Inchoate Blood (CRUX I)

2. Drift Ring ≁

    "Meet me at Marsq tonight. I will be waiting..." the voice resonates in my barely conscious mind.

    The faded blazing of the drift ring signifies the ending of the message. But the reminiscence of her voice echoing in my head continues to send an icy shiver down my spine, running me cold with a fury of questions. Who was she? What does she want? And why, in all fuck, does she have Jett's drift ring?

    Struggling, my mind rummages through several options. Someone waiting for me has Jett's drift ring. But who would have a dead man's drift ring? Jett's family were probably returned with his possessions after the crime inspection. Yet I highly doubt anyone in his family would ask me to meet them at Marsq, a swank nightclub, in the middle of the night. The only other option was someone who took Jett's drift ring before his death. The breeze empties my train of thought as I realise it. Only his murderer can have his drift ring. Whoever murdered him that night two weeks ago was speaking to me through his drift ring.

    Silent chuckles start to escape from my lips. For the love of God, this murderer is asking for a death sentence, asking me to meet her in the middle of the night at one of the most shrouded nightclubs in Copenhagen. I can't believe it. Fate has gifted me a perfect opportunity to destroy the murderer's life, just as she has destroyed mine. I shall make her scream in agony, cry in pain. Killing someone has never looked so appealing. A merciless death shall be my only gift to her. Perhaps it will even take some the pain away. All the better.

    Drinking up the last of my beer, I feel a sense of raw exhilaration burn down my throat. I drop the empty glass onto the wooden table, and lick the remaining alcohol dripping from my mouth.

    Marsq, did she say? I must admit, she has good taste choosing a glitzy place for her death. Marsq is a nightclub in the middle of the Copenhagen, and although I've visited it a few times before, my only purpose there has been to enjoy myself with the beautiful girls and bachelorettes. But I guess I have no choice if she insists such a swank place to die in. The only real problem right now would be my unforgiveable fuck-up of an appearance. I doubt I would even pass the security guards outside on the state I am right now. Why must everything be such a pain?

    After an extensively long time showering and scrubbing the days of stench off my body, I try to clean myself up by adding cologne to hide my overriding scent of alcohol and cigarettes. Harder than I thought- I must have been rather stoned these couple of days. I give myself a smooth fresh shave and roughly dry my hair, cutting off a few loose messy ends to pull off a darkly dishevelled yet matured look. Some fringing hair covers a part of my eyes so I trim a little there as well. I usually like to make my eyes stand out; they are a pretty faded teal colour, so I have been told.

    Choosing to wear casual but not too disordered, I put on a pair of dark jeans and a clean navy dress shirt. Then fastening my alchemy cross chain around my neck, I undo the first two buttons of my shirt, giving myself some extra seductiveness. Hah, and since when did looks matter when all I'm about to do is perform a murder at a fancy nightclub? Stepping backwards to look at myself in the mirror, I realise that I didn't look bad for a half-drunken guy. Though if I was fully sane, I would've styled myself to look much neater and classier. It's the French blood in me. Appearance is something I usually take much pride in.

    As I open the tall cupboard beside my study, I inspect my collection of weapons from past years of combat and alchemy training. Although some were given to me by professors and senior alchemists, most of my weapons are hand-made by myself and fully customised to suit my own needs. Swords, axes, a whole shelf of guns and knives, a steel whip from my late mother and ah, my trusty transmutation needles. I laugh to myself at the temptation to bring all of these brutal weapons to try out one by one on Jett's murderer. It would be amusing seeing me carry a slaughter plate.

    Finally, I decide on five transmutation needles, a thin sharp blade, and my all-time favourite pistol loaded with silver alloy bullets. At the back of the cupboard, I glimpse the sight of a sealed long sword chained tightly with an alchemy lock. It belonged to Jett who had given to me about a month ago before he died.

    Thinking about it, it was almost as if he had given it to me as a parting gift before his death, since it was something I remember Jett had treasured sincerely. A few of his bits and pieces of weaponry remain in the closet. That unorganized personality of his always used to tick me off. But now that he's gone, the silence of the corridors that used to ring with his laughter and lame jokes, the empty spaces in the closet that used to store his favourite weapons and knives... The disappearance of it all strikes a wounded pang of hollowness in my chest.

    Feeling a sudden rush of rage, I loudly slam shut the cupboard door and close my eyes, forcing his death out of my mine. Draping a black leather coat across my shoulder with one hand, I lock my apartment door with another and stride away without looking back.

    It is almost dark outside, with the soft evening sunlight fading into the horizon, tainting the clouds a rich violent and red. A strong cold wind blows at my slightly damp hair. I shiver, pushing my cold hands deep into my coat pockets. Streetlights cast waning shadows onto the sidewalk as I make my way to the parking lot of my apartment complex.

    Starting up my black BMW coupé, I curse myself for letting his death linger in my mind. As I take a sky-way south to Copenhagen, I watch the neon lights fly past outside the window, silently resolving to never mourn over his death again. Because revenge is already awaiting my arrival.

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