...**Eighteen Years Ago**...

He could pinpoint the day, the hour, even the second when he'd chosen his first kill. In that sacred moment, fear, rules, and consequences ceased to the matter and long nurtured fantasies elbowed aside judgment. The switch had been flipped. And a line would be crossed.

He raised his gaze to the blindfold young boy tethered to the wooden chair. The little boy was slumped forward, unconscious from the drugs he'd administered. His name is Gabriel. A curtain of lush dark hair covered his pale oval face, luscious blonde hair, and grazed a full waist and gently rounded hips. Not more than seventeen or eighteen the boy worked at the carnival. He was the psychic. The seer. The seducer.  For the average person he was a delightful diversion or a harmless amusement. But the man was a rare breed, empowered with gifts that allowed him to see beyond his youth and beauty to the timeless evil.

The decision to kill the young boy had come seven days ago when he'd visited the carnival tent. On that night, he'd patiently waited in the line that trailed outside Gabriel tent. He'd been nervous, edgy, and still clueless that his life was about to change.

When he'd finally entered the little boy domain, candle flickered in shadow corners, soft music drained from unseen speakers, and the heavy scent of incense clung to the air. Gabriel'd been sitting behind a gilded desk and had worn a bright red flowing gypsy costume. A dark wig framed a lovely face half hidden by a black domino mask. He'd felt the rush of excitement as he'd stared and sat across the table from him.

'Mr.  Devine,' he'd said.

Nodding, and he turned his hand over and exposed his palm. 'Yes.'

'You look so young.'

'Do not be fooled by my youth.' Confidence dripped from each word as he traced his jagged lifeline.

He wasn't deceived. 'I saw the line. You are quite popular.'

Green eyes bored into him. 'What is your question?'

The little boy abruptness strokes his anger but he was careful to keep it in cheeked. 'Did she love me?'

Nodding, Mr. Devine traced another line on his palm. 'I can answer that question for twenty dollars.'

His skin tingle as his pilled his hand free, dug a rumpled twenty-dollar bill from his jeans pocket, and laid it on the velvet-draped table. Gabriel set the time at his side before he again cradled his hand. The little boy skin was soft and warm. Sweet, subtle perfume drifted around his body and mingled with the heavy stench candles. He closed his eyes and asked the spirits for guidance.

As his stared at the delicate frown that creased the soft little boy forehead, he imagined what it would  be like to stripe the clothes from his body and beat him until he wept. How would his voice sound like when he begged? He imagined he'd beg, cry, and plead. And he wrapped his fingers around the narrow neck, how long would it take for the life and warmth to drain from his body? He wondered all these things as he traced the lifeline on his palm and spoke of prosperity and good fortune.

And then suddenly he straightened as if he'd been kicked by the devil. Tension rippled through his fingers and her breathing grew shallow. He released the man hand as if it had burned his flesh. He stared at him, fear glimmering in the green depths.

In this panicked moment, he knew that the little boy saw his true intent.

The realization rattled him. No one had ever seen beyond his veneer. He was a true seer. A warlock.

The little boy was THE ONE  that God wanted him to kill.

'Are you okay?' he said.

'Yes. Yes. I'm fine.' Gabriel moistened his lips. 'Tell me about the woman you love.'

He smiled, knowing he could be charming when it suited him. 'We met at the university. We're in the same class.'

'What's her name?'

'Carrie. I loved her very much. Why didn't she love me back?'

The predictable question coaxed some of the tension from his shoulders, and he eased forward a fraction. The man smiled but he knew how Gabriel fear, as visible as the sweat on her brow, lingered. 'Carrie loves you, but she is afraid of... her emotion.'

Despite his resolve to be strong, The soft voice speaking Carrie's name drew him in closer. He wanted to believe Carrie had loved him. 'She said she hated me.'

'She doesn't hate you. She loves you. You must go to her and tell her that you care.'

The little boy spouted more nonsense about good fortunes and happiness, but when the timer buzzed, he immediately released his hand.

His open palm lingered. He yearned for Gabriel touch. Emotions demanded he take him now. Kill. Kill. Kill. But logic kept him on a tight leash. Wait. Prepare.

And so he quietly left the tent and used the next week to prepare his room for the little boy. The boy was his first kill and he wanted the detailed to be perfect.

On the seventh night after his reading, he'd waited in the shadows. When the boy return from his whoring in the town and ventured to the carnival bathroom by the wood's edge, he grabbed the boy and covered his mouth with his gloved hand. An injection in his arm had immediately rendered his silent and complaint. He easily dumped the boy in the trunk of his car and brought him to the hunter's cabin, nested in the hallow of the Virginia woods.

Now moonlight steamed through the windows and mingled with the glow of three lanterns. The only concession to the luxury in the rough cabin was pump, which fed into the deep basin. Furnishings were limited to a long wooden table and a few straight back chairs by an old soot-stained hearth. Those who inhabited this place were prepared for a monk's life, an idea that appealed to him.

Eagerness churned inside him. Too many years of fantasizing and dreaming were about to become reality, and it was hard to maintain control. His skin tingled. His stomach clenched. If he didn't soon unleash the raw energy brimming inside him, he'd go insane.

Unable to wait for his awaken, the man grabbed a bucket of cold water and poured it on his face. The boy awoke cussing, screaming, and sputtering. The hint of panic behind his screams enhanced hid excitement. He stared at the boy silk blouse, now wet and can see through every parts of his body.

Breathless, his own muscles aching with want, he retreated to the cabin's corner and sat down. He'd not expected so much desire. He'd always considered himself as a chaste prudent and a straight man, but the boy made him crave dark, evil passions.

Anticipation burned through his body, he knew if he didn't rein his desires, he'd break his covenant with God.

He must confess and be purified first.

As the boy coughed, he muttered a prayer for patience. Retrieving the small Bible from his pocket, he gently kissed the gold cross embossed into the well-worn black leather. The Bible had been a gift from his mother on his tenth birthday. Though not fancy or substantial in size, the book provided him with answers, insights, and in times of stress, it was a guiding force.

With trembling fingers, he flipped through the pages, scanning and rereading passages. As he focused on the words, he suddenly felt the boy gaze through the blindfold. His head was tipped back and cocked in his direction. Water dripped from his hair and face over a gold chain and down between the cleavage of her breasts.

Tied up, cold and wet, he should have been contrite and scared, but instead he possessed a dark, brooding bearing that unsettled him. He didn't like the little boy absence of fear.

'Don't stared at me.' he said.

He shook his head. 'I'm blindfold. I can't see anything.'

'You are looking at me.'

'So what if I am?' His voice was rusty, seductive.

'You are Satan's child.'

He actually smiled. 'So I've been told.'

He was half-second from slicing the little boy throat when reason shoved its way to the front of his mind. 'I need you to confess your sins to God so you can be released from this earth clean and pure.'

A defiant set to the boy jaw said as much as his words. 'The clean and pure days are long gone to me. 'The boy's tone resonated a lifetime of experience.

'I need your confession. I need to send you to the god pure.'

'Then I guess it's your bad day.' Gabriel cocked his head.

This close, he could smell the hint of spicy, no longer sweet, perfume mingling with the stale scent of the threadbare gypsy costume. He turned Gabriel face roughly to the side of the lantern light caught the high slash of cheekbone. He was handsome, but he possessed a callous aura that would grow more insensitive with time. By thirty, he'd be washed and spent.

Why had he seemed so different a week ago?

'It's just you and me baby,' the little boy whispered. 'Why don't we play instead of fight? Some boys like rough but I promise gentle is better.

The grip in his hair tightened. 'Don't call me baby.'

The little boy reminded him of a cat toying with a mouse. 'Why not? I'm good and you'll like what I can do for you.'