Cold Dark Souls : A Dark Reverse Harem Romance (Cruel Black Hearts Book 2)

by Candace Wondrak

  But it wasn’t.

  The door opened easily, and I stepped in, cautious, even considering it was me. What could I say? Even though I was still alive, I did just get kidnapped. That was bound to leave some lasting impression, right? And that said nothing about Sandy’s body…

  Speaking of which, I had to write. I had to sit down and get it all out, even if it wasn’t for the Tribune. Even if it was just for my blog, I had to detail my experience. My Angel Maker was waiting. Watching. It was my turn to make the next move, and I had to plan it out carefully. He might’ve been caught in a game of cat and mouse with the police, but with me? With me it was…different.

  “Callie, are you home?” I asked the house, moving into the hall and stopping only when I heard the shower going. Good. She was here, safe. In all probability, she’d probably slept through the night soundlessly, unaware of my kidnapping. Whatever she did all day while I was at the station was beyond me, but I didn’t care.

  My mind was on a single lane road, one track to follow. The Angel Maker. I had to write to him, had to meet him, had to tell him that I saw his monster and thought it was beautiful.

  No, not just beautiful. More like jaw-droppingly, gut-wrenchingly, awe-inspiringly beautiful.

  I got out my laptop, sitting on my bed as my fingers typed with a speed I didn’t know they were capable of. Seeing Sandy strung up like that, it was all the inspiration I needed, apparently. Call me sick, call me twisted, call me cruel and cold, but it was the truth. Death got me going like nothing else.

  Soon enough the shower shut off, and I heard the muffled sounds of Callie drying herself and getting dressed. She came out wearing shorts and a midriff-revealing shirt, combing her wet hair with a brush. Her brown eyes studied me; I didn’t even glance up, too rapt in my writing.

  “Where the hell have you been, huh?” Callie asked, cocking her hip. “Spent the day with Edward and Lincoln without telling me?” As if I owed her an explanation of where I’d been. In a way, I supposed I did, if only to be the first one to tell her.

  She’d see it on the news eventually, if she hadn’t already.

  “No,” I said, finally looking at her. My friend was the prettier out of the two of us; even wet and fresh out of the shower, she was drop-dead gorgeous while I was just…me. “I was at the police station, being questioned by two clueless cops.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out their card, showing her.

  Callie’s eyes zeroed in on the business card. “And why the hell were you at the police station? Did one of those two guys try something on you? Do I have to put on my big girl panties and go kick some ass for you?”

  I found myself laughing, in spite of it all. Picturing Callie trying to beat up Edward and Lincoln was…amusing, to say the least. It was funny because it was impossible; she’d never be able to beat them, even one on one, if she caught them by surprise. It just wouldn’t happen. They were too perfect.

  “No, it wasn’t Edward or Lincoln,” I said, shaking my head. My own hair was a mess, I knew, but the last thing I wanted to do was go brush it. I would look like a yeti until I had this blog post written, proofed, and posted. Maybe then I’d work on the article for Wednesday’s paper.

  Callie sat on the edge of my bed. “Then who was it?” she asked quietly, sounding as if she truly cared, and she probably did, but once I told her the truth, she’d be out of my room faster than a cat chasing a bird. Serial killers were not her thing, and knowing he’d come into our house to kidnap me would freak her out.

  “The Angel Maker.”

  She blinked. “You don’t mean—” Callie stopped when I nodded.

  “I wrote to him yesterday. It was…like a callout post, and he answered it the only way he could.” I paused, reliving it all. The useless struggle before I was knocked out, the feeling of pavement on my skin, the butterflies soaring in my stomach as I looked up at Sandy’s body. “He came and took me. When I came to, I was in the middle of a parking lot.”

  A look of alarm crossed Callie’s face. “I’m guessing that’s not all?”

  I shook my head, realizing something. “He must’ve been watching me somewhere close by, because when I woke up, generators kicked on. Sandy was there, strung up like she was an angel.”

  “Dead?”

  Nodding, I added, “Then the police came. They took me in, considering I was the only one at the scene of the crime, and then they had me sitting in a room for hours.”

  “And you told them the truth, right? You told them he kidnapped you?” Callie groaned. “I can’t believe I slept through the whole goddamned thing. I must be a heavy sleeper, because I didn’t hear anything last night. Or this morning. Whatever.”

  “I told them, but it wasn’t like I saw his face. I couldn’t point them to him. I only know he’s a guy, which isn’t really saying much.”

  “And now you’re…what? Writing another blog to this freak? Stella, he kidnapped you. Stop trying to get his attention—”

  I looked at Callie sharply, gaining a snippy tone I hadn’t had in a long time, “It’s too late for that now. I already have his attention. I might as well use it while I have it, right?”

  “I would say I’m all for it, but I know you and your fascination with serial killers. You don’t want him to get caught. You’re not doing this to help the police catch him. You’re doing this for you.” Callie knew me too well, and yet she still sounded like she’d rather be anywhere other than here, talking to me about it. How hard it must be for her, having a friend like me.

  “It’s a good thing it’s not your choice, then,” I said quietly.

  Callie slid off my bed, shaking her head solemnly, as if she was my mother, so utterly disappointed in me and my choices. When she moved to the door, she paused, glancing back at me, clutching the hairbrush to her chest. “I worry about you, you know. Some days I think…I’m afraid for you, Stella.”

  I had no idea what she meant by this, so I decided to ask. “What do you mean?”

  “Some days I think…I just think it’s only a matter of time before you become one of them,” Callie whispered, saying nothing more as she left my room.

  My thoughts raced as I stared at the empty space where Callie had stood. What the hell did she mean, she thought it was only a matter of time? Did she mean she thought I was one step away from becoming a serial killer?

  How…stupid. There were steps, in a way, one had to take to become one. You didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to ritualistically kill multiple people while spacing out each kill. It didn’t happen. Things like that took time to form. Sometimes the first kill was an accident. Really, it infuriated me to hear her say it.

  Fury. It was something I hadn’t felt in a while.

  I sat there for a long time, staring at the empty door frame, wondering why the hell Callie had felt the need to say it. She was back in the bathroom, blow drying her hair, seemingly unaware her words had struck a chord in me. It wasn’t too long before I heard the front door slam and I knew I was alone in the house.

  How the hell could she say something like that with a straight face? God, I wanted to yell at her—and I hardly ever felt the need to raise my voice. It just felt like so much energy, like a waste. But the release would feel so good…

  My thoughts were cut off by a ringing to my left, and my attention shifted to my cell phone, which sat in the same spot it did last night when I plugged it in. Edward’s name flashed across the lock screen, and I reached for it, suddenly feeling the need to talk to him, to Lincoln—the only two people I knew who would truly understand what I felt when I gazed up at Sandy’s corpse.

  “Edward,” I said immediately. “I have so much to—” My words were interrupted by a loud sigh on the other end.

  “She’s fine,” I heard him say, probably talking to Lincoln. Back to me, “Where were you, Stella? Why haven’t you been answering your phone? I’ve been worried about you all day. Lincoln went over there earlier, said he smelled bleach in your garage.” His words were a jumb
led mess, and I did my best to listen.

  They were worried about me. The notion was almost too much for me to handle. These guys really did care about me, didn’t they? Why else would they worry? And Lincoln was the one to come to the house to check on me…Callie didn’t say anything about meeting him, so maybe she stepped out for a bit. But still—Lincoln. It was Lincoln who came, the man who’d tried to kill me not too long ago.

  How quickly things changed around here, it was astounding. I almost couldn’t remember what my life was like before meeting Edward and Lincoln.

  But it was the last part of all of that which I answered, “Bleach? I haven’t used bleach in forever.” Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if we had bleach in the house. It just wasn’t necessary. “But it’s…sweet you guys were worried about me.” I winced at my choice of words. Sweet wasn’t how I would ever describe Edward and Lincoln.

  Edward didn’t seem to mind my choice of words, though, for he instantly said, “I’m coming to pick you up, and then I’ll show you how sweet I can be.” There was an underlying meaning in his words, one I wasn’t sure whether I understood or not, but I supposed it would come with time.

  “Okay,” I said. “Give me a little bit to finish my blog post first.” I couldn’t say why, but I had to write to the Angel Maker tonight, lest he think I forgot about him, or let him think I didn’t like his show. I did, I liked his big reveal very much. I needed so much more than he was willing to give.

  This man…this Angel Maker, who was he?

  Edward didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be over in thirty minutes.” He didn’t ask if I’d be finished by then, which didn’t shock me, because he didn’t seem to be the type of man who waited around for anyone or anything. Including me. “I’ll see you soon.” He hung up, and I let the phone drop to the bed as I turned back to my laptop.

  I didn’t have much time to crank this out. A typo or two might slip through, but knowing Edward and Lincoln’s appetites, I wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon. It was now or never. I resumed my frantic typing.

  What words could I possibly use to tell you how I feel in this exact moment?

  No.

  What words could I possibly use to let you know how incredible it is to witness something you know came directly from the deepest and most sacred place imaginable? How could I describe what it was like, seeing not the man but the beast?

  I know what you’re wondering. Two things: what the hell am I talking about, and why am I being so ridiculously vague? To answer the latter, I’m going to tell you I was in police custody today, and I’m not sure what I’m allowed to share. To answer the former, I’ll instead ask you a question: have you watched the news? I know non-locals might not have seen it yet, but there has been another body found.

  Yes, my Angel Maker has struck again, and he officially joins the ranks of Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, and John Wayne Gacy.

  Read that line again. What word sticks out to you? Is it possibly the word my? Yes, I called him mine, which is a bit of a misnomer, because he isn’t truly mine. But I feel connected to him in ways I cannot describe. Maybe it’s because I know he’s out there, reading this. Maybe it’s because he had me in his gloved hands and didn’t kill me. Maybe it’s because I’m missing a part of myself, like the media would have you believe all violent criminals are.

  Draw your own conclusions, just as I’ll draw mine.

  What the media doesn’t understand, what most of you probably don’t understand, is this—yes, his crimes are inherently violent by nature, but they are not brutish. They are not so awful that the victims are not recognizable. The Angel Maker is like a florist, carefully choosing each and every flower in his bouquets with the utmost care. Nothing he does is pointless; everything has a meaning.

  I can’t help but wonder what the Angel Maker wants us to see. I’m not naive enough to believe this all started for me, but I do feel like I have his attention now. I know he’s out there, just like you are, reading this with a smile on his face.

  To wrap this up, I’ll leave you with two messages.

  To you, dear reader: this is far from over. This is only the beginning. Mark my words. The Angel Maker will strike again, probably very soon, given the time frame of last week. Remember these days, because soon enough he’ll be all over the evening news, nationwide. Soon you will have psychologists and doctors trying to tell you what he is, what he wants and hopes to achieve with his killings. I hope, reader, that you’ll remember me in those days. This blog. My articles on the Tribune. I wrote about him first, and I am hereby claiming him as mine.

  To you, Angel Maker, because I know you’ll be reading this the first chance you get: I need more. I need to see you, to meet you, face to face. I need to know who you are, and I need to know soon. I find my curiosity almost startlingly strong when it comes to you. I need to know more, but I understand you might be hesitant to take that step with me—to which I say, I’ll be patient. For a little while.

  I leaned back, staring at the post, quickly reading through it before making it the newest addition to my blog. I wished I could’ve gotten more detailed, said more, but with the police knowing all about me, knowing I write about serial killers for a living, they might be watching my blog.

  They might try to use me to catch the Angel Maker, and I couldn’t have that. I didn’t want them to catch him—which wasn’t to say I wanted him to kill more innocent people, but I just couldn’t picture the Angel Maker, whoever he was, in prison.

  No. Maybe I was selfish, but I had to know him. I had to see him and meet him. I wanted to look into his eyes and know they were the eyes of a killer. Kind of like how I could look into Edward’s and Lincoln’s eyes, but they were different. Killers were not all equal.

  Once the blog post was up and posted, I shut my laptop and quickly changed. Edward didn’t need to see me in my pajamas.

  I didn’t want to impress him, not really—I just…I wanted to look good. I wanted to try. For him, for Lincoln. They worried about me, which made me feel almost happy. Happiness was an emotion that always felt foreign to me, something I thought people made up. Growing up, I always wondered who the hell could be happy with their lives?

  Today, I was happy, whether it was from the fact Edward and Lincoln had been worried about me or if it was because I had seen the Angel Maker’s work firsthand, I couldn’t say. Did it matter? I felt light, free. Better than I had in a long time.

  Until now, I had felt like I drifted through life, a passenger on the bus, unable to do more than gaze steadily out of the window. I was not the driver, didn’t tell anyone where I wanted to get off. Today, that changed. Today, I wanted so much more than being just a passenger. I wanted to be the damned driver, and with Edward’s and Lincoln’s help—not to mention the Angel Maker’s—I was going to get there, be more than I was before. Complete in a way I never was.

  Edward arrived soon enough. He pulled into the driveway and was knocking on the front door when I opened it and gave him a smile that must’ve rendered him speechless. That, or he wasn’t quite used to my smiles yet. Hell, I didn’t just want to smile at him. I wanted to fucking hug him, but that would’ve been a bit too weird for me. Too giddy. I wasn’t that happy, was I?

  Instead of hugging him, I checked him out. His blonde hair was messy, as if he hadn’t looked in the mirror once today, his cerulean eyes a deep blue, purer than the sky on a cloudless day. He looked handsomer than I remembered him being; or maybe it was just because I felt so good right now, happy and alive. His square jaw held traces of stubble, which I found odd, for he always seemed like the kind of man who shaved during his morning routine. Was it possible he’d been so worried about me he had neglected to take care of himself today?

  I couldn’t say why, but the mere thought made me feel all these strange, fuzzy feelings inside.

  “Hi,” I said, still smiling. I sounded mostly lame, but I didn’t care, and clearly neither did he, for before I could say another word, he grabbed my wrist and tugged me clo
se, pressing my chest against his and smothering me with an urgent, heated kiss that sent waves of heat through my body.

  The kiss both lasted forever and was over too soon. Edward pulled back enough to whisper, “I was so worried about you.”

  I nodded. “I have a lot to explain. I’d rather do it to both you and Lincoln, so I only have to do it once.”

  As Edward took my hand and led me to his car, opening the door for me like a gentleman and not a stone-cold killer, I wondered why it took me so long to realize I was truly incomplete before. I’d known my life was not really a life, but I never really understood until I saw Sandy’s body strung up on display for me.

  Who knew I needed such danger to truly feel alive?

  Chapter Five – Edward

  It felt like forever since I laid my eyes on Stella, even though I knew it’d only been a little over a day. That had to mean something huge, right? Being apart from her hurt; I didn’t want to go another day without seeing her, especially after she’d dodged my calls left and right today.

  She’d answer for it, and she sure as shit better have a good reason for it.

  But it was hard to stay mad at her when she smiled up at me with a real, sincere smile. As we drove to my house, I couldn’t get her smile out of my head. I’d never seen her look so, well, happy before. Happiness was not an emotion I would’ve pegged Stella to have, ever. Given her personality, how she’d acted around Lincoln and I in the past, she didn’t seem like the kind of person who was ever happy.

  Here she was though, beside me in the passenger’s seat, still smiling to herself as the scenery rolled by and we crossed town lines. I kept throwing glances at her when I could, when we were stopped at red lights and at stop signs. She looked good. Her brown hair actually looked brushed, which was also something new, because she was always a tad messy when she was with us, like she didn’t care about her appearance too much. I never blamed her for it, for there were so many other things that required more attention.