Dorian Sol had not killed anyone in nearly three years. More precisely, it had been two years, eleven months, and eight days.
Before today, the last person to die by his hand had been a man nicknamed Mister Laughing. The man had discarded his original name and taken that nickname as his real one. That was not a good thing, because he truly meant it—anyone who did such a thing was mad.
By the time Dorian found him, Mister Laughing had already killed forty-two children.
There was something rather interesting about it: in the deranged realm of serial killers, those who targeted children did not merely crave murder itself. They coveted other things as well, such as young, tender flesh or pure, fragile souls.
So yes, if serial killers ever gathered to rank themselves, the scum who specialized in killing children would probably be thrown to the very bottom.
Dorian had brought him down in an orphanage.
The old priest still remembered the scene. Every detail was incomparably clear, as though someone had branded it into his mind with a hot iron. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he could recall it.
He remembered the tiny fingers severed one by one. He remembered the strips of skin, hair still attached, and the organs hanging from the ceiling.
The man once known as Dan had arranged everything with meticulous care. Before he began, he spent four full years honing his craft, then another two practicing at the Corpse Guild. He was a perfectionist in his work, strict and thorough to the point that even his superiors had felt he ought to be promoted as soon as possible...
He never got the chance.
Dorian took their perfect subordinate apart. Piece by piece.
He did not understand. He truly