The Sunday of Summer

August is called the Sunday of Summer. It is the end of the season, its climax and afterglow, celebrated with thunder and lightning, storms and heavy rain. It's the month he was born: on top of the world, in the center of a hurricane. Electricity running through his veins, hot mercury mingling with his blood. His eyes the golden sun, his skin the moon's liquid silver. His fingertips sparkling, his body full of lethal energy. I'm alive, he said, his whispered words louder than thunder. I'm the morning on the threshold of Fall.

Two nights after his 43rd birthday Francis felt restless, not the best mood for a serious hunt. La Luna didn't ease his mind, and even the reptile refused to becalm. There was a certain premonition tickling his hackles, vague but present, and it gushed up the moment he silently entered the yard: an undefined warning, putting his senses on high alert. With narrowed eyes he scanned the surroundings, trying to ignore this cold breath of fear.

The garden was beautiful, a lush oasis of cultivated grass, trees and flowers, a peaceful ocean in a thousand shades of bluish green, bathed in the tender light of the Sturgeon Full Moon. The roses were still in bloom, stuccowork ornaments of radiant white, emitting a bewitching sweetness, but decay was already attendant, the fragrance of rotten fruit, mingling with the scent of rain and the stench of chlorine, ghosting up from the nearby pool. Except the soft humming of the water pump the silence was nearly tangible. Far ahead in the distance the muted growl of thunder was heard, more a gentle vibration of the soil than really a noise. He could feel a holistic tension in the air, but finally his concerns bowed to experienced excitement. Francis rubbed the back of his neck and allowed his lips to smile. He looked up the house, its windows dark, mirroring the clouded night sky.
Relying on their Facebook stream crammed with snapshots and funny little video clips the Larkins didn't own any dogs. They were a perfect middle class family, two adults and two girls, enjoying a perfect middle class life, their house and garden a well-deserved result of patience and hard work. Possibly they had debts up to the brim, but soon all financial problems would fade to oblivion. Like anything else would drown in puddles of crimson unimportance. (The last shirt got no pockets. The Reaper is fair: he equals us all.)

To his surprise the patio door stood open, creamy blue curtains slowly swinging with the upcoming breeze, the room behind them exhaling warm solemnity. Welcome, they whispered. Francis stopped and drew his breath. The Dragon swam up to stare through his eyes. It's a small town, he thought, the people know each other... they feel safe here. Heat lightening flickered across the sky. An icy shiver ran down his spine. Yet he entered the silent house, its walls painted by moonlight and shimmery reflections of the pool: the perfect illusion of walking under water. He left his bag at the staircase and drew his gun, the silencer already adjusted. Without hesitation he sneaked up the stairs. His faithful old Glock felt good in his hand. "Merciful Death", the Dragon cooed. It was the reptile's charming way to call him a coward. Francis was used to it. In the end it didn't matter how he sacrificed them.

Ignoring the master bedroom at the end of the stairs he walked up the hall to a room with the picture of a unicorn and a grinning red sun pinned on its door. "Princess Lisa & Princess Beth" was written underneath the crayon drawing. He knew the girls shared a chamber, a cuddly bower in pink and white.

Somewhere close a single drop fell... His gloved hand on the doorknob Francis furrowed his brows.

The room was as empty as a room could be. The scent of the kids still lingered in the air, but no toys speckled the fluffy carpet, no books and comics stuffed the shelves, no plushies occupied the nightstands. The wardrobes stood open, but no clothes were in there. Francis stared at two lonely beds, bare of mattresses and bedding, blank wooden skeletons from a furniture shop. Another bolt ripped the sky. Thunder vibrated through the veins of the house. Light squares on the walls spoke of pictures taken down. Francis recalled the girls' smiling faces. The last post on Facebook mentioned preparations for their grandmother's 70th birthday on coming Sunday. This was three days ago...

Another drop fell. Francis left the room and closed the door. Somehow he reckoned the master bedroom empty as well. Stepping back to the corridor he closed his eyes. He could feel the electricity of the approaching thunderstorm, he could hear the rustle of the billowing curtains downstairs, he could smell the echoes of a family that seemed to be gone: tuberose, jasmine, sandal wood. Sweat, sex and dirty laundry. Popcorn, chewing gum and... blood! Goddamnit! The next falling drop made his skin crawl. All off a sudden he felt the heat and humidity, whilst the stench of gore became overwhelming. The Dragon snarled. Francis snarled, too. He turned around and opened the door in front of him, his senses alarmed again, his gun at the ready.

"Who are you?" a tired voice was heard. It flickered with dozens of candles, standing in jars and holders all over the place.
"I'm Francis", he frankly replied and lowered the pistol. Though the room was filled with steam he recognized the woman in the bath tub as Sonja Larkin, creator and admin of their Facebook account. Her visage was pale, her eyes marbles of incredible green. He took a deep breath and moved closer, leaving his Glock on the washing stand. Another drop fell. In contrast to her alabaster skin the water was dark red and foamy, two shimmering razor blades drifting along between her thighs. She looked at him and raised one arm, the wound on her wrist a pulsating gap. She has done it the right way: along with her vein. "Will you stay?"
Crouching down next to the tub the Dragon took her hand, his free hand gently stroking her hair. "What happened?" he whispered. There was no use in calling an ambulance. Her fingers were cold already. Her breath was cold as well. She was a ghost clinging to life, demanding some more important minutes.
"Bruce and the girls... my girls..." Words trickled from her blanching lips. "I tried... To be strong... cleaned all the rooms." Sobbing echoed the room, shaking her body and moving the water. "I sent them over to Granny's house. It's a simple two hours drive. I told them to call when they arrive. They... never got there. Police called: told me it was... a... pile-up. With them... in the middle. The car burned out. I... wasn't... wasn't even allowed to see them."
Francis bit his lower lip: "You will see them again." Leaning in he kissed her cheek. "Soon. So soon... "
Sonja smiled: "Are... you... an... angel?" The amazing green of her eyes faded with her lids falling close. Her head sank back against his arm. Her flagging hand nearly slipped from his grip. For a single moment a bright light filled the room.
"Sometimes I am", the Dragon said. Ever so slowly he licked her wrist.