Eluded

ELUDED

LYRA PARISH

PUBLISHED AT SMASHWORDS

COPYRIGHT © LYRA PARISH
2014

Copyright © 2014 Lyra
Parish

Published by Lyra Parish

All rights reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in
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other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written
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This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s
imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for
atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or
dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales
is completely coincidental.

Book Layout ©2014
BookDesignTemplates.com

Cover Design ©2014 by Ari at
COVERIT! Designs

ELUDED/Lyra Parish. – First
Edition

To my readers: I will forever be grateful for your
support and encouragement.

"Hell is empty and all the devils
are here."

―
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE
TEMPEST

Disclaimer

Please be aware there are
situations that some may find uncomfortable. Strong language is
used as well.

ELUDED is intended for a mature
audience.

ABBOT

Prologue

T
he dream is always the
same.

A black van slows ahead of my
sister and me as we walk home from school. When we pass, I hear the
side door forcefully slide open and the hinges scream out in
protest.

Two men attack us. They grab us by
our arms and their nails claw into our skin, causing it to break.
We try to push them away and somehow manage to wriggle free. Then
we run. We run like we've never run before, but they are always
faster and stronger. When they catch up to us, one grabs my sister,
pushes her down to the ground, and laughs.

She bites his arm, leaving teeth
marks and blood. This does no good though and only pisses him off.
Then he slaps her in the face, yells at her, and threatens to kill
her . . . but refuses to let go. They are relentless. I want to
tell them that she is only ten years old, that she is no good to
them, that she isn't even a woman yet, but a hand covers my mouth
and an arm places me in a chokehold. My sister lets out
blood-curdling cries, and all I know is that I need to save her. I
kick my capturer in the knee, and he slams my body, then my head,
into the cement until my vision blurs. I know I have a concussion
from the brute force, but I continue to attack with everything that
I have. No matter how hard I try, they take her.

How can a twelve-year-old boy
fight against men?

He can't.

I couldn't.

When I think back to that day, I
remember what the sky looked like after they pushed me down. It was
blue like the color of the sea in Australia. Not often do I
remember the sky in London being that color . . . or feeling so
helpless. I'm often haunted by the look on my sister's face, and
the sound of her screams and pleas as they shoved her into the van.
I can still hear the revving of the engine as it hurried down the
street like it was yesterday. That was the last time I felt fear.
Those men stole more than my best friend and my sister. That day,
they stole my soul.

This time, I wake up dripping with
sweat. Sometimes I am breathing rapidly or yelling, or my heart is
racing so fast it pulls me from the nightmare. For the past fifteen
years, I've been haunted with the memory of my sister's abduction.
I used to blame myself for her having been taken. I no longer
accept that burden, and I refuse to sit idly by. The underground
darkness of London is at war with itself, and I've caused it. It
will not end until the petty fucks that stalk my streets are
destroyed.

I will stop at nothing.

Some people call me an
uncontrollable killing monster. I fucking laugh at the mention of
the word.

Monsters have no
control.

I've got plenty.

I don't kill without reason. I
don't kill the innocent.

I hunt the ones who deserve it—the
real monsters, the ones without remorse or a soul.

Sometimes people strive to be
different, to step out of the fucking box, only to be
misunderstood. The public doesn't understand me, but who really
gives a shit?

Who are they? Mice. They go to
work every single day and spin the same wheel that gets them
nowhere. Work. Marriage. Kids. Die.

I search for adventure.

I love control.

When I find trouble, I make it my
bitch.

Most people call me Abbot. First
name isn't needed. I truly believe there is power in a name. My
friends respect me, my enemies fear me, and regardless of what I
do, at the end of the day I am still a killer. Apparently, that's
what defines me. Son, brother, leader of the Gang of London,
protector, murderer . . . the only word that matters is the last
one.

Shakespeare said, "All the world's
a stage." If that's true, then where is my standing ovation for a
job well done? Twisted fucks like me don't receive positive
recognition. We don't deserve to be rewarded for ridding the world
of horrible people, because being a murderer outweighs all the
good.

An eye for an eye, a finger for a
finger, or blood for blood. What-the-fuck-ever.

I'm not fucked-up from a horrible
childhood, unless one counts my sister's abduction. Everyone tries
to blame my life choices on my parents' guidance, but my actions
are by choice. My mum and dad loved and supported me. They told me
I could be anything I wanted when I grew up, until I became what I
am today—a cold-hearted killer.

No one expected that
one.

ABBOT

One

S
cattered showers were
predicted for the entire afternoon, but no water had fallen on this
side of town. For once, I was grateful for no rain. After I secured
the main door closed from the outside, I checked my watch, then
dropped the burning match onto the gasoline that flooded the entire
building. The flames slowly engulfed the old wooden structure that
split the East and West sides. The smoke rose over the chimney tops
while the sounds of wheezing, crackling wood, and breaking glass
echoed through the streets. Embers floated in the sky, then fell to
the ground. Three coughing men broke through the front windows.
Lucky bastards . . . for now.

At that moment, a group of men
were holding a meeting with hopes of taking over my city. I hated
to throw a bump in their plans, but I didn't fucking think so. Drug
lords, gangsters, murders, and rapists had planned to take over my
city? No fucking way. London was already claimed.

Being the leader of the Gang of
London wasn’t something to be glorified, but it was worth every
freedom I earned from it. Even better, the police turned a blind
eye. They knew I'd killed and will continue to, but they also knew
I was unstoppable. I'd never purposely kill an innocent person, but
the poison that walked my city needed to be destroyed. Saving some
didn't make what I did right, but it made it acceptable . . .
almost.

Around the corner, a group of my
men waited for the fucks who escaped.

I checked my watch again. Three
minutes remained.

Sirens shrieked in the distance. I
walked casually to the Audi, removed my leather jacket, and slipped
inside, the flames reflecting off the windshield and the hood of
the car. I leaned back in my seat to watch the growing inferno rise
and fall like waves in the ocean. Fire was dangerous, powerful, and
if it wasn't controlled, it could swallow and destroy more than
intended. At times it was unpredictable, and I think that was why I
loved it so much.

The rain would roll in soon and
put out the burning cinders that floated in the sky. Flashing
lights passed, and I sank further into my seat. I watched the men
exit the truck and pull the hoses from the back. It was almost
time.

5 . . .

4 . . .

3 . . .

2 . . .

1 . . .

The explosives went off exactly as
planned. The ground shook as the burning building fell to ash and
waste. People from the community looked out their windows as others
gathered in the streets. I had to make sure no innocent rushed
inside before I reversed the car and left.

Without a care in the world, I
took my time driving down the backstreets. I even rolled down the
window to get a taste of fresh air, but it was saturated with ash
and the smell of burning wood.

A vibration went off in my pocket
and pulled me from my world. I accepted the call, but like always,
I waited for the caller to speak first. One could never be too
careful when screening calls.

"Abbot. The bastards that made it
out have been dealt with. No survivors."

"Very good," I said, then ended
the call. I didn't need to know the details, just that it was
done.

I drove down Oxford Street and
watched the clouds roll in over the horizon. I hated driving down
one of the busiest streets in London, but I needed to search the
back alleys for the black vans that hunted women. The vans were
easy to spot if one knew what to look for. Luckily, I did. The new
dicks on the block were more strategic than the previous group that
tried to ruin London, but I didn't let that get to me. I was always
up for a good challenge. Hunting creeps became a twisted game of
mine, a game that I always won and would continue to win. But
lately, more pigs swept my streets. The newspapers were full of
missing women that had a specific look; tall, brown hair, thin,
pale skin, and a pretty face.

Oxford Street on Saturday
afternoon was just like New York City. Women walked the streets in
scandalous clothes, shopping bags hanging from every arm, and the
tourists ran rampant. I shook my head in disdain, knowing that any
one of them could be stolen from any busy street corner. It wasn't
fucking safe here. Nowhere in London was, especially once the sun
set. It didn't matter if the streets were crowded or desolate. The
men in the vans captured girls in plain sight, and no one even
fucking noticed. Everyone was too involved with their cell phones
and conversations while countless women were being snatched. It
fucking sickened me to know that they were being ripped from their
families. Each one of them was a daughter, and could be a sister, a
cousin . . . maybe even a mother or wife.

Before I let my negativity and
disgust get the best of me, I parked the car in a garage and
grabbed my leather jacket from the passenger seat. I checked to
make sure my knives were in place then put my hands in my pockets.
As I walked to my favorite bar just a few blocks from Oxford, I
kept my eyes down. It wasn't even dark yet, but I would do what
I’ve always done after I killed—drink. Maybe, oh maybe, I'd find a
woman who wanted absolutely no attachments tonight; just a good
fuck and be done with it. Or maybe I'd find a new mark.

Marks, as I called them, were the
women I took before the bastards could. It was funny how it worked
these days. Often, prominent men visited the city and the new thing
was to capture their girlfriends, wives, or daughters for ransom.
If the men didn't pay up, the women were sold within twenty-four
hours. Either way, they got their money . . . and money
talked.

Most of the time, to save their
lives, I was able to persuade the women to come with me before they
could get captured. I usually got the last laugh, because it was
easy to pinpoint and even seduce the high-profile targets. I had
the looks, the manners, and most thought I was something that they
wanted. Some of the women I took were easy or vulnerable; maybe a
few were weak or unhappy in their relationships, but they weren't
allowed to leave my watch until I said, until I knew it was safe.
They
wanted
to be overpowered by me, some even begged for
it. My only goal was to toughen them up to become survivors in this
vicious world.