Cold Dark Souls
Candace Wondrak
Chapter One – Stella
Picturing the corpse of the newest victim of the Angel Maker while sitting in police custody was probably not the best thing for me to do, but then again, I couldn’t help where my mind went. It was as if my mind had a will of its own, and it refused to think of anything other than Sandy’s body, propped up and mangled with pipes through her joints, the skin on her back carefully peeled off and pulled apart, fleshy, gory wings that would haunt my nightmares.
Haunt in the best of ways.
It was…the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen in my life, and I wasn’t just saying it to be dramatic. Oh, the articles and blog posts I could write about the Angel Maker now, having seen his glorious will firsthand.
I was well aware most people would not be so entranced with a dead body, especially that of someone they knew, but I was not most people. I knew that by now, as did Callie, as did my parents. It’s why they only spoke to me when they needed something, like that stupid dress fitting, which was on Tuesday.
It was so strange for me to think about how quickly my life had changed this last week. How I went from having nothing to having absolutely everything. Was I exaggerating? After all, the Angel Maker could’ve easily killed me along with Sandy, but something in my heart of hearts told me he would never hurt me. He wanted me to see him, to know the work that sprung forth from his cold, dark soul like flowers in spring. He couldn’t be stopped; he wanted to be revered.
I couldn’t say how much time passed before I was joined in the interrogation room by two police officers. Both looked exhausted, like they hadn’t slept a wink since the first body was discovered. Both were completely unassuming, hardly a threat to me. Besides waking up at the crime scene, they had nothing on me. I doubted there were any fingerprints anywhere, and if they thought my one-hundred-and-ten-pound body could push poles like those through a body, they were stupider than they looked.
The man on the right slid me over a cup of coffee. I didn’t take it; I’d seen enough shows to know they were trying to get on my good side, to butter me up and hopefully make me confess every detail; they'd probably try to get my DNA off the cup after I'd left too. If I was their only suspect, it meant the true Angel Maker was so far off their radar they had no idea who he might be, which was a good thing for me, because after seeing Sandy’s body strung up like that, I knew I had to meet him. Had to thank him. Had to do something.
“Feeling more talkative now?” Police Officer One asked.
Without missing a beat, Two said, “Care to tell us your name? You had no ID on you. No shoes—” As he went on to describe my pajama outfit, I wiggled my toes, having completely forgotten I was shoeless.
The Angel Maker could’ve warned me, told me to get dressed. It was the least he could’ve done before kidnapping me.
Look at me. Practically making jokes. My parents would be proud. Not of the circumstances surrounding the jokes, but of the jokes themselves. Definitely not the subject matter, though. Just the mere fact that I was actually making a joke, even if it was only to myself.
I highly doubted they would release me before I played their game and told them everything, so I said, “Stella Wilson. You can search for me in whatever database you have. I don’t have any priors. I don’t even have any speeding tickets.” That was because I didn’t own a car, but they didn’t need to know that. All One and Two needed to know was I was a good girl who didn’t do anything wrong.
Only a woman who’d written to the Angel Maker…and who he’d written back to.
I watched them scribble down my name on a small note pad Number Two pulled out of his shirt’s front pocket. I noticed One staring at me, at my eyes. Which one did he stare at? My brown eye, or my startlingly vibrant blue one? It didn’t matter, I guessed, and I stared back, unabashed, refusing to let him intimidate me. The blue color they wore did not automatically mean I would sit and cower.
“Care to tell us what you were doing in a parking lot at two in the morning, Stella?” Two questioned, less intrusive in the way he gazed at me. His partner, though, practically glared.
“You saw the body, didn’t you?” I asked. “It’s why we were all there.”
“How did you get there? Did you walk, all the way from your house, barefoot?” Two again.
I tilted my head, wondering if I should tell them about the kidnapping. I supposed I had no other choice, because how else could I explain my presence at the crime scene? Of course, then I would have to explain my articles, where I worked, my blog and how I’d written to the Angel Maker himself. If these two saw the whole picture, surely they would release me.
“No,” I said. “He brought me there.”
One was a deadly kind of serious when he asked, “Who?” A single word. One word whose answer would not be so simple, because the two words I said next meant so much more than the two fools across from me knew.
“The Angel Maker.”
“The Angel Maker,” One repeated, glancing at his partner. Two said nothing.
“It’s what I call him,” I said, hands on my lap beneath the table. I wasn’t restrained, so I supposed they weren’t officially arresting me. Maybe they hoped I would help lead them to their killer. Maybe they thought I had a connection with him—I did, but not in the way they wanted, and I would never help them catch him.
A monster like the Angel Maker would not do well behind bars or in solitary confinement. A beast like him had to be free.
“In my articles and my blog,” I added when neither of them said a single word. Were they stunned at my nickname for him? They shouldn’t be. All serial killers had a nickname the media used when talking about them. It made their stories, their selves, seem more…relatable. “I don’t know if either of you read the local paper, but I work for the Tribune. My articles focus on killers. Serial killers, to be exact.”
And now, there was no way around it. The Angel Maker was officially a serial killer, and as far as I knew, I was the only one who’d escaped him alive and unharmed. Not so much escape as I simply woke up, but still. It meant I was special to him, in a way. The mere notion gave my stomach butterflies.
“Is there someone at the Tribune we can contact to verify your employment?” Two asked, pen and paper ready.
“Killian Blaire, my boss,” I said. And because I didn’t know his cell phone number, I had to say, “He won’t be in today, because it’s Sunday. But he’ll be at the office tomorrow.” Watching them scribble down his name, I couldn’t help but feel antsy. I wanted to get out of here, wanted to write my feelings out.
I didn’t often feel like I was drowning in my own feelings, but today, after seeing Sandy like that…I definitely did.
“How did you get there, Stella?” One spoke, sipping his own coffee in a dreadfully slow way, almost like he used the time to measure me up. “You’re the size of my seventh grader. There’s no way you did all that by yourself.”
Oh? Did they think I helped the Angel Maker? Did they think me his accomplice? That was…well, it would be exhilarating, if it was true. Sadly, it was false, and it couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I’m not helping him,” I said, taking a deliberate kind of carefulness with my answer. “I was asleep in my bed, thought I heard a noise. When I got up to investigate, he was there, in my house. He wrapped his arm around my neck and knocked me out. The next thing I know, I’m in a parking lot, and the generators kick on.”
Two’s eyebrows came together. “You’re saying he kidnapped y
ou?”
Ugh. This would be so much easier if it was Lincoln interrogating me, but he didn’t work in this precinct. He was a cop in a different town, a town not currently plagued by a serial killer.
“That is generally what it means when someone takes you against your will.” Being flippant was probably not the best thing to do, but I was at my wit’s end. I wanted to get out of here, to go home and make sure Callie was alright, not to mention whip out another blog post.
God, I wanted to meet him so badly it hurt.
“Why would he kidnap you?” One leaned in, setting his arms on the table between us.
“I wrote a blog post to him.”
“And why would you do that? How did you know he would read it?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t. I just had a feeling.”
“You had a feeling,” One repeated. “In this business, there’s always a reason behind those gut feelings. Why did you suspect he’d read it?”
“The differences between the two victims were huge. I figured he was becoming more confident in his killings, and I wanted to see if he was following me. My articles are the most popular on the Tribune’s website. Most serial killers today like reading about themselves. I thought it was a longshot, but apparently it wasn’t.” I refused to tell them I had hoped he’d be reading my stuff, that I wanted him to come find me.
No, I’d keep those particular details to myself, because they felt personal. They were mine, something I would only share with the Angel Maker himself. And maybe Lincoln and Edward, assuming they didn’t suddenly grow tired of me. I didn’t want them to.
It was Two’s turn to ask, “When he came at you, did you get a good look at his face? Skin color, body height, build? Anything like that?” These were all standard questions, and I knew they didn’t necessarily mean they believed my story.
They should, because it was all true.
I shook my head. “No, he came at me from behind. By the time I realized what was happening, he was already knocking me out. He was definitely a man, though. Strong. Not sure about any of the rest.”
Of course, I didn’t tell them any more than they should already know. They should know he was a man, because most serial killers were men. Whether that was from society’s violent upbringing of men or something else was beyond me. And they should already know he was strong, because who else could shove pipes through someone’s body—bones and all?
The Angel Maker wasn’t all about sheer strength, though. There was a meticulous nature to him as well. A brute couldn’t peel off skin while leaving the under layers, muscles, and tendons down. No, there was so much more to him than we all knew, and if I had my way, these fumbling police wouldn’t get their hands on him before I did.
“The victim’s ID was found on top of one of the generators,” Two said, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it hurt him to remember the bloody, heavenly scene. “Sandy—”
I nodded, cutting in, “I know her—knew her. She worked at the Tribune, too.”
One’s eyes fell, taking in my relaxed posture. “Do you think the…Angel Maker chose her to get your attention?” He wanted to see how quickly I would agree, whether I was so narcissistic that I thought all of this was for me.
I couldn’t tell him the truth now, because I didn’t want to seem crazy, even if I was a little off my rocker. These guys might start to think I led the Angel Maker to choose Sandy, or something equally as ridiculous.
“It’s possible,” I said, not truly committing to my own answer. “I’m not in his head, so I don’t know exactly what he’s thinking.” Sort of a lie, because I was better able to predict him than most of these people.
People like One and Two, normal people whose obsessions did not take over their entire lives, would never understand how much I knew him, even if I didn’t know who he was. I understood him and his need to kill much more than the average person could. I wasn’t like most people, and I didn’t mean it in the typical I’m-not-like-other-girls way. I was different, broken and shattered, anything but whole. Who better to understand someone like the Angel Maker?
It was not the first time I realized it, and it wouldn’t be the last time I thought of it, either. Not until I stood before him, face to face. Not until I gazed into his eyes and saw his inner monster, naked and bare.
I wanted—no, I had to meet him, and I swore to myself I would do whatever I must to do it.
Chapter Two - Edward
I made a hearty breakfast in the morning. I knew Lincoln and I would need all the nourishment we could get, because it was going to be a long night ahead of us. With that woman in the basement, with what we were hoping Stella was going to do—there were no words for it.
There was not a doubt in my heart Stella was perfect for us, that she completed both Lincoln and I in the best, most twisted of ways, yet I knew the true test would be in whether she would take a knife to the woman or just watch. Either one, I supposed, would suit us, but I knew both Lincoln and I would rather have her participate. I knew there was a darkness inside of her, waiting to emerge and be welcomed into the world and its chaos, and I was more than happy to help pull it along.
Lincoln wandered into the kitchen just as I was finishing the omelets. I wasn’t as good with breakfast food as I was with other mealtimes, because the restaurant didn’t serve breakfast, so I wasn’t constantly practicing. Plus, my mind was elsewhere as I wondered what Stella would do when we brought her into our basement and introduced her to the hooker Lincoln had picked up the night before.
Taking one look at the three plates before me, Lincoln rose his dark eyebrows, his black eyes curious. “Three?” he asked, running a hand through his wet hair. He stood on the opposite side of the island, the cabinets and countertop blocking out my view of his manhood. He was naked of course, as he usually was when he had nowhere to be. It didn’t bother me at all.
I met his questioning stare, thinking the answer should be obvious. “You didn’t plan on feeding the woman downstairs at all?”
“Why waste the food? She’s going to die soon enough.” Lincoln took his plate and wandered to the couch, rolling his eyes at me while flipping on the TV.
“Yes, but if we starve her for the whole day, odds are she’ll pass out sooner. I’d rather feed her and hear her screaming longer, wouldn’t you?” I posed the question, leaning on the counter, waiting for Lincoln’s inevitable shrug.
His shoulders rose and fell once.
I knew he’d rather have his prey awake and alert, so I didn’t push him on it. I simply grabbed the plate nearest me and went to the door under the stairs, the one leading to the basement. It was a thick door, had to be, because it was soundproof. The whole basement was just what we needed when we got tense, the perfect place to do it after having our way with them upstairs in our beds.
It would have to change now, with Stella. Not the killing bit, but the in our beds part, unless Stella was down for that, too.
One thing at a time.
I made my way down the stairs, turning to view the woman chained to the wall. She was on her knees, dried tears on her cheeks, along with numerous trails of smeared makeup. I supposed she might be pretty, beneath all the fake glamor and sparkles. Her body was flawless, curvy and voluptuous in all the right ways, and yet, as I stared down at her, I couldn’t help but think of Stella.
Stella was nowhere near as curvy as this woman. She was too thin, too small, as if she didn’t take care of herself right. That would change, I swore to myself, even if I had to force feed her every meal every day. Stella would be healthy, damn it. I wouldn’t lose her to anorexia or anything like it.
The woman on the wall opened her eyes. Her yellow hair was wild and unkempt; she’d definitely looked better, chains aside.
I held the plate between us. “I thought you’d be hungry.”
She managed to say, “Fuck off, you sick fuck.” Such imaginative, colorful language. Ungrateful in every way. It was almost enough to make me want to throw the plate at her fac
e and see how much she appreciated my gesture then.
“I’m trying to be nice here,” I said, holding back my temper. If I had sent Lincoln down with the food, surely she would’ve regretted speaking those harsh, ugly words.
“If you want to be nice, let me go,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from all of her crying. Her tears had long dried up, the bags beneath her eyes large. Her body would find more tears when sharp metal instruments were cutting through her tender flesh.
I gave her a strained smile as I knelt before her, setting the plate on the floor. I would have to feed her, but it was something I was willing to do—I would take care of the prey until we unleashed Stella’s beast. Playing daycare provider for the chained-up hooker wasn’t my idea of a good time, but it was necessary.
“Afraid I can’t do that,” I said, not really sad at all. “The only thing I can do is feed you right now, so you’ll have to take it or leave it.” I watched the woman breathe through her nose, knowing she smelled the delicious aroma from the omelet.
It was a long while before the woman frowned and said, “Fine.” Even she couldn’t fight the hunger gnawing at her bones. Very few people could; hunger was one of the greatest equalizers. Any man or woman, or child, for that matter, could go hungry. A hungry person was easier to control, because they’d do anything for just a bite of food.
She was rabid with hunger, once we got going. As I fed her, I supposed I could’ve brought down some water or something else she could’ve drunk, but then again, I was being overly generous with her as it was. The truth was she didn’t have much time left in the world, and she was getting more from me right now than she ever would have with Lincoln.
She should be bleeding gratefulness right now.
Or just bleeding in general.
Once the omelet was gone, I took the plate and went back upstairs. Lincoln had finished his while I was down there taking care of our lovely guest, and I would bet any amount of money mine was cold. Oh well. I didn’t mind too much, as I did it for Stella. There was nothing better than watching eyes widen and pupils dilate when you cut into someone. Stella deserved nothing short of a fantastic first time and a memorable first kill.
Cold Dark Souls : A Dark Reverse Harem Romance (Cruel Black Hearts Book 2) Page 1