Fatal Allure Collection

by Woods, Martha

  When I slump against the chains, he rises, his gorgeous body on display again as he walks behind me. I feel the length of his body along my backside, his erection between my legs as he reaches around, his hands finding my breasts once more.

  He fits himself inside of me, moving his hands to support my rear, lifting me while he takes me from behind like an animal. His thrusts are hard and proprietary. He is marking me, owning me. I know this in my heart, and my body responds in kind, pulsating with pleasure, even more so when he sinks his teeth into my shoulder.

  Allowing him to take my blood is personal. I feel what he feels, desperation, attraction, anger, frustration, desire. Love. I feel it all as we crash together, crying out our release.

  When he releases the manacles around my wrists, catching me as I fall, I am limp and boneless. He feeds me from his wrist, saying, “Be strong, sweet Amy.”

  I drink and drink.

  When I wake up, clutching at the sheets, my nether region pulsates with want. My panties are damp and my body is overheated, slick with sweat. I feel full and sated, though, groggy as if I’ve just had a five-course meal.

  I throw my feet to the ground, feeling the cold, hard wood reconnect me to reality. I stumble in the dark to the bathroom, feeling every bit as if my intense sexual dream–starring none other than the vampire Vincent–was real.

  I look at my body, still clad in t-shirt and pajama bottoms and know it was just a dream. Just a dream.

  I drink a cup of water and make my way back to bed, where Damon pulls me closer, only barely awakened by my movements.

  For a long time, I lie awake, still aroused, still wanting.

  Chapter 8

  It has been three days since I made my deal with Rick and I am no closer to unlocking the secrets of the Centerfold club and the three murdered woman as I was before.

  It is incredibly frustrating. I know there must be something I am missing. There has to be, and it has to be connected to the Centerfold Club.

  Damon sets a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me, smiling. I cannot bring myself to return the gesture.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  “What? No gold medal for making breakfast without burning something?” he jokes.

  I give a weak smile. “It looks awesome. It’s not you. I only have four days to figure this out or I’ll be forced to take a leave of absence. Please give me something I can use.”

  “There’s been a fourth murder, Amy,” he says.

  I look at him sharply. “What?”

  “Last night. Another girl. Killed by her neighbor. She was due to perform at midnight but she didn’t show up. Two cops came in asking questions as we were closing up.”

  “Dammit,” I snap. “Not our team, I assume?”

  “No, I didn’t recognize them,” he says.

  “Anything weird in the club, besides all this?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t feel magic the way you do, but I can say that the girls who work at Centerfold are spooked. They’re all talking about how they feel unsafe. I guess there is an owner but they’ve never met the person–he sends in some goon to rough the girls up any time they talk too loudly about leaving or going to work somewhere else.”

  “That’s worth looking into, for sure. What about Alexis?” I ask.

  “She’s tough, runs a tight ship,” he says. “From what I can tell, she’s good at her job. She can be serious but she seems to care about the people who work there.”

  I frown but don’t press further. “What about Brian, her brother?”

  “The blond bartender?” he asks.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  He shrugs his big shoulders. “He’s unobtrusive. Mostly moons over one of the dancers named Lydia.”

  “He was chatty when I went in to ask questions the first time,” I explain. “He might be worth getting to know. Alexis sais he was her brother.”

  “Hmm,” he grunts. “I don’t see the resemblance.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “they’re both good looking.”

  “I suppose,” he says. “I’ll talk to him a little.”

  We’re quiet for a while. After a while, I ask, “Do you enjoy the work?”

  He shrugs. “It’s okay. I don’t mind it.”

  “You could go back,” I say, my voice oddly cheerful. “To being a Hunter. Don’t you miss it?”

  “Part of it, I do,” he says. “I just don’t think being a Hunter, being at risk all the time…I don’t think I can do that and make promises to you, to our relationship.”

  “I never asked you to promise me anything,” I say. “I was just happy being with you.”

  His facial expression softens. “I know, babe. I know you don’t want to be the reason I stay away, but we both know that if we are going to be together, it will be safer if I stay away from the Hunt.”

  “Tristian spoke to me last night,” I say. “Just briefly. He says he needs you.”

  “Really,” he says, his face hardening, the softness replaced with steel. “He came to you?”

  “It might have been coincidental, but I can’t be sure. And he definitely wanted me to send you back.”

  I relay the conversation, leaving out the vision and the fact that Vincent brought me home and saw me naked. That would not go over well and I don’t have it in me to have another argument with Damon this morning.

  Damon doesn’t say much about my conversation with Tristian, though he clearly mulls it over as he drives me to work. He insists on driving, even after I tell him to feel free to go back to bed. He is quiet the whole way, chewing on one corner of his bottom lip as he drives.

  As we pull up, he says, “I just don’t think I can go back and be with you. It is too hard to manage a relationship in the best of circumstances. Being a Hunter…there are many who would use anything they could to get to me. That includes hurting you, or hurting me to hurt you, or hurting us both. And sometimes it is for an end game, like with Olivia. Sometimes it is just for the monster’s own twisted pleasure. I simply can’t take that kind of risk.”

  “I understand,” I say. “But they may need you. Humanity may need you if war breaks out.”

  “War is something else entirely,” he says. “We’ll cross that bridge if and when we get to it, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. I lean over and kiss his cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he says. “Be good.”

  * * *

  I meet with Rick right away, asking him to confirm the fourth death. We spend two hours reviewing photos and notes from the scene, and two more reviewing the other three murders. He sits back in his seat afterward, rubbing his temples with his palms.

  “I can’t understand why the teams haven’t made these connections, Rick,” I say fiercely. “Four women dead. These are not random coincidences.”

  “I’m starting to believe that as well,” Rick says. “Though I did make inquiries. The teams did note the similarities but with witnesses to ID each of the suspects, there seemed to be no reason to push for further questioning.”

  “Well, I’m telling you that there is a reason. We just haven’t found it yet. There is no way that four crimes can be committed like this and not have some connection.”

  We stare at the files in front of us for a long, heavy moment.

  “I need more time, Rick,” I finally say. “I know I said a week, but I need more time.”

  “Amy, this is already putting me in a weird position. I’ve asked the teams to hold off on moving these cases forward for now, but they can’t hold these suspects forever without charging them,” he says. “Get me something soon or I’m telling them to move forward by the book.”

  “Then four people will be wrongly charged with crimes,” I say. “I believe it with all of my heart. None of them remembers the crime. None of them has a history of violence. None of them has a motive, for Christ’s sake.”

  Rick throws his head back and pinches his nose between his fingertips. “You’re killing me, her
e. Find me something I can use. The levee won’t hold forever.”

  “I won’t let you down,” I say. “I promise.”

  I spend the rest of the day reviewing everything I’ve already reviewed. I read and reread witness accounts, investigators’ notes, photos from the scene, character accounts, and DNA samples. I nearly go cross-eyed from it all, but I just feel like there is something I’m missing. It feels so close, yet so far away, and I want to scream from frustration–particularly when I now see four ghosts, all trying desperately to talk to me. They’re nearly corporeal, their wounds ghastly, three wombs ripped apart by steel. I feel sick looking at them, not just because of their gaping wounds but because I feel I am letting them down.

  At about three, I get up to stretch, needing some fresh air and coffee. I wander outside and down the street to the coffee shop. After getting a large coffee, I meander back toward the building. When I walk back into the office, though, my papers and files are all over the floor and my computer screen is focused on a photo, again, this time with the imaged zoomed to a dark blob near a tree.

  I start to pick up the papers but notice quickly that many are face-down. The only ones that are face-up are witness accounts. I scan them and realize that in all four cases, a key witness account is made by a person with an identical description. Different names–Adam Fray, Dan Westenbarger, Michael Chapman, Luke Rogers–but all with a medium build, height just shy of six feet, sandy blond hair.

  I look at my computer screen, taking it back to the original image. Just scanning the photo on my own, I would never have noticed it, but there is a dark figure in the photo, a man’s shape.

  Could this be important? And what of the similar witness at each scene? I flip through the witness accounts again, looking for similarities in the neighbor accounts. And there it is…all four neighbors said they were out walking their dogs when they heard a commotion and ran toward the melee, only to find the act already in motion.

  I call the investigators who took the statements. I ask them if they double-checked that the witnesses actually had dogs? I ask if the witnesses mentioned seeing another person near the scene. I ask if they confirmed whether or not the witnesses called 9-1-1.

  They all think I’m nuts, but confirm that the answer is no in all four cases.

  I pick up the phone and call the first witness on the list. Her name is Jody. When she answers, she sounds very young. I introduce myself as a special investigator and ask her if I can ask her a few follow-up questions.

  “You mentioned in your statement that you were out walking your dog when you heard the commotion and ran toward it. The officers did not mention a dog at the scene, though,” I say. “Did you take it home?”

  “A dog?” she asks. “I said I was walking my dog?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “That’s what it says.”

  “That is really weird,” she says. “I don’t have a dog.”

  “Do you remember what you saw when you came upon the crime being committed?” I ask.

  She’s quiet for a moment. “It’s really fuzzy,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I guess it was just a really traumatic night. I can hardly remember a single thing about it.”

  “Okay, well, if you remember anything, please give me a call back,” I say.

  We hang up and I call the next three, getting very similar responses–almost as if the witnesses had somehow been coerced into giving these accounts. Or worse, that they’d been under some kind of mind control that was now wearing off.

  Stranger still is the fact that the male witness in each crime now has a disconnected phone number and while all of the names correspond to real people at the addresses provided, when I pull the driver's license information for each name, none of the men matches the physical descriptions provided by the officers who took statements.

  “This is curious,” I say to myself as I sit back, my head pounding with a headache that had bloomed after so many hours reviewing evidence. I am utterly mystified by how weird this case is, yet I know I am on the right track.

  I pack up well after quitting time and make my way home. Damon has left a note that he’s gone in to the Centerfold club for a team meeting, so I decide to go to the gym for the first time in forever. Maybe a workout is just what I need to get my head in order, to help work out the puzzle pieces. I use exercise to calm my mind, to help me focus. I haven’t been able to do nearly enough for my body lately.

  * * *

  My personal trainer, Zach, is working with another client when I arrive. He greets me loudly and gives me a ribbing for not coming in lately.

  “I know, I know,” I say. “I’ve had a lot going on. I’ll be back in more regularly now.”

  “Promises, promises,” he says. “Do you need a quick workout plan for today?”

  “No, I’ll be fine,” I say. “I’ll let you know if I get stuck.”

  I make my way to the rowing machine for a warm-up. As I’m rowing, I stew over the new leads I have found today. Well, been led to, anyway. I can’t imagine that those papers fell by accident in my absence, or that the screen zoomed in on an image by itself. I suppose I should be thanking my friendly neighborhood murder victims. I imagine they must have to gather an awful lot of energy to become so visible and to be able to manipulate things in this world.

  The fourth victim’s name is Misty, according to the crime reports. She was murdered by her own sister, who had come over to bring her a birthday gift before losing control and stabbing her multiple times, once again on a busy city street, once again with witnesses in full view.

  The ghosts watch me as I work out and it’s only as I take a break after doing an arm set on the cable machine that I make note that all of their injuries are to their stomach areas. No damage was inflicted to any other parts of their bodies.

  As I stare at the ghosts, two annoyed young women who ask if I’m done with the machine startle me. I had sort of forgotten that there were other people in the gym with me. I nod and wander off to grab a medicine ball, overhearing them talking about how one girl’s boyfriend cheated on her and she has proof because she dressed in disguise and followed him after work one day.

  This gives me an idea. I need to see what’s going on in that club myself. Damon has given me hardly anything I can use, so I will dress in disguise and go there myself.

  A little while later, after finishing my workout and getting a shower, I text Cara, asking if I can come over for a makeover.

  She sends me party emojis in response, so I take that as a yes and drive over to her apartment.

  “This is so exciting!” she squeals when she opens the door.

  “Well don’t get too worked up,” I say. “I just need a disguise so I can investigate a place without a warrant.”

  Her eyes go wide. “You’re breaking the law for an investigation?”

  “I guess if you want to put it that way,” I say. “Plus, Damon works there and he’ll be pissed if he knows I’m poking around.”

  She grins. “Well, I was hoping you were asking for a makeover just because, but I can help with this, too.”

  “Why,” I ask innocently, “what’s wrong with my regular look?”

  “Amy,” Cara grins, rolling her eyes, “You know that you put very little effort into your look.”

  “I’m a forensic investigator, sometimes knee-deep in blood and guts. There is no reason to look pretty.”

  “What about Damon?” she asks. “Wouldn’t he like to see you make an effort?”

  “I don’t think he cares about that stuff at all,” I answer.

  “All men care,” she says. “They’re basic that way.”

  “I am telling you that he doesn’t care if I’m in loafers or stilettos. It all comes off in bed anyway.”

  She snickers. “That’s true.”

  We catch up while she does my makeup and finds a wig she used for a Halloween costume a few years back. It’s long and black with thick bangs. I think I look ridiculous but I can see that it looks natural
and that it does succeed in transforming me into someone else.

  She has me dress in a slinky black dress and sky-high heels that I’m sure will cause me at least one broken bone by the end of the night. I had to walk in heels at Olivia’s and it was quite a miracle that I did not end up flat on my face in front of a house full of hungry vampires.

  “You look like one hot mama,” she says, whistling as I eye myself in her full-length mirror. “So you’re going in as a patron. A rich, eccentric woman who just happens to like other ladies. Pick someone and ask for a private performance. They’ll give it to you and then leave, and you’ll be able to sneak around the place. If you get caught, just say you got lost.”

  I give her an amused look. “That plan is scarily good. Did you really just think of that out of nowhere?”

  “What can I say? I missed my calling.” She shrugs. “My dream job is to be a spy.”

  I laugh and give her a hug. “Thank you, Cara. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Be careful,” she says. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No,” I say, “but thank you.”

  “Well, at least keep that outfit on for Damon later,” she says. “It will spice up your very boring sex life.”

  When I give her a look, she laughs. “I know, I know, you two hump like bunnies. It’s depressing how much sex you have. Don’t remind me that I am relegated to electronic relationships.”

  “Wait, computer?” I ask.

  “No, vibrator,” she says, giggling.

  “Ah, yes,” I say. “What about the hot lawyer?”

  “Subject of many a fantasy,” she says. “But who knows. Maybe I’ll let the real thing in one of these days.”

  I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’d better go get this over with.”

  “Yep, go get your lap dance, bitch,” Cara says, cackling as she shoos me out the door.

  * * *

  When I arrive, the club is pretty busy, so it is easy to pay the cover charge and wander in mostly unnoticed. I ask the hostess to seat me somewhere inconspicuous, so she gives me a booth off to one side of the stage. I give her a tip and ask for a glass of red wine.