Table Of ContentAlastair Gunn
THE ADVENT KILLER
Contents
Prologue
Monday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Tuesday
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Wednesday
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Thursday
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Friday
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Saturday
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Sunday
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Monday
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Tuesday
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Wednesday
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Thursday
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Friday
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Saturday
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Sunday
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Epilogue
Follow Penguin
For Anna
Prologue
The nausea took hold out of nowhere.
He swayed, losing focus, reaching instinctively for support. As his hand found
anchor, somewhere beyond the miasma of emotion slowing his thoughts, his
damaged shoulder blared its distress.
Was he losing consciousness?
He rubbed his eyes, fighting the combined effects of trauma and exhaustion,
then leaned over the sink and splashed water onto his face, feeling his senses
sharpen as the cold shocked his skin. He straightened, confident now that he
wasn’t going to pass out, glancing down at the knife lodged in his left shoulder,
blood spreading. His time here was limited; he needed to finish this.
He turned back to his victim.
She lay awkwardly, like a person hit by a car, already comatose before they
come to rest yards from the point of impact. Except that, despite her apparent
tranquillity, she wasn’t unconscious.
Far from it.
She stared into space, perhaps no longer aware of his presence. Then she
coughed, her automatic functions creating puppet-like movements as her body
strained in response. Blood crept from the side of her mouth.
He felt the swirl of emotion. But he remained strong.
He watched her panic build. The colour drained from her skin, her chest began
to undulate more quickly, her breaths became short and more desperate.
But the real clue was always in the eyes.
Her pupils dilated, the irises flashing between rapid blinks. But, after a
moment, she became suddenly still.
A few weeks before, such behaviour would have surprised him, but he had
seen it before. The same futile strategy to which they all resorted in the end.
She was trying to talk.
He stepped forwards, into her field of vision, barely able to contain the
anticipation rising within himself. In a corner of his mind, the grandfather clock
ticked inexorably towards the hour.
He said, ‘It’s time.’
He crouched over her. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s too late to
repent now. You made your choices.’ He reached for the roll of tape. ‘I
repent now. You made your choices.’ He reached for the roll of tape. ‘I
understand you’re finding it difficult to make noise at the moment, but this may
take a while, and I can’t have you screaming halfway through.’
He pulled a length of tape free and placed it across her mouth, winding it
tightly around her head and tearing off the end.
Then he reached into the bag for his knife.
The knife.
Her eyes widened, at once pleading with him to stop and daring him to
continue.
Did she really despise him?
Suddenly something ran down his cheek. He felt dizzy, and he realized he was
sweating. His thoughts clouded. Could he really do this?
To the only woman he had ever loved?
No, he would not be deterred. How dare she use what happened as leverage?
He wiped his eyes of his humiliation and anger. But still some part of him
wanted her to understand.
‘I know you’re scared.’ He leaned closer. ‘But, one day, my actions will make
sense to everyone. Things are clear now; change demands sacrifice. You have to
die, for the greater good.’
Did she understand? Her eyes said no. Her eyes conveyed hatred. But why?
He’d hidden nothing from her in the end.
She had no right.
Enraged, he grabbed her shirt, ripping it open, scattering buttons across the
floor. Dropping the material, he gripped the knife hard, making contact with the
tip on her torso, watching the sharpened blade threatening the soft integrity of
her skin.
One last chance?
Her eyes bored into him, her revulsion complete.
No.
The knife’s razor point broke the surface, blood immediately beading around
the tip as it moved, slicing membrane and entering flesh.
He paused, watching the thin stream of crimson as it crept down her side,
relishing the absolute panic in his victim’s expression.
Here was the final opportunity to relent, although somehow he’d always
known he wouldn’t take it. Now was his moment of destiny.
He stole one final look at her smooth, undamaged skin.
And made the first incision.
