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

by Candace Wondrak

  Like you, I hope I’m around to see the aftermath.

  I spent the remaining work hours reading it over, adding to it, fixing a few typos and formatting it. It wasn’t my favorite article that I’d ever written, but since I couldn’t exactly be truthful in it, it made sense.

  For instance, I couldn’t say I’d seen Sandy’s body, or even bring up Sandy’s name. I couldn’t bring up the fact I had watched Destiny’s life leave her eyes and her body sag, so I knew what it was like. To feel the power. The rush that followed. So many details I couldn’t say, and how badly I wanted to.

  It would be stupid to admit to anything though, especially with the cops sniffing around. The last thing I wanted was to have them suspect me of anything. I would much rather go on with them believing the Angel Maker was after me, obsessed with me. It was close enough to the truth, wasn’t it?

  It was a long time before the cop left Killian’s office. I watched him zigzag his way around our desks, heading to the front door without so much as looking at me. Two had either gotten what he wanted, or was trying to play it cool. He left, and I bit my bottom lip. The moment he was gone, the long room erupted in a frenzy.

  “Killian,” a purple-haired woman spoke, “what did he want?” I wasn’t sure what her name was, because I never cared enough to pay attention. I did notice her eyes flick to me for a brief second, the shortest time possible before she asked, “Was it about the Angel Maker?”

  Any time I heard someone else use my nickname for him, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel pride.

  Killian was slow to walk around the table where we had our meetings. His hands were in his pockets, and he couldn’t have looked more innocent if he tried. “I don’t think I’m supposed to share any of it with you, but…” One hand snuck out of his pocket to rub his chin, which was clean-shaven, as it always was.

  “Just tell us,” the man at the desk in front of me said. Mike? David? Eh. I didn’t care enough to know his name, either.

  “Sandy won’t be coming to work,” Killian said, frowning somewhat. “She’s…I’m assuming you all heard what happened this weekend?”

  The purple-haired woman blinked. “Don’t tell us the one in the parking lot was Sandy.”

  Killian nodded once. “Don’t go spreading this around. They haven’t released the name to the public yet.” The whole office, save for me, held in a collective gasp, as if they couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Sandy. I wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t that awesome of a person. She sucked. “Can any of you think of anyone who might’ve had it out for her? Or someone who she was talking to, dating?”

  The web design guy chuckled, though it was a hollow sound and died quickly in his throat. “Just you, boss.”

  I held back from rolling my eyes. Killian as the Angel Maker? That was good for a laugh.

  Killian nodded, letting a cracked, sad smile. “Well, if I wake up one day and see a serial killer staring back at me in the mirror, you’ll all be the first to know.” With a sigh, he looked around the room, settling his gaze on me, as he often did. “Let’s get back to work, okay? No meeting today.”

  As if anyone would get any work done after that. As soon as Killian went back into his office, everyone erupted into chatter again. So loud it made my head hurt. I was glad I whipped out the article earlier, because now I could focus on the awful feeling inside me.

  I was dreading tomorrow like no other.

  Chapter Twelve – Stella

  The sun was up bright and early, as was I. I got a bit more sleep last night than I did the night before, mostly because I told Edward I couldn’t come over because I had to be up and ready for my mother at eight o’clock sharp. He was sad, but he understood. Family duties were something he and Lincoln knew well, apparently.

  I imagined by now their basement was spick and span, clean, Destiny’s body gone. Lincoln had connections somewhere, and he wrapped the bodies up and dumped them there. I wasn’t sure if I would trust someone else with the bodies, but if it had worked for them for this long, I supposed there was no point in questioning it. They must be masters at getting the blood off those tiles by now…

  A prickle of excitement raced through me when I remembered what we did, what I did. I shouldn’t be so thrilled to remember killing someone, an innocent woman by all accounts, hooker or not, but I just couldn’t help it. My inner darkness was showing; Edward and Lincoln had fostered it, helped it bloom into a flower of everlasting blackness.

  Who knew my darkness was so strong? Maybe that was why my parents never loved me quite the same way they loved Bree. Maybe they knew from the day I was born that I was incomplete, a monster wearing a baby’s face. That, or they were just really shitty parents.

  Probably the second one.

  I wasn’t sure where I stood on the debate between nature versus nurture. One side would say all serial killers are born that way, with something inherently wrong about their moral compass, their ability to empathize. The other would say they only did what they did because they were raised wrong, their childhoods were terrible. Most people today believed it was a mixture of both. Still, I didn’t know what I believed.

  Most people, I realized as I checked myself in the mirror, would probably think I was wrong, too. What I did, no sane person could’ve done. Could they? Murder. I killed someone. I ended another woman’s life and I felt glee.

  Clearly, there was something wrong with me, but I didn’t feel wrong. And I didn’t look wrong, either. The reflection staring back at me was decent enough, even with my two-colored eyes. I hid the bags under my eyes with some of Callie’s makeup—Callie, who still wasn’t talking to me. She’d get over it eventually.

  I wore a stain-free shirt, black, with actual jeans. I thought jeans made me look horrible, too skinny, but my mother would kill me if I went to this thing wearing my usual leggings. Plus, jeans had back pockets, which could easily hold my wallet and my phone.

  Moving out of the bathroom, I went into the kitchen, getting a water bottle out of the fridge. We were almost out of food, I noticed. Which meant I had to go to the store soon. Maybe tonight, provided I wasn’t out all day. Callie never did things like that, and I never complained that it was my responsibility to do the shopping, to pay the rent, to do the yardwork. Callie was pretty useless when it came to those things, but she was still my friend. I didn’t get mad at her for it.

  I would give her time.

  My mother pulled into the driveway at eight on the dot. Not a minute early, not a minute late. I knew I shouldn’t expect her to get out of the car, so I was out of the house and locking the front door before I felt the tingling vibration on my ass. Her calling me to let me know she was here, as if I wasn’t sitting there waiting for her.

  I got in the car, buckling my seatbelt before she backed up and started the long drive. “Good morning to you too, Stella,” she spoke through plump lips, red lipstick smeared all over them. My mother’s name was Margaret. She was a tall, petite blonde with cold blue eyes. Everyone always said she wore the pants in my parents’ relationship, whatever that meant.

  “Good morning,” I muttered, not wanting to say it because it was definitely not a good morning. The very opposite. The worst morning I’d had in a while, mostly because I had to see my mother’s face so bright and early, and soon enough my sister.

  “I have no idea why you don’t just quit that newspaper and get a real job,” Margaret said, jumping right into it, not even waiting a minute. “You should have a car by now. You should have your own place.”

  Right. Because my parents thought just because I had a college degree, I was automatically fast-tracked to well-paying jobs. What neither of them seemed to grasp was that it wasn’t how it worked. Not today, not anymore. Maybe in the past, when things were different, but the times had changed, whether my mother and father realized it or not.

  “I like working at the Tribune,” I said, watching as the scenery rolled by.

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. But writing isn’t a
real job, you know,” Margaret went on, either oblivious or uncaring that I desperately wanted her to shut it. “You could’ve made something of yourself. You could go back to school—Bree is getting her masters.” And then, just like that, everything was about Bree.

  I supposed it was only right, seeing as how today was about her, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t care that Bree was getting her masters, didn’t care how many more years she’d have to be in school, how much in student loans she’d have and how much she’d make in her job after she got out. I didn’t care about any of it. Call me a bitch. Call me cold.

  During the drive, I didn’t say much, and I tuned out most of what my mother said. I was only here as a body, only here to be measured and fitted with a hideous dress. Nothing more. I didn’t want to catch up with the family.

  The bridal place was a two-and-a-half-hour drive from my house. In the middle of a huge city, skyscrapers all around. On the first floor of a building that held offices in its higher floors. A big, wide open space with tons of dress racks, changing rooms, and even platforms where I guess the brides stood when they were being measured or deciding on dresses.

  Oh, fuck. This was going to be more tortuous than I thought.

  Bree and two of her friends were already here, giggling to themselves as they spoke to who I guess was a worker here. She was busy asking Bree what color she wanted the dresses to be, and how different, if at all, she wanted the maid of honor’s dress. Honestly, I didn’t see what the big difference was between being a bridesmaid and a maid of honor. Different titles?

  “Sorry we’re late,” Margaret said, rushing to envelop Bree in a hug. “Your sister ran a little late.”

  I bit back any response I might’ve had, because I most definitely was not late at all. Why even say something like that?

  “It’s okay,” Bree said with a smile, “I figured.” Her eyes, a deep blue just like Margaret’s, flicked to me. “I’m glad you got her to come, though. I figured she’d fight you on it.” Talking about me, while staring at me, while also pretending I was somehow not here, was a skill Bree had learned from our mother.

  I had a lovely family, didn’t I?

  There were chairs around the circular platform the worker had us huddled around, and she told us to sit while she got Bree’s measurements. Bree had already chosen her dress; it just needed some alterations to the fabric.

  I watched as the woman measured every part of my little sister. Bree giggled when the woman measured around her breasts, eliciting laughs from her friends. Hell, why couldn’t one of them be the maid of honor? Why did I have to come to this thing at all?

  “Her dress is beautiful,” Margaret said, glancing to me. Our arms barely touched over the armrests of the chairs, and she made sure to pull away from me when our elbows bumped. “Wait until you see it.”

  My entire life could pass by, and I would be more than happy to die without ever laying eyes on her white, beautiful dress.

  Still, I knew my mother wouldn’t be satisfied with no response, so I managed to say, “Yeah, can’t wait.”

  She looked at me, hard, studying me in a way that made me uncomfortable. Almost as if she knew somehow, what I did with Edward and Lincoln. She’d have a fit if she knew I’d killed someone with them, not to mention an aneurysm if I told her I’d been with them both sexually, at the same time.

  “Are you taking your pills?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  I was about to ask what pills she was talking about—because I found it insanely hard to believe she’d care about my birth control—when the worker came over to us and gestured for me to take Bree’s place on the platform. I sluggishly got up and let myself be measured like some prized pig in a fair.

  As I did as I was instructed, I watched my mother with Bree and her friends. In this group, I was clearly the odd one out. I didn’t belong here, with them. They were all preppy, giggly, happy in ways I never was, and even after seeing Sandy strung up and skinned, I couldn’t imagine going about life giggling like I was in third grade.

  I supposed it meant they were excited about the wedding. That made four out of five of us. I’ll give you one guess as to who wasn’t so thrilled.

  “You are skinny, aren’t you,” the woman measuring me spoke. “We’ll have to take your dress in, definitely. Trim the hemline, too.” She hummed as she did her work, going to jot down my sizes after each measurement. “Your older sister will look beautiful, but don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re divine, too.”

  The words were meant to make me feel better. Maybe she’d seen my frown and wanted to make me happy, make me laugh and smile like the others. What this woman didn’t know was that I wasn’t like them; I didn’t want to be like them. I was content with our differences, even if I hated my family more than I loved them.

  “I’m the oldest,” I eventually said, causing the woman to stop and look at me sharply. Tilt her brown-haired head and blink her shit-colored eyes like she thought I was lying. Whatever. She didn’t have to believe me. If she wanted the truth, she could look at our birth certificates.

  “Oh, well, you’ll be thankful for people thinking you’re younger soon enough,” she forced out a laugh, reaching around me to measure my waist. “It will be a blessing when you get older.”

  When I got older, I highly doubted I’d give a shit what other people thought, especially considering I didn’t care now.

  “Are you married?”

  God, this woman could not just shut up and do her job silently, could she? I felt myself frowning, immediately earning a scowl from my mother. Did this worker see a ring on my left hand? “No, I’m not,” I muttered under my breath.

  “A shame young people are so afraid to tie the knot these days. I’m glad your sister found someone she loves with all of her heart.”

  “Me too,” I said. Never mind that she’d found love with someone we both went to school with, but that was neither here nor there. I’d long given up comparing myself to Bree, because each time I did, I always lost. I was never the winner when Bree was in the picture.

  I did my best to hold my head high, to ignore the rest of the woman’s comments. Every word she said felt like a jibe at me, a way she could poke fun at me. She wouldn’t dare make fun of me if she knew what I was capable of, what I’d done with Edward and Lincoln—what I imagined doing to her, if I was honest.

  Cutting off her fingers, one by one. Bone by bone. Digging into her pale, soft flesh with something sharp. Hearing her nonsensical ramblings turn into screams. Oh, it would be music to my ears at this point. I would much rather watch this woman writhe in agony than stand here and listen to her go on and on about how amazing Bree was.

  She was better than me. I got it. I understood it by now, since my parents had all but forced the fact into my skull when I was a child. Always second best to the little progeny. Nothing I ever did was good enough. It was enough to give any child an inferiority complex, let alone someone like me.

  The day was miserable, to say the least. After the woman finished measuring me, she measured Bree’s friends. Since Bree had taken my seat, I stood to the side, my arms folded across my chest.

  Bree flipped her long, bleached hair over her shoulder, glancing at me. “So, are you going to bring a date to the wedding? If you don’t have anyone, Brendan has—”

  The absolute last thing I wanted was to be set up with one of Brendan’s friends. I’d gone to school with the tool; wasn’t that already bad enough? I did not need to have a blind date to a wedding.

  “I have a date,” I said, interrupting her.

  “Really? Who?” Bree asked, sounding a type of curious I knew was both genuine and shocked. As my little sister, the golden child, she always thought the same as my parents. She thought I was useless, stupid. Lower than dirt.

  Have I mentioned lately I hated my family? Because I totally did. I hated them all with every fiber of my being. After this fucking wedding, I really hoped I wouldn’t have to see any of them again until it was
time to bury someone in the ground. Morbid much? Yeah, I’d rather take morbidity over this fluffy shit any day.

  I couldn’t exactly say that I was seeing two different people at the same time, because I knew my mother would never let me hear the end of it. Immoral, blah, blah, blah. Margaret was a judger. She judged everyone for their choices, even if they weren’t really choices. Neither of them would understand what I had with Edward and Lincoln.

  So all I did was force out a smile and say, “It’ll be a surprise.”

  My mother was not too convinced. “As long as he’s dressed up and clean, I guess it doesn’t really matter. We can squeeze in another chair at your table.” She shrugged, as if she hadn’t just admitted no one had thought I’d get a date.

  I couldn’t blame them too much, because before Edward and Lincoln, I never thought I’d get a date, either. I thought I’d die a virgin, all alone. Those two men changed me for the better, and the whole thing with the Angel Maker was just icing on the cake.

  At least there’d be wedding cake at this thing. I’d heard it was good stuff.

  Bree was still staring at me. Her fingers were busy toying with the diamond resting on her left hand. “Have you ever had a date before, Stella? I don’t ever remember you bringing any boys home.” The friend not currently being measured hid her laugh.

  “No, but you always seemed to have enough for the both of us,” I said, earning a harsh glare from our mother.

  “Girls, that’s enough,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “Still children, after all these years.”

  A child. I was anything but a child. In a way, I was the oldest one of us all, for I knew I’d done things no one else here had, had experiences none of them would dream of. In their nightmares, certainly.

  It was my mother’s last comment that made me start to wonder…

  How would she sound when she screamed? Would her blood be as red and as thick as Destiny’s? Would she try to fight, or would she just lay down and die? My mother only had a backbone when she knew she could win.