Assassin's Touch

Seven.

Ripley
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Immediately, my eyes scan around me looking for any type of weapon to defend myself with. Before I can feel any fear, pure hatred, icy hot, makes my veins feel like they're nearly on fire. My survival instincts kick into gear.

The mass murderer in front of me leaning causally against the wall of my room is nearly enough to cause me to see red. He has killed too many people and he will kill again. To see him so unbothered pisses me off, knowing he has no remorse or any ounce of regret regarding the innocent lives he has taken.

I feel a sense of desperation to kill him. Justice needs to be served. I rack my brain quickly to come up with a plan, all the while The Ghost watches me with those unnerving blue eyes. His face maintains its emotionless and stony mask. He barely blinks.

How am I supposed to kill someone who's faster than me, stronger than me, and knows what I'm going to do?

His nostrils flare, a weird thing I've noticed has happened during each of our encounters. I can feel my wolf at the forefront of my brain, distracting me and confusing me with her presence. She's intrigued by this stranger.

Before I can come up with an adequate plan, The Ghost pushes himself off my wall, his head turning slightly as he takes in my room, silently judging it. I suddenly feel self-conscious at the cluttered mass of pictures decorating all of my walls.

Before I can think or stop myself, I blurt, "You know, it's rude to come in someone's room while they're sleeping." Instantly I flinch, my hatred turning into nerves. Way to go, Ripley. The Ghost's gaze darts back to me again, expression unchanging so I have no idea if I've just offended him or not.

His eyes narrow so minutely that I wonder if I imagine it. He does the golden retriever head tilt again and I finally get the message he's trying to tell me. You weren't sleeping.

"Creep," I mumble under my breath, unable to prevent it. He takes a silent step towards me, causing my body to tense. Is this it? Is this the end? Are my last words really going to be calling my murderer a creep?

I glance at his hands, seeing them without their gloves. At least I'll finally be able to understand how he kills his victims. He takes another couple of slow steps, almost as if he's trying not to frighten me, before he reaches behind him into his back pocket of his dark clothes. I flinch.

What he does next makes my jaw drop. He produces the wolfsbane knife I had thrown at him earlier. However, it's been cleaned of the toxin and shines in the moonlight that stream through my window. Is he changing killing tactics?

Pinching the flat of the blade between his calloused fingers, he holds it out to me handle-first. I gawk at him. So he's a nice murderer.

Is this a trick? Is he just goading me to try and grab the knife and then he'll grab me with those lethal hands?

I just stare at him, my eyes the size of saucers. He shakes his hand holding the knife slightly, to pointedly get my attention. My mouth feels as dry as the desert when I reach for it, fingers trembling.

Once I grab the handle, he lets go. His eyes follow my every movement as I twirl my knife in my fingers. I'm at a loss of what to do. I can't use my knife; he's proved that.

He stands up to his full height, well over six feet I'd guess. The moonlight highlights his tiny white scars on his face now that he's standing directly in its path. The ugly pink scarred flesh I had seen the first night on his throat is what draws my attention though. Someone had almost killed him. I need to know how.

"So, how'd you get the... um... the..." I motion to my own neck, eyeing his scar with interest. I try to make myself come across as innocent.

He ignores me, the moonlight making him look like one of the statues the Greeks would have carved as it highlights the sharp angles of his face. He reaches behind him again, grabbing his gloves I hadn't noticed. He slips them on his hands as he makes his way to my window as if to open it.