Midnight

"Perhaps it was the wind," a consideration which took great might to comprehend. "Yes, it must have been the wind, it couldn't have been anything else," he found himself mouthing to an empty room. Though still upright in bed, he calmed his rushing heart. Senses numb, he slid into the duvet once more and quite unfortunate that he did. Perhaps if he had ceased twisting amongst the sheets, he would've heard the familiarly soft scrape of the door, or the gentle scuff of padded shoes on the hollow floorboards. What he did hear was the ring of a blade through the air. No sooner did the final sound fill his ears, the knife had pierced his throat. Any begs, cries he strained to utter were drowned out by croaky gurgles. Gurgles which perverted the tongue from forming words. What were once snowdrop linen sheets were now stained rose with the wine, pouring heartily from his neck, unrestrained by flailing fingers. Finally, the writhing ceased and he heaved a single dying breath; light and staunch with the sour reek of blood.

A gloved hand reached into the bed and took the rapidly cooling wrist of the newly deceased. With care, the assassin thrust a syringe into pale flesh, drawing what remained of the flesh's essence. Full now, the vial gleamed with a scarlet hue as it was swiftly removed and pocketed. Leaving the ornate dagger between the sheets, the night's visitor hastily departed. In time, the peaceful darkness fell upon the place once more as silence swarmed to feed upon the void. The coffin lid to the murder.