The Night a Girl Called Saint Killed Her Family - Prologue

Sometimes… sometimes they killed demons. Sometimes they killed humans. Hell, what was the difference at times?

Saint didn't know, and she didn't give a damn, really. That philosophy crap wasn't for her; it just filled your head after a while, made everything so bland. Made you stutter and maybe not pull the trigger or slit a throat, ending up with you on the other side of life – facing the Devil who would be ready to barter your soul for a more deserving soul. Though, if you forgot about it, that's where the fun was.

Especially killing humans. That's the most fun of all.

To watch them squirm, clutch onto bullet or stab wounds like holding onto their blood would somehow bring them back to life. That always made Saint laugh, I mean, what was the point? Die with your balls still in between your legs, coward. That's what she always thought, even though she had no balls of her own to speak of.

But now, two weeks after she had been adopted, Saint would find that frenzy of joy that could only come from murder again. Who was the victim? That would be an incorrect question. Who were the victims, would be the better question. And the answer to that was simple: Saint would murder her family. Younger brother, mother, father, that weird uncle who always insisted he help her with yoga, and her sister. Her weird, obnoxious, aggravating bitch of a sister.

She'd enjoy that one the most. Put a bullet straight through her forehead, laugh and revel in the explosion of brain and skull as the bullet came out the other side. That would teach her to keep her nose down and her snooty language away from Saint.

Saint Croft wasn't a sociopath or a psychopath, or whatever 'path' it was. She was an Operator for the Red Right Hand, and the big man downstairs had given her instructions.

She grinned in the darkness of her room as she slid a clip into her berretta. Her warm brown skin wasn't warm tonight; it was an adrenaline touched itchy mess. Her heartbeat quickened, her fingers were jittery with excitement. It had been so, so very long. And tonight would finally be the night where she fed that craving demon inside of her, always growling for more blood, for more suffering.

Sweeping back her sole white dreadlock, twisting it in with the rest of her darker locks, she crouched and fished a hand underneath her bed. Her hand finally knocked against a box, Saint's special metal box. Not too big, just about the size of her palm. She slid it out and held it in the moonlight. The silver metal was dull and scarred, maimed by time and conflict. Saint didn't care though, because it was the inside that mattered.

And inside was her mother's soul, bound to the earth by a gold coin. A gold coin with no face and no engraftments. A gold coin worth more than the world. A gold coin she would one day use to get her mother back. Until then, though, she would have to kill, kill, and kill.

And damn, did Saint love killing.