Prologue

A cloaked figure lurked among the dark and shadowed streets of London cast by the fading moons glow. Peering across the street, his eyes settled on the small house, with its dark windows and drawn curtains. He smiled.

He risked a final glance down the street before casually walking across, avoiding the distinguishing light of the street lamps and pushed open the gate, it's squeaky hinges the only sound in the otherwise silent night. Reaching the door, he knelt steadily by the small, terracotta plant pot and frowned. The flower had wilted to almost nothing. Why people bothered buying plants only to let them die was a mystery to him. Life was a precious thing, and God demanded it be looked after. With a slight shake of his head, he took the spare key from underneath the pot and unlocked the door, letting himself in.

The smell of lavender was strong, the rush of warm air welcoming. All a part of their life plan to deceive, he thought bitterly. He silently closed the door behind him and made his way up the short flight of stairs which were conveniently set in front of him. Not that it would have been much trouble for him; he'd studied the layout of the house extensively. He knew it as if it were his own. To the right there was a door leading into a modest kitchen which further led out into a tiny back garden. To his right was another door, closed, and it led into a small living room from which he could hear the faint snoring of the girls' father.

The cloaked figure walked quietly up the carpeted stairs, trailing his thin, bony fingers along the soft, wooden banister. On the walls hung multiple photographs of a young girl with dark brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. He'd studied her too; every detail about her and the life she lived.

Louise Mitchell attended a local secondary school with Marie, her closest friend whom she'd known since childhood. A straight 'A' student and star of the Volleyball team as well as head of the graduation committee. She was adored by many.

However, her time had come.

A few more steps and he was on the landing. Down the hall to his right, stood a door decorated in various symbols. He recognised them immediately. They were Wiccan. Such feeble, simple things, he thought, evil things. Once he crossed himself, he opened the door and stepped into the darkened room where he noticed the dark bulk of the bed and the small lump breathing softly just above it. The cloaked figure crept closer, taking care to remain silent. If he were to wake her, it would be a long time before he could return.

The young girl snored softly, the only noise in the otherwise silent house. Even the autumn wind had refrained from knocking the branches up against the house. The moonlight which streamed through the window, outlined the young girls face. She looked so beautiful, so innocent; but he knew. It was nothing more than a visage, a trick. They were the Devils sins, sent to destroy Gods beautiful work.

Reaching into one of the many deep pockets of his robes, he pulled out a small knife. The wood of the handle had been beautifully etched with symbols and engravings. It had been passed down from generation to generation used only in the support of God himself. In the past, the job had been done differently, but this time he needed to do it in a way that would prove far more efficient. He would start with the younger more able ones first and the older ones would come later.

Nearing the sleeping girl, he grabbed a small pillow from beside her head and slowly placed it over her face. Holding it in place, the girl began to wake and her body jerked, fighting back. But it was no use. He was much stronger than her and more prepared. Her magic was useless without its words.

A few more seconds passed before finally, she stopped and was still once more. Removing the pillow, he laid it back to its original position and checked her pulse. Dead. He pulled the blanket from her slim body and moved the girl so she lay flat on her back with her arms and legs straight. Her once sparkling blue eyes had lost their twinkle and no longer glowed with life but dulled as her soul sank to the deep depths of hell itself. With the knife, he cut off a lock of her hair and placed it in his pocket. Next, he cut off her tank top and placed his knife carefully between her breasts. With a slight grin of accomplishment, he sliced down, all the way to her belly button before starting just below her rib cage and carving across to the right. Blood oozed from the cross now etched into her soft skin and with a final glance to ensure she was dead, he turned and left the way he'd come in.