Page 2 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

That moment of clarity was what I hunted, more than the kill itself.

The second when the plastic curtain of social pretense dropped away and pure animal awareness took its place.

Raw humanity, stripped of artifice. The memory of his eyes widening in recognition sent a pleasant tingle across my skin even now.

I cleaned my brushes methodically, wiping each one with a solvent-soaked rag before washing them in the deep utility sink.

My special pigments required careful handling.

Some contained elements that would raise questions if discovered.

The solvent stung my nostrils, cutting through the lingering organic scents of my work.

In the locked cabinet beside my workstation, jars of custom materials awaited future use: powders and pastes derived from my subjects, labeled with dates and anatomical sources.

The crimson made from heart tissue. The ochre extracted from the liver.

The pearlescent white rendered from carefully processed bone.

The ritual of cleaning soothed me, brought me back to the practical world I needed to inhabit in a few hours.

Professor Bishop had papers to grade, meetings to attend, and impressionable minds to shape.

The mundane responsibilities I tolerated for the sake of finding worthy subjects and maintaining my cover within society's banal rhythms.

As for the cooling masterpiece on my table, he would need to be retired to the specially prepared room beneath the studio floor.

Preserved for reference, at least until the exhibition was complete.

I'd developed techniques over the years, chemicals, specialized refrigeration, that slowed decomposition long enough to complete a series.

The subtle hum of the refrigeration system below provided a constant white noise that I found oddly comforting.

I hummed along with Chopin as I worked, wrapping and preparing with the methodical patience of a spider on its web.

The plastic sheeting crinkled as I encased my subject in a translucent cocoon.

The zip ties cinched with a satisfying click that signaled completion, binding my prey in its final repose.

Like an arachnid with its quarry, I took my time, ensuring every fold was secure, every binding tight.

There was artistry even in this stage of preservation, a ritual preparation that had become almost meditative over the years.

By six, all evidence was cleared away. I showered in the studio bathroom, watching paint and other residue swirl down the drain in a hypnotic spiral. The hot water pounded against my shoulders, sluicing away Ezra the artist, leaving behind Ezra the professor.

I dressed in the clothes I kept in the studio closet: tailored charcoal slacks, a crisp white undershirt, an emerald cashmere sweater, shoes hand-polished to a subtle shine, and of course my signature burgundy tie. The uniform of a tenured professor with artistic sensibilities.

In the mirror, I studied my reflection, adjusting my expression until the smile came easily and I no longer looked like Ezra the hunter, but Ezra the teacher.

My students responded to the persona I curated, especially the lost boys. They came looking for structure, for someone to say no and mean it. Not many understood that discipline was a kind of devotion.

"Professor Bishop," I murmured to my reflection, testing the mask I would wear for the day. "Welcome to a new semester." My voice sounded different up here, warmer, more resonant in the bathroom's acoustics than in the dead air of the soundproofed studio below.

Behind the careful composure, something hungry stared back at me from the mirror. A god gets lonely, even when surrounded by worshippers. Perhaps Micah would be different. Not just another supplicant, but a true acolyte worthy of communion.

My phone buzzed again. A text from the gallery owner, asking about progress on the final piece for the exhibition. I replied with vague reassurances about artistic process and inspiration, knowing she would accept any explanation that maintained the mystique she used to market my work.

As I drove from my secluded home toward campus, dawn painted the sky in gradient shades of orange and blue.

The leather of my steering wheel was cool beneath my palms, the purr of the engine a counterpoint to the Bach cello suite playing softly through the speakers.

There was something beautiful about a fresh start with familiar echoes of the past.

I parked in the faculty lot, straightened my collar, and stepped into the cool morning air.

The campus smelled of freshly cut grass and stone warmed by early sunlight.

Students milled about the quad, eager and apprehensive on their first day.

They watched me, some with admiration, others with trepidation.

My reputation preceded me: brilliant but demanding, inspiring, yet intimidating.

I savored the duality, this life balanced on the edge between revelation and concealment. By day, I would guide young artists toward technical proficiency and conventional success. By night, I would continue my true work, pushing beyond the accepted boundaries of art and mortality.

And perhaps, if Micah Salt proved as interesting as his application suggested, I might find someone worthy of sharing more than just classroom knowledge.

I didn't merely want to kill him or capture him in paint. I wanted to see him become . The opportunity to witness that rare metamorphosis as a student embraced their darkness was its own reward. But being able to guide that process, shape it? That was power.

And something told me Micah Salt wasn't just another student. He could be the one—my greatest work. Not beneath my blade. Beside me.