Nocturne of Shadows: Blood stained Legacy

By Tabitha Thorne

A silent avenger who revels in the hunt for the vilest of criminals – murderers, rapists, predators – those whom the law has failed to bring to justice. The name Nocturne is whispered through the ranks of the Ravens in hushed tones; actions remain shrouded in mystery. With every target eliminated, she believes she is cleansing the world of its most heinous predators. Haunted by a traumatic past, she has found her purpose in retribution and relishes every moment. For her, there are no moral dilemmas, regrets, or doubts. She knows her actions serve the greater good; she's comfortable as an instrument of fate. As she embarks on an assignment in the sprawling expanse of New York City, she must endure work that she's not used to, working with a partner as well. She is the embodiment of a dark savior, unburdened by the weight of conscience. The shadows she resides in have never been darker, and Nocturne faces trials she's never experienced before. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MiloPineconeStudios
• Release date: Mar 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224559572

Book preview

Note to the reader

Dear reader, Well, aren't you in for a wild ride? This book, like life, isn't full of sunshine and rainbows. There are gritty and dark topics, think kidnapping, murder, torture, and general shady business. If you're the type to be a bit squeamish, it might be best to turn back now. But if you are looking for a journey through the shadows, into the depths of human nature, and the trials of a not-so-heroic protagonist, then you are in the right place. Just remember, you've been warned.

yours, Nocturne 

one

Nocturne

The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls. -Edgar Allan Poe

Joseph McMillan,  39 , is a serial assaulter and rapist responsible for at least two young women's deaths.

Slinking back into the shadows, I duck behind a tree as bright headlights make their way up the driveway. I check my watch, 2:30 am, as expected. I have been watching this specific target for the last few weeks. He has the same routine, he wakes up hungover, does some housework, makes it to the bar, gets plastered, and comes home when the bar shuts down. It's quite pathetic.

I've done research heavily into his past, wealthy parents, never even been slapped on the wrist once. But I was going to do more than a slap on the wrist. I was going to torment him to ensure his worst fears came true. It's what I do best.

I watch from my spot in the woods as he stumbles up the porch steps, clearly drunk. A smile twitches on my lips as I step on a twig next to me purposefully, to watch him whip around to see where the noise came from. His eyes bug out of his head as he looks around, peering into the woods. But he can't see anything; it's far too dark.

He searches his keyring hastily, panic setting in. He drops the keys, flinching as they land with a loud clatter. A grin creeps across my face as I watch him struggle to pick them up. He's almost ready.

Finally, he shoves the right key into the slot and throws open the door, stumbling inside and slamming the door behind him. Pulling out my phone, I check the camera feed inside his house. With a smile, I watch as he locks the door, walks away, then turns back to double check the door is locked. He walks around and does his newest routine, pushing at all the windows to ensure that they're locked. He makes his way to the kitchen, grabs a beer, and half stumbles, half crawls up the stairs to his bedroom.

I continue to watch the cameras as he strips down to boxers and crawls into bed, sitting up against the corner and stares out into the room in a silent vigil. He keeps a knife under his pillow now, wee lamb. Not that it'll do him much good.

I creep up to the front door, using my spare key to unlock it, and silently sneak inside. I always enjoyed this part of my missions, making them paranoid and fearful. They were usually men who were fairly high on the social ladder, men who acted all-powerful, placing themselves on a pedestal. Everyone has their own methods of doing things, and I tend to take my time with them -make them go a little crazy first.

At first, he thought it was ghosts; the creaking floorboards, cabinets left open that he knew he shut, the front door and windows being open, furniture moved around. Living in a cabin in the middle of the woods, your first thought would run to that. How could it be any other possibility out in the middle of nowhere? He kept a bible on his side table, although I'm not sure his  God would care what happened to this waste of oxygen. He used to pray, the first few days he thought that would help, but the last few days he hasn't bothered with it. He knows he's alone here, no one's going to stop the events of the next few days from happening.

I glance at my phone to see what he's up to, still sitting in the corner of his bed, gripping the beer bottle for dear life. He does that every night now; he sleeps seated upright in the corner of his room, watching the door with his eyes peeled until he finally passes out.

I take my time and ruffle through his office downstairs, still searching for enough evidence. I need proper proof before finishing my work here: trophies, pictures, anything. I've already searched his phone and came up with nothing.

I creep around the edge of the large desk, opening drawers and checking through folders. He's a professor at the local community college and takes advantage of his status there. Dirty fucker.

Finally, I  make it to the last drawer and look inside. At first glance, I don't see anything of importance, a stapler,  some tape, paper clips, that kind of thing. But as I close the drawer, I realize it should be deeper. The drawer from the outside is much larger than one just tall enough to house a stapler.

Tsk tsk tsk, tried to be sneaky, I mutter under my breath, taking everything out and setting it on top of the desk; checking the cameras once again just to make sure he's still in bed; of course, he is, spineless shit. I tap and feel around at the base of the drawer and feel it, a hollow point. I press on it, and it dents down. I flick out my knife, wedge it between the base and the wall of the drawer, and pry it open.

Fuckin' jackpot, I whisper to myself, opening the drawer up fully. Inside is everything I needed. Students' grades and personal information, with lewd pictures paper clipped to them. Showing that they were failing, and then miraculously, they started getting better grades. How has the school not noticed this? But there's more—Ziplock bags with names written on them, with panties, jewelry, and locks of hair inside. Cross-checking the bags to the student records, it's every single one. It's enough to make someone nauseous.

In the far corner of the drawer, something else catches my eye. A stack of manila folders sits shoved far back, hidden under all the papers. I grab the pile and begin to ruffle through the contents. Jesus Christ, if this isn't the nail in the coffin. Each one is a different unsolved murder case. There are six in total: newspaper clippings, crime scene photos, and handwritten notes. No, wait, not crime scene photos. I look closer at the images; these are before death. He took these. There are some stalker-type photos, following the women around, taking pictures behind bushes, through windows, that kind of thing—photos of the women tied up, hand-fed, tortured.

None of these cases were solved... all cold cases over the last fifteen years or so. These are cases we didn't even connect to him, this is way bigger than we originally thought. This guy is a fucking serial killer. Through all our research none of this came up, how had we not connected this? I glance up at the ceiling above me, where his bedroom is. He's up there, a serial killer, shivering and whimpering at the boogie man he knows is downstairs.

I take the evidence and stuff it into my bag. I leave the drawer open so when he finds it, he will know his time has come. He might try to flee, as they usually do. But I have cameras everywhere, trackers in his car, phone, and wallet, he won't get far. Maybe he'll hide here, try to wait things out. Maybe he'll try to fight back. One can only hope anyway. I love the cat-and-mouse game, but when weak men try to defend themselves, there's something so satisfying in seeing that hope vanish from their eyes when they realize there's nothing they can do.

I leave the office door open and return to the front door. Glancing back at the empty cabin behind me, I smile again. What a fun night this turned out to be. I leave the front door open and jog back out to the woods. I go through the familiar terrain to where my car is parked on a nearly abandoned side road. Once inside, my phone starts to vibrate. I glance at the screen and roll my eyes. Nothing like a kill to a perfect high. I rip my gloves off and answer,

This better be important. I bark.

Hey Noct, what happened to 'hello, how are you?' you're so aggressive tonight. Trouble in paradise?

I got what I needed, I glance over at my bag, the evidence inside, and then some.

So cryptic. Anyway, the boss wants you to make your way down here when you're all wrapped up there. Says there's a new assignment.

On my way.

Noct, thank you for coming in so quickly. Lux told me that you got the evidence?

Yeah, I reply, handing him the contents of my bag. He had this in a false-bottomed drawer in his office. Not very well hidden, to be honest.

The man before me, Prince, is my only friend. We've known each other since we were kids. Further bonded over our hatred of disgusting humans and created our little business. On the official side of things, we run a PI business, sending investigators out to help people with whatever it is that investigators do and supply security guards for skeevy celebrities and rich assholes. It brings in enough money to not look suspicious. No one ever questioned it. It has taken us years to gain the reputation we have, and we are one of the top-grossing personal security companies in America. 

On the darker side of things, we also employ a small group of workers called Crows. We go after the nasty people, people that the law overlooks, or get paid to turn a blind eye on, rapists, murderers, and general scum of the earth types. Most people on our payroll don't know the Crows exist, and the ones that do are Crows themselves. We have Crows undercover anywhere from janitors at schools, to FBI agents, one of the Crows works for the president. Trained killer by night, secret agent by day. It's never required to have a front, but most find it makes our job a little easier.

Prince doesn't get his hands dirty; he never liked to. I preferred him to be the face of things, keeping any attention from the rest of us as possible. No one other than him knows what I look like. I wear a mask to conceal my identity. I don't speak at meetings; I hardly even talk to the others. There is no need for friends in this line of work. 

Attachments get you killed. Prince had told me when we were children. And he was right. 

I watch as he examines the photos. We've seen some nasty things, but this was a particularly gruesome case. He would take the women and tie them up. He would torture them for days, whipping, beating, and starving them and all the while raping them and making them do things for him. He killed them each in different ways, and somehow, the police never connected the dots.His methods are similar to mine, except I'm much better at what I do. He shot, slit wrists, hung, and drugged to overdose, all to make it look like a suicide. But cops never looked into the very obvious torture the women went through beforehand. Bones were never broken, and the bodies were found months, sometimes years later. So there was never really any evidence connecting them, except that they were all students of the same college, students of the same professor when they died. 

He lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head. He puts the packets in a cabinet next to his desk, his skin looks drained of all blood, greenish.

Good job, Noct. Take the rest of today off. Pay him a visit tomorrow, then report back. I've got a new one for you; you'll be traveling.

Got it, bud, thanks. I take my bag and leave. Out of the corner of my eye I see him lean back in his chair, staring at the ceiling and sighing.

I make my way downstairs and back out to my car. Take the day off. He knows I can't do that. I won't do that. I've got a party to plan. I only have one night, but I want to make sure little Joseph feels the pain of those women he killed. Sadly, I only have one night, but I'll have to make it work. If the next job is big enough to require me to travel immediately, I'll need to prepare. I take off my mask and set it in my bag in the passenger seat, rubbing my temples. 

I glance back over at the mask. My entire identity rests within it. I have a couple dozen extras at the apartment. One in my trunk, one at the office, one in my motorcycle, just in case. It was a costume mask I had initially worn when I was a kid. There was a creepypasta I had read called Kagekao; it's about a demon who tormented people, loved wine, and, to me, was just mischievous enough to draw my attention. The mask is half black, half white; on the white side is an angry downturned eye; on the black side is a happier eye, like an upside-down smile. The mouth was a jagged ear-to-ear smile, with sharp teeth and blood. The whole mask has black smudges and tears dripping from the eyes. It's enough to scare people and conceal my identity.

My drive home was spent in silence, my brain reeling thinking of what all I have time to do tonight. Everything is already set up and ready, waiting for us. His house is out in the middle of nowhere, so at least noise won't be a concern.

I let myself into my apartment with a sigh. I'm rarely home, so I never