scanned the breaking news story, looking for any new information. It listed the usual: a timeline of events, sanctification of the victims and general vilification of the killer. There were also a few testimonials from the friends and family members of those killed. I folded the paper neatly, downed the rest of my espresso, then tucked the world’s changes under my arm and walked to work.
The SPD was buzzing like a hive, with assistants and rookies running all over the place looking harried. The older, more experienced crowd looked busy, but not stressed, although I could tell that most of them would sit and cry if they could. The police had received a note from the Saint Slayer less than two days ago, and it had been all I could do to keep them from keeping me here constantly. Most of the lieutenants were sleeping here anyway, but I preferred my own peace and quiet for at least the six hours a day I was away from the station.
Sergeant Bill Coppola looked up from his desk as I walked by. “Torvingen, Lincoln says she wants to see you. There’s been some kind of break with the note she wants you to see,” I nodded and dropped the paper off at my desk before continuing on down the hall to see Tori Lincoln.
Tori Lincoln is the type of girl I’d always have assumed to be something of a loose woman, if I’d never spoken with her. She had a habit of hair-twirling and nail painting, not to mention her penchant for pretty boys. One night late at the office, though, she’d admitted to me that she never had sex with them…apparently her asexuality had kept her celibate for her entire life. Tori was pretty, though: she had short, bob-cut black hair and full red lips. Something about her was absolutely entrancing to men. To me, she was just one of the best detectives I’d ever met.
As soon as I stepped in the door, Lincoln shoved the plastic-wrapped note under my nose. “What do you see there, Torvingen?” She demanded.
The note was neat, with careful handwriting filling up the middle third of it.

Thirteen need cleansing, but eight are now gone. I intend to purify this city before I’m through. SPD allows filth of all kinds to roam the streets…but I will only take the truly degenerate. I will take the lewd, the lascivious, the whores. I will take until there is nothing left to take, and then I will take one more. Tell the sluts their time has come; tell the philanderers, the sodomites, and the worshipers of Gomorrah that I am coming for them. I will purify them: I will hold a mirror to the stains on their souls.
In each corner, there were little symbols that no one had been able to make heads or tails of. I shrugged.
“I see the same note I saw when it first came in, Lincoln,” I admitted. She nodded, then pointed one blood red fingernail at the top right corner’s symbol. It looked to me like a slanting swirl of air.
“This is the alchemical symbol for purification,” She said, then continued going around the four corners. “This one, the double triangle? It stands for fire, but a stronger than usual fire. That one, the Cancer symbol, stands for day and night. And this last on in the bottom corner,” She traced the little symbol with her nail before continuing. “That one’s the symbol for putrefaction.”
“Wonderful, Lincoln,” I said, peering over the symbols. “But what are they there for?” I glanced at her and the slim woman smiled a very self-satisfied smile before leaning back in her chair.
“The note here says that his intent is to purify thirteen, but not just anyone. He hasn’t gone after bums, has he? Or prostitutes? No.”
Lincoln brought out the pictures of all the Saint Slayer’s victims. Smiling faces gazed out at nothing as she pointed to them each.
“He goes after these sorority girls first…that’s ballsy. Three girls against one person? Most killers just take one life, and some of them can’t even manage that without getting caught. But all of these girls are good girls: they helped organize charity events, helped the poor. Hell, there were people who came to their vigil and talked about how one of these girls apparently sat on a sidewalk for over an hour talking some guy down from a ledge. None of these girls were supposedly bad girls.
The jogger looked random until we saw that he’d marked her too…this girl was pretty average, kept to herself. A single mom, who by all accounts was perfectly fine. Why these girls?”
I shrugged. I really couldn’t see where Lincoln was trying to direct me, and I think she saw that. Eventually, she sighed, and motioned to the family picture.
“The Holmes family was really Christian. But the dad was cheating,”
I eyed Lincoln for a moment. “Cheating,” I repeated. She nodded.
“He’d had a string of mistresses, and after he’d publicly denounced one of the political forerunners in the state for keeping a woman on the side. He was only pretending to be good. All three of those sorority sisters helped the community, but by all accounts, they whored around a bit. The jogger was a stripper on the weekends for extra cash.”
It finally dawned on me.
“Is that what he means, I will purify them?” Lincoln smiled and nodded.
“Now you see what I saw. He’s trying to purify the ones that pretend to be good; he feels they aren’t good enough.”
I sat down as two more detectives drifted in. Perry and Speller were both working on the case with Lincoln and I, as well another five detectives. The two men sat, and faced us.
“Any news?” Speller asked hopefully. He was young, even by rookie standards, with a round baby face. Perry had a pretty-boy complex that I thoroughly disliked. I nodded to Lincoln, who quickly brought them up to speed.
Several hours later, I was listening to the police chief brief the entire department on the case. As usual, several people were current suspects, but none of them fit the bill quite perfectly. Soon, but not soon enough, the meeting ended. As I was leaving, Lincoln caught me by the arm and swung herself rather playfully in a small arc before placing her lips against my ear.
“I just wanted to tell you that my last escort, Orin, had a bit of interest in you,” She laughed enchantingly and pulled away with a slight shrug. “If you’re interested,”
I shook my head slightly with a smile. “You know my preferences, Lincoln. But thank him anyway,”
On my drive home, I gripped the wheel softly, playing my fingertips gently along the smooth leather while I mused: Lincoln’s comments had reminded me of how long it had been. Time enough, a little voice said. Tonight would be fine.
I showered and changed before heading downtown. The bar was dim and loud inside, and the bouncer at the door always gave me an odd look as she checked my ID.
It didn’t take me long to find a dance partner on the floor, this one more fluid than the others I’d taken over the years. She was small and sinuous, moving across the floor like a lithe, dark-haired dream. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved, low-cut black shirt, she was gorgeous in a very amiable, unassuming way. I took her hand lightly and she trailed her warm, gentle fingertips up my arm. In a graceful spin, she drew her body up against mine, almost dancing alone as she arched and rolled herself against me. A few songs in, I trailed my fingers up her back and across her throat. She grabbed me sharply behind the neck and I allowed her to pull me down to her face as she touched those soft, full lips to my cheekbone and whispered,
“I have a hotel room, if you’re interested,”
In response, I encircled her waist with my arm and lifted her entire body up so that we were touching, chest to knee. I drew up hand up beneath her leg, jerking it up to my hip. Her entire body leaned back from the motion, graceful as grass in the wind.
“Would you like a drink before we go, or should we call a cab?”
She was staying at the Hotel Andra, less than a three minute drive from the bar. In the elevator, we stood side-by-side, not quite touching. I could feel the energy rolling off her as we stepped out and she produced her room key. I watched her nimble fingers slide the key in, and it was all I could do to walk purposefully into the room without touching her. The second the door was shut and locked, she turned to me, her long chestnut hair shining like buttered toffee in the light. Toying with her collarbone, she watched me, eyes drinking me in like she’d been denied for years.
We stood apart like that for a moment, watching each other, and then like a flash we were together, whirling like a hurricane. She lay down on the bed, drawing the covers back and sighing as her back arched. With a flourish, she removed her shirt, and I pressed my thumbs into the little hollows between her ribs as she stretched herself. Her bra was a pale taupe with black lace over all, and beautiful. The tops of her breasts were golden like cool spring sunshine, pale, but warm and willing. I traced my fingertips down between them, kissing the tops, and that’s when I noticed them: scrolling across her body like a million tiny scars, like eddies of heaven’s air, she had tattoos. White tattoos, done in spiraling lines and swirling vines. A rose bloomed across her ribs, just below her right breast.
Fascinated, I trailed my fingers down her body, kissing and licking as I went. As I reached her hips, I drew down the top of her jeans, touching her softly along the lines. So many pearly, beautiful swirls danced across her smooth body.
“They’re mine,” She sighed, hitching her hips slightly as I buried my face in the now-open fly of her denim, inhaling her scent like a fine bouquet.
“Yours?” I whispered softly, scraping my teeth along her hipbone. I felt her nod.
“The vines, they’re mine. For my eyes alone,”
“And now mine?” I looked up over her body, rising slightly. She had most captivating eyes: green, the color of pale emeralds or Irish moss. Long dark lashes blinked at me as I crawled up to kiss her lightly on the lips. As I pulled away, I noticed she was smiling.
“Not at all,” She whispered. “Now ravish me.”
As I pulled off her denims, I marveled at the attention to detail that the tattoos held. They swirled around her waist, twirling and slithering like living things across her hips. Tendrils curled around her mons, and a single flower blossomed at the very summit of her sex. I’m not at all ashamed to say that this single flower, this little rose crafted in exquisite detail with the tip of a needle, was the most beautiful blossom I have ever seen. None, not even those in reality, can compare with the delicacy and loveliness that made up the sheer essence of it, the smell, the taste and feel of it on my tongue.
I kissed that rose, touching my lips to it as I touched her all over. Using my nails, I gently scratched down her thighs and the soft rise of her hips.
“God, you know just what you’re doing, don’t you?” She whispered in broken sighs as I toyed with her.
Her body was taut, like a spring. Coiled, oiled and fitted like Geneva works into a tiny, flexible package. She was perfect. Her sounds, her reactions, and the way she gripped my hair in her fist as she came like a fountain; she was, all of her, flawless. As her breast rose and fell in the afterglow, I took in every inch of her body, right down to her matching manicure and pedicure: the immaculate nails were painted a deep berry purple. I wondered how she looked while painting them, nude. I imagined sunlight cascading through an open window as she bent over her toes, tattoos glittering like pearly lace in the sunbeams. My reverie was interrupted by the feeling of her nails trailing through my short hair.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked. I glanced up at her, playing my fingers along the tiny hollow of her hip.
“You’re very beautiful,” I replied. My lovely companion propped herself up on her elbows and quirked an eyebrow at me.
“That’s not an answer in the slightest,” She said, but there was a smile on her lips.
“I was wondering,” I ventured slightly, kissing her hip. “I was wondering…do you paint your nails while nude?”
Her laugh was quick and unexpected, but it danced across my skin like a warm and melodious wave.
“Sometimes,” She admitted. “Why do you wonder?”
“Because your tattoos…they look like they should sparkle in the sunshine, while you paint your nails.”
“They don’t. They look more like scars than anything else,”
“You have them…everywhere?”
She asked me to move off the bed and repositioned the floor lamp so that the entire surface of the bed lay bathed in golden light. Then, taking off her socks, she lay down on her stomach, twisted her hair up over her shoulder, and invited me to run my hands along her body.
From the nape of her neck, where her hair and skin joined, down to the edges of the soles of her feet, she was covered in those flowering, tiny vines, so faint and delicate that if they weren’t looking, I doubted anyone could see them at all. They curled around her bottom and twirled down her fingers, spiraling out to explode into roses on each soft palm. She was covered in rose vines, like the castle in the tale of the sleeping beauty. Even on the most intimate parts of her, her feminine lips, she had exquisite, meandering liana. I breathed her in and her scent was heady, sexy and intoxicating.
“They’re mine,” She said simply. I gave her a questioning look, and she went on. “Unless I’m…out with a friend—”
“The way you’re out with a friend tonight?”
“Yes,” She smiled. “Unless I’m out with a friend, no one ever sees them. They’re my secret. I suppose I get a bit of a kick out of knowing they’re there, all over my body, and that no one else can see them. Do you have any tattoos?” The words, when she spoke them, were so innocent, and yet the tone was sly.
She stood beside me then, a few inches over five feet, and only peeking over my shoulder. I wrapped an arm around her waist and led her back to the bed. She sat, staring up at me, and I began to unbutton my shirt. Pulling it off, I took off my binder and turned around, arms out, so she could get a good look at me.
“Not a blemish in sight,” She sighed, standing, and ran her fingertips down my spine. I nearly shivered from her touch, cool and hot at the same time, like peppermint.
“Except this,” I said, pointing to the scar behind my knee. “And this,” Scar from a bullet on my right shoulder. “And this,” Knife scar from a bar fight along my ribs.
“There’s a difference between a blemish and a scar,” She whispered, kissing my shoulder blade softly.
“What’s the difference?”
“One is a mistake. The other tells a story. Stories are never bad things, even if the tale is unsavory.”
We were together for that entire night, and I almost felt a twinge of sorrow when I saw the cool wash of morning sunlight fall between the dark drapes. The beautiful bird had fallen asleep in my arms, her body stretched out all along mine as if she were trying to touch as much of me as possible. With a sigh as the dawn rose, she turned over, burying her face in my neck. I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of her breath, hot and quick, against my skin. She was as avid a partner as I’d experienced in a long time, I realized with a small smile.
“I take it we now go our separate ways?” She whispered. Her voice was sweet and soft.
“Yes,” I wasn’t going to lie to her. She nodded, sitting up. The green of her eyes looked paler in the washed-out light, pools of sage. A strand of hair fell over her eye and she reached up to push it back. I beat her to it, tucking it gently behind her ear. They weren’t pierced, I noticed.
On my way out, I paid the concierge to send up a flower and a little message. In the cab back to my car, I looked out the window and wondered if she would read the note next to the window, so her pearly tattoos would shine in the morning sun.
- 1
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The Saint Slayer