“I had failed.” Another sigh. “More than anything…I wanted to make a special work of art. One that could not be replicated by merely anyone. But instead, she fell. I did not kill her.”

Emerett looked forlornly out of a stained-glass window. He was cast in a pale, washed out light. “Or, that is what I thought…”

“I climbed down the cliff and discovered her to be breathing. Barely breathing, but still alive.” The shop keeper’s tone was venomous and agitated…as if a great injustice had been done against him. “And so, I looked for the sturdiest, strongest rock that I could find.”

Noël placed himself in-front of the girl’s spirit. He wanted to shield her not from the man’s gaze [as the shop keeper could not see her], but from…his confession.

A confession to a murder that he was proud of.

“And dropped it.”

The young vampire could almost hear the sickening crack that pierced the air, smell the blood pooling around her lifeless corpse, and see her smashed and desecrated face.

“I…I wasn’t thinking straight,” Emerett lamented. His hand tightened around the silver sheathe. “Of course it wouldn’t result in a clean death. This material…it would simply not do. That radiant woman would be disappointed, but I was running low on resources. As long as her skin was still usable, I could still create something…anything.”

“That doll would’ve been my greatest creation, for I had made every single piece of it…down to the very material…that is what I thought.” Emerett’s expression is that of exasperation, and…something else. Longing? “I spent days, nights, weeks, on her, until…”

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Tears started welling in the elderly murderer’s eyes. Not of remorse, that much Noël is certain of. “My goddess never visited again. News soon arrived.”

Obsession is what Noël would describe those tears as.

“Delia…was never coming back.”

Another shuddering breath.

“She…” Emerett loses his train of thought.

Noël backs away.

“My dear, beloved Delia…she died.” Emerett removes the knife from its sheathe in a quick movement unexpected of his age. “All that work that she would never see……”

“Everything I did…”

The shop keeper took a step towards Noël.

“Was for her.”

“Then those bones…” Noël murmured. “You…killed them all? Merely for your bastardizations of art?”

“Some, I did kill. Others, however…they were always there. I do not know who killed them.” Emerett slowly raised his knife. “Delia may have passed on, but I carried on her legacy. Her art will not die as long as I still breathe.”

He took another step. Noël walked two steps back.

“It was a blessing, you know…I am old. It would only be a matter of time before my heart fails me,” Emerett confesses. He smiles warmly. “Imagine my surprise when Delia’s very own flesh and blood walked into my store.”

“You will never compare to her.” Another step. The floor creaks. It is deafening in all of this silence. “To me, you are nothing. But…you were something to Delia. And that, in itself, is perfect.”

“I just know it. Your bones will be perfect for my final masterpiece.”

It is instant…calculated, spontaneous, and malicious. With a grin, Emerett jabs the knife forward. The cut chops off a few strands of hair, but Noël jumps back just in the nick of time. Startled, but…otherwise unscathed. The skeleton nestled within his arms clattered together noisily. Its joints were barely connected.

He spared one glance at the ghost girl standing in a corner with her hands clasped over her face.

Another precise slice…it nearly misses his own face by a hair’s width. Noël gently places the girl’s skeleton by the wall. Not quite a dignified or respectful way to treat the dead, but he was running low on options.

And time.

Which was a funny thought, considering how much he’d love for his clock to tick down to zero.

Noël looked up and saw the knife aimed right at his face. He notices Emerett moving his arm back in preparation to strike.

Before Emerett could react, Noël dodged the knife and tumbled across the hardwood floor and onto a cracked hand mirror. He picked himself up and threw the mirror at the deranged shop keeper. Had Noël looked clearly at the shattered object, he would have noticed a pair of faded, purple eyes staring back at him.