Night.
The storm clouds were as thick as undissolved ink. Water dripped from the eaves onto the tiled floor. The street was so quiet that even the wind made no sound, broken only by the low, hoarse cries of crows sheltering from the rain beneath the church porch.
The air was extremely damp. Dark red splashed into the rainwater, forming one whirlpool after another.
With a wet squelch, a slender sharpened stake was pulled from a chest. More scraps of flesh fell to the ground with nearly inaudible dull thuds, sounding more like a hymn to death than screams or wails.
Spotless leather shoes stepped through a puddle beside the corpses. A tall figure stopped before the pulpit and raised his head, seeming to meet the gaze of the bowed Jesus.
A pale, lean hand gripped the largest candelabrum on the pulpit. The candle burning with a weak flame was tossed down, igniting a toppled chair, then a table, the tablecloth, until the flames consumed the still-twitching corpses.
The blaze from the church reddened half the sky, and the figure vanished into the night.
The hand holding the candelabrum slowly lowered. The tip of the nearly meter-long three-pronged candlestick gleamed with a sharp, cold light, transformed from an ornate ceremonial vessel into a deadly weapon.
It was another night drowned in alcohol.
The blond man in a long trench coat had collapsed drunk over the table. His eyes were unfocused, drool dripped from the corner of his mouth, and his eyeballs rolled sluggishly as he caught sight of a news article in the newspaper at the edge of the table.
"Church fire in Islington... What rotten luck." A hoarse voice sounded. The man waved away the obstructive newspaper, knocking it to the floor, then lowered his head as though he