The Mirror Image Murderers
an excerpt

PROLOGUE

They kill with ease, blades moving in flawless synchronisation. They are one person in two separate forms.

This is the way it has always been. This is the way it always will be.

Blood splatters onto the pavement, creating macabre designs distorted only by the layer of filth that lies thick across the ground, the broken glass from the man's spectacles, shattered hopelessly and irreparably. He gasps; his comrades are without movement -- their eyes are open in a frozen expression of horror, as if they knew that at the moment the pair revealed their faces there was no hope for survival.

"W-wait!" the survivor stammers. He takes a step back, and in his carelessness, slips on a patch of slick wetness and falls. They approach him without mercy, these two scarred men.

They are unnatural, with their pale skin, their jet black hair, their perfectly matching eyes, and those mirror-image facial scars. They are frightening. They are hollow. They kill without mercy, and this man, without knowing their names, sees this and despairs.

"I-I can tell y-you everything you want--"

A knife sprouts from his shoulder; he dissolves into a shuddering pile of tears, blood and mucus.

"What makes you think," says one, "that we want information?" A cold smile appears on his face; the other man, half a second later, follows suit. Their unison is eerie. Though any sort of telepathy is something only found in fantastical stories, he can almost believe that they have it, or something close to it. Whatever they are, they are not human. They cannot be human.

"Please," he begs, unable to contain himself as he throws himself at their feet. The knife is pulled from his body; he cannot help but cry out. "Please, spare me!"

"You know too much," says the talkative creature (because humanity is asking too much of these brutes, despite the elegance of their speech and the expensive feel of their apparel). "We are not the kind of people who like to let rats run free."

"We talk too much," corrects his companion, lifting that deadly dagger of his as the other male raises his hand. His fingerless glove is illuminated in the dim light of the street lamp across the way -- the man suddenly, unequivocally knows who he is. No one else has ever used such a weapon.

He gasps out an unintelligible name, terror flickering across his face.

The creatures pause (he doubts their resemblance to his own species even more, now; this individual has always been rumoured to be an unruly demon, spat out of Hell to make the rest of the world pay for its sins or perhaps create some brand new ones on his own) and they laugh. It's a chilling sound. The man trembles on the ground, unable to control the tears that leak from his eyes.

"How pathetic," says the gloved one as he eyes the man in palpable repugnance. Then, he smiles. The man gulps audibly.

"It's been a long time since someone's called me that, you know. To the world, that name is dead -- or has never existed at all. There are no records of his existence."

"All inexplicably lost," continues his companion blandly.

"But we felt it was time for a change," the first, the recognizable one murmurs, moving closer, hand outstretched; the spikes, elongated and tipped with poison, are now entirely visible. His friend moves in, swiftly blocking off the man's only avenue of escape. He is not foolish enough to try.

This is the end.

"We go by a different name now." The killer’s voice is almost a croon, though it is meant to disconcert rather than to soothe. His left hand suddenly shoots out and grips the man by his throat, the metal points piercing his victim's flesh. "But that’s neither here nor there, is it, Mr. Greene?”

The man, gasping and wheezing, has no time to regret.

His life flickers out like a candle in a blizzard, and the mirror image murderers leave without a trace, their identity uncompromised.

They would kill again.