Chapter 4: The Martyr's Song

The morning alarm began with weeping.

Elara jolted awake at the first sob, her hand instinctively reaching for Kingston beside her. He was already sitting up, rigid with anticipation, his face carved from marble in the pre-dawn darkness. They'd grown accustomed to the routine of horror—the 6 AM broadcast, the dying breaths, the helpless listening as strangers met their end. But this was different.

"Please," came a woman's voice through the speakers, young and terrified. "Please, I'll do whatever you want. I have a daughter. She's only three years old. Please don't—"

"Begin the recitation," interrupted the gravelly voice they'd come to know so well. Calm, patient, almost gentle in its command.

"I don't understand what you want me to say!"

"The words are simple, Bethany. Speak from your heart. Tell my master what he means to you."

Bethany. Elara's stomach lurched as she remembered the contract paperwork scattered across Kingston's desk. Bethany Martinez, 24, voice actress from Phoenix. Specialized in commercial work for children's products. The irony was cruel—a woman who made her living bringing joy to children, now sobbing in terror for one she'd never see again.

"I... I can't..." Bethany's voice cracked with desperation.

"You can. You must. It's the only way your death will have meaning."

The sound of metal scraping against stone filled the speakers. Elara had learned to recognize that noise over the past weeks—the heated sphere being prepared, glowing orange-hot and ready to steal another voice forever.

"No, wait! I'll say it, I'll say whatever you want!"

"Good girl. Now repeat after me: 'I offer myself willingly to the one who walks in shadows.'"

Bethany's voice shook as she spoke the words, each syllable forced out between gasping sobs. "'I offer myself willingly to the one who walks in shadows.'"

"'I am but flesh, and flesh is the gift he craves most.'"

"'I am but flesh, and flesh is the gift he craves most.'"

Kingston's hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles white with strain. Elara could see the muscles in his jaw working as he ground his teeth, fighting against his own helplessness. For a man accustomed to controlling every aspect of his world, being forced to listen passively to murder was its own form of torture.

"'Will you present him with the gift of your flesh?'" the gravelly voice prompted.

"'Will you present him with the gift... of your flesh?'" Bethany's voice broke completely on the final words, dissolving into wrenching sobs.

"Beautiful," the voice whispered with genuine satisfaction. "Your devotion is noted, martyr. Your sacrifice will be remembered."

The metal sphere made contact with a sound like bacon hitting a hot pan, followed by Bethany's muffled screams. The agony went on for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, her voice growing weaker and more distorted as the heated metal did its work.

Then, gradually, the screams faded to the familiar ragged breathing they'd come to expect. But this time, impossibly, Bethany continued to speak even as she died.

"He... he walks among us," she gasped, her voice barely recognizable through the damage. "The crows... they sing his name. When the stone... stone breaks... we are all..."

The breathing stopped.

Silence filled the bedroom like a physical presence, heavy and suffocating. Elara realized she'd been holding her breath and forced herself to exhale, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet.

"Kingston." Her voice came out as a whisper. "What did she mean? About the stone breaking?"

But Kingston wasn't listening. Something had changed in his face during Bethany's forced recitation, his features hardening from fear into something else entirely. Rage. Cold, calculated fury that transformed his aristocratic features into something predatory.

"That's enough," he said, his voice deadly quiet.

"What?"

"I said that's enough." He threw back the covers with violent force, stalking toward his walk-in closet. "I'm done being terrorized in my own home. Done listening to innocent people die because some lunatic has a grudge against me."

"Kingston, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about taking control." He emerged from the closet already half-dressed, pulling on a shirt with sharp, angry movements. "The police are useless. They ask questions but provide no answers, no protection, no results. They treat this like some random serial killer when it's clearly personal."

Elara watched him with growing alarm. She'd seen Kingston angry before—at incompetent employees, at delayed deliveries, at anyone who failed to meet his exacting standards. But this was different. This was the rage of a man who'd been backed into a corner and decided to bite back.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Research. Investigation. What I should have been doing from the beginning instead of cowering in here like a victim." He was moving around the room now, gathering his phone, his laptop, his wallet. "If this psychopath wants to play games, I'll show him what happens when you target Kingston Croft."

"This isn't a game, Kingston. This is murder. Multiple murders."

"Exactly. Which means it's time to start treating it seriously."

Within an hour, Kingston had transformed his study into something resembling a detective's incident room. The Persian rug was rolled back, and in its place lay dozens of printed photographs, police reports he'd somehow obtained, maps of various cities marked with red X's where bodies had been found. String connected different elements like some conspiracy theorist's fever dream.

Elara stood in the doorway, sketching pad forgotten in her hands as she watched him work. He'd stripped off his expensive jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and was now hunched over a laptop with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

"Look at this," he said without glancing up. "The killer's been escalating. Not just in frequency, but in the complexity of his... rituals."

She moved closer despite herself, drawn by the manic energy radiating from him. The photos spread across the floor were crime scene images—she had no idea how he'd obtained them, but suspected his wealth had opened doors that should have remained closed.

"The first victim was quick," Kingston continued, pointing to a photo that made Elara's stomach turn. "Jennifer Thompson. Minimal torture, just the heated sphere. But look at victim number two."

The second photo showed more elaborate arrangements. Symbols drawn on the walls in what looked like blood, candles arranged in specific patterns around the body.

"And by victim number four, he's practically conducting full ceremonies. The positioning of the bodies, the ritualistic elements... this isn't random violence, Elara. This is worship."

"Worship of what?"

"That's what I intend to find out." He pulled up another document on his laptop. "I've been researching the phrases he made Bethany recite. 'The one who walks in shadows,' 'flesh is the gift he craves most.' These aren't original compositions—they're fragments of something older."

Despite her fear, Elara found herself drawn into Kingston's investigation. She set down her sketch pad and moved to look over his shoulder at the screen, which displayed academic papers on comparative mythology and ancient religious practices.

"There," Kingston said, highlighting a passage. "Dr. Sarah Chen, professor of ancient religions at UC Berkeley. She's published extensively on pre-Christian death cults that practiced ritual sacrifice. According to her research, there are recurring themes across multiple cultures—the offering of flesh to shadow entities, the breaking of stone barriers between worlds."

"The breaking of stone," Elara repeated, remembering Bethany's final words. A chill ran down her spine as she thought of the statue in the museum, its empty eyes and predatory stillness.

"Exactly. And look at this." He opened another tab, revealing shipping manifests and auction records. "I've been tracking the movement of certain archaeological artifacts over the past year. Items that match the description of objects associated with these death cults."

Elara's blood turned to ice as she recognized one of the entries. A seven-foot stone figure, origin unknown, purchased from a private collection in Romania six weeks ago. Delivered to Kingston Croft, 1247 Millionaire's Row.

"Kingston," she whispered. "The statue."

He looked up from the screen, following her gaze to the manifest. For a moment, his confident expression faltered.

"That's... that's just a coincidence. The statue is a legitimate archaeological artifact. I bought it through proper channels."

"Proper channels that you can't remember the details of? From a seller whose name you've never mentioned?"

"I buy dozens of pieces every month. I can't be expected to remember—"

"The man for whom the crows follow," Elara interrupted. "That's what the plaque says. Kingston, what if that statue isn't just a representation? What if it's actually... connected to whatever this killer is trying to accomplish?"

Kingston stared at the shipping manifest for a long moment. When he looked up, his face had gone pale.

"That's impossible. It's just stone. Very old, very expensive stone."

But even as he spoke, Elara could see the doubt creeping into his expression. All his research, all his careful investigation, and he'd overlooked the most obvious connection of all. The killer wasn't just targeting Kingston Croft, wealthy collector. He was targeting Kingston Croft, current owner of something the killer needed.

"We have to get rid of it," she said. "Tonight. We'll call a moving company, have it taken to a warehouse, anywhere but here."

"No." Kingston's voice was sharp with renewed determination. "If that statue is what he wants, then it's also our best chance of catching him. We keep it here, set a trap, end this once and for all."

"Are you insane? This isn't some movie where the hero outsmarts the villain. This is real life, and real people are dying."

"Real people will keep dying until someone stops him." Kingston stood, his full height making him suddenly imposing despite his disheveled appearance. "I have resources the police don't. Money, connections, technology. If I can't protect myself in my own home, then what's the point of any of it?"

Elara stared at him, recognizing the stubborn pride that had probably contributed to whatever enemies he'd made over the years. Kingston Croft didn't back down, didn't admit defeat, didn't allow anyone to make him feel powerless.

Even when powerlessness might be the smart choice.

"This is a mistake," she said quietly.

"Maybe. But it's my mistake to make."

As she left him to his obsessive research, Elara couldn't shake the feeling that Kingston's pride would be the death of them both. He was treating this like a business problem to be solved, a puzzle to be unraveled through careful analysis and superior resources.

But some problems couldn't be bought or reasoned away.

And some puzzles were designed to trap the solver.