Chapter Seven
The newspapers were calling him ‘the Coffin Conjurer.’
As far as monikers went, it wasn’t too bad of a name, really, given it had a certain ring to it.
Though it wasn’t perhaps as terrifying or as grandiose as he’d hoped.
In any event, at least they weren’t suggesting his work was that of Jack the Ripper any longer.
When he’d first heard that suggestion, a white-hot rage had burned through him.
How dare they liken his act of magnificence and skill to that of one of the Ripper’s bloody slayings, murders that had all been nothing more than brutish, frenzied kills, with no theater or magic involved in them at all.
Yes, the Ripper had used outstanding surgical skills with his extremely impressive and precise cuts and the removal of his victims’ organs, but that was where the man’s skills ended.
None of the scenes had been filled with the same elegance, precision, or dramatic flair that his was and would continue to be.
Nor did he himself have any need for bodily souvenirs.
Instead, the scene itself was preserved in pictures, which would remind him of his own brilliance and allow him to relive the true euphoria that came with taking a life.
There was no greater power, and no greater gift than choosing whether to let someone live or die.
He imagined the Ripper had also felt such elation, but the one thing the Ripper had been missing and that he himself took great pride in was his showmanship.
The Ripper’s kills had been messy and disorganized, with no real rhyme or reason behind them.
Whereas his kills were always meticulous, timed to perfection, and executed with a precision bordering on brilliance.
It was why this first act in his new performance had gone so well and garnered such attention; it was theatrical and had gone off like clockwork.
Although the two police officers coming upon him in the alley while on their dawn patrol hadn’t been anticipated.
Luckily, he’d taken precautions just in case of such an unexpected eventuality.
They had seen him and automatically assumed he was a weak old man, just as his costume had been designed to ensure.
It had been far too easy to convince them he’d been an innocent bystander who’d stumbled upon such a horrible scene and had been terrified in the process.
And then even easier to pretend to faint, and while the constable had helped steady him, he’d swiftly pocketed the officer’s cuff key, with the man being none the wiser.
Which had come in handy later, ensuring the officer couldn’t free himself when cuffed to the radiator with his own cuffs.
Thankfully too, no one there had recognized him.
Though if they had, he could easily have slit their throats with the steel blade he kept up his sleeve for just that sort of contingency.
Once in the warehouse and after he’d knocked out Constable Stubbings, he had debated whether to slit the younger man’s throat, and though the bloodlust in him had been high, particularly after the satisfaction he’d felt from his performance, he’d resisted the urge.
After all, there was nothing more ferocious than a pack of police on the hunt after one of their own had been killed.
So even though he was certain they’d never be able to catch him, it had been easier to let the constable live, instead of inviting more police onto the case, who would be far more determined to catch a police killer.
At least he’d had plenty of time to leave the warehouse and escape well before anyone had noticed his absence. That had been a stroke of luck, though he’d planned for it, so in a sense, he’d made his own luck.
A whimper from behind him had him turning towards the sound.
In the far corner of the basement was an iron-barred cell.
A cell that now housed his three assistants, instead of four, all of whom were huddled against the brick wall on the far side of the cell, iron shackles around their ankles, anchoring them to the brick wall, while their hands were all bound behind them with rope, their mouths stuffed with a rag, so as to stop them from screaming aloud.
Not that anyone could hear them down here. He’d made certain of that, but again, precautions were imperative. After all, chance favored the prepared. Maguire himself had taught him that.
“Don’t worry, my dear ladies,” he crooned out to them, standing from his chair as he walked over to the cell door that consisted of thick, vertical iron bars set into a heavy iron frame, bolted onto both sides of the brickwork of the building.
“You will all get the chance to perform in my show. I have some spectacular routines planned for each one of you that will showcase your talents and mine so wonderfully well. Though for my next act, you will all get a slight reprieve.”
He needed a gentleman for his second act, the Palingenesia Illusion, and he was nothing if not a perfectionist for staying true to Maguire’s routines.
Plus, the man he’d chosen to assist him for this performance would serve a dual purpose; he would not only star in this act, but his death would ensure Jaqueline Maguire’s involvement in the case. Which was what he needed.
“Don’t be jealous, my darlings.” He smiled at his ladies, who were all staring at him in terror, which sent such a thrill through him, that for a moment, the dark urge to feel the sensual sweetness of blood coating his hands was upon him.
The lust very nearly overpowering him, with the urge to perform his next act immediately rather than waiting, beginning to beat like a heady drum through his whole body.
Patience, patience, he cautioned himself. Timing was everything in a performance, and as much as the bloodlust inside him was enticing him to bring forward his next show, he did have to allow the police a small semblance of a chance to try to catch up, unlikely though that it was.
No, for now, he must content himself with reliving his first performance over and over again in his imagination.
The sheer agony he could see in his lovely assistant’s eyes when she’d caught sight of the saw he was about to use to cut through the box…
had been rousing. Not to mention the muffled sound of her screams through the rag stuffed in her mouth as he’d begun to cut through the wood.
The screams, though, hadn’t lasted as long as he’d hoped, given she had been rendered unconscious only a moment after the saw had begun cutting through her flesh.
He’d read of liquid cocaine starting to be used on a person before surgery, where it was injected into the flesh, numbing that specific area from pain, for anywhere between ten to sixty minutes.
It sounded like it could be just the thing for him to use with his ladies for his future acts.
That way, then, his assistants would hopefully be conscious for far longer periods without passing out prematurely, and thus reducing his own enjoyment if it all.
He didn’t care whether his second act passed out or not, for he’d never felt the same heady experience killing a man as he did when killing a woman.
Especially given every harlot he’d killed thus far was his way of killing that bitch Julia Maguire over and over again, in revenge for all she had taken from him.
His third illusion was to be the Vanishing Lady with a twist, and it would be so much more pleasurable if his assistant also got to fully experience the entirety of the show… at least until it was time for her to take center stage.
The very thought of how she would die sent a sense of rapture through him. It was almost ethereal.
He really was beginning to fulfill the path to his destiny, a calling that had been revealed to him so long ago.
And part of that destiny would be to ensure that Maguire’s darling prodigy was in his orbit.
After all, she was to play the most important part in his show; she would be his homage to his master and his most audacious, final act.
She would die by the flame, just as he’d made sure to kill her father. She would be his Burning Lady.