Releasing her had been against my better judgment and even now, the urge to find and drag her back to my vault is an irritating thorn in my brain. I thought fucking her would’ve at the very least lessened the basic animal sensation I felt when I thought about her. But it’s only made it worse. And now my mind is buzzing with all the things I want to do to her. She’s given me so many ideas. My eyes move to my left wrist again. Time continues to creep by too slowly for my liking. The muffled voice of my latest victim draws my attention back to the situation at hand. Yes. Here is a perfectly good way to kill time. My mouth twitches at the pun.
Peter Landon. Thirty-seven-year-old Caucasian male. Father of three. He has two mistresses, one in Boston, the other in Maine. He’s worked at the Boston Khitrova jewelry boutique since its inception and has been slowly embezzling money in that same time frame. Yuri has been aware of this for some time but has only just now decided to pull the trigger on the matter. I’m always glad to be that trigger.
The lullaby.
The thrum.
I start to hum.
I have everything neatly laid out. This is going to be a wonderful distraction. I can feel it. It is by no means special, but it’s needed. Like a kink in my neck I need to crack. I remove my jacket, roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt and loosen the top two buttons, in doing this I allow myself more freedom to move while I work. I step onto the newly laid vinyl tarp. Tonight, I’m inspired. Lacey is my muse. I start my work with her in mind. And it’s with all the expertise and patience of a craftsman that I slice down a naked thigh. From groin to knee. I’ve never taken the time to fully skin anyone before. Like fully remove their outer layer from head to toe. Peter Landon has the honor of being my first.
Details. It’s all about the details. I want to get it just right. Inserting the scalpel inside the gushing wound, I start at the kneecap. Slowly, very slowly, bit by bit, I separate skin from muscles, giving a necessary tug every now and then to move things along. The blood makes it difficult to work, and though I’m enjoying this, I think of other ways I can make it better for next time. Hanging them upside down and slitting their throats to get rid of the blood first would be far more efficient. Yes, that would work much better. The great thing about my job is that there is always room for improvement. Freestyle slaughter.
When I’m done, I stand and shake my hands free of the gore while staring down at my work with disinterest. Just as I always thought. Humans without their protective layers are nothing. Like stuffed sausages. The skin is only the casing to the meat by-product and nothing else. But the end result is always a filling meal. I’m nearly satisfied. What will make the experience complete is the moment I sink my hands inside the oozing flesh to retrieve the organs.
It’s another thirty minutes later when I leave the cabin. The glare of the sun despite the freezing cold weather reminds me why I don’t kill in the mornings. But I’ve taken extra precaution. Peter Landon had been taken in the wee hours of the morning and had remained in my trunk for the duration of the ride to the cabin. I could’ve waited until tonight to do the job, but I wanted nothing to interfere with my time with Lacey. And besides, I needed a fix. I place my instruments and the cooler beneath the hidden compartment of my truck and slam the door shut as I look down at my watch. It’s nearly noon. She would be at lunch now. Her school ends at two forty-five but with today being Monday, she’ll attend her SAT prep class until four. I’ll be there fifteen minutes before her class lets out to pick her up. I slide inside my car and head home. I know exactly how I’m going to spend the next three and a half hours.
***
I’m not a person that pretends very well, but I’ve learned to imitate basic human traits. I simply mirror back what people want to see. On the fringes of this suburban town, where I reside and have built my little business, I’ve molded myself into this simple, introverted florist who rarely ever brings attention to himself. It’s all about remaining under the radar. Avoid suspicion. Act normal. Most people can’t imagine having a serial killer in their midst, let alone consider the idea that their local florist has butchered more than a few hundred people over the course of his lifetime. No one looks beyond the surface. Not because I’m faultless in my persona, but because they do not want to know. Which ultimately works well for me.
I have the radio on while I work on an arrangement. The radio is a relic from the nineties that still plays a lot of my tapes. I haven’t bothered to change it because it’s served me well. The bell over the door signals the arrival of a customer. I don’t bother to immediately stand or lift my head from what I’m doing. Whoever it is will eventually make their way to me. Plus, I have a suspicion it might be another housewife coming under the pretense of putting in an order she doesn’t need, while putting on display parts of her body that are supposed to tempt me.
These pitiful housewives have flocked to my store ever since I opened it several years ago and some have had the same transparent agenda since then. They wanted adventure, excitement, an affair that would temporarily take their minds off their loveless marriages and the monotony of their lives. Some of them believed I could give them that. To them, I was the dull, quiet florist. Mysterious, but lacking in danger. How wrong they were. Tempted as I’ve often been, I was disciplined enough not to touch. My intent was to hide in the open, remain undetected. I would be putting a target on my back if I took any of these women and subjected them to my brand of sex. I’m not nearly ready to go to jail. At least not for sex.
But it’s not a housewife. My nostrils flare at the light scent of gardenia, with its rich undernotes of patchouli and brown sugar. This is a scent distinct to only one person I know. When I finally look up, I see only the back of her pale-blond head, but I can point Katia out of a crowd even if I were blind. She’s faced away from me, still standing by the door’s entrance. I can make out the irritation in her voice but can barely hear her hushed conversation on the phone. But I clearly hear the succinct, “Get it done,” before she hangs up the phone. When she turns toward me, it’s with a pout on her berry-red lips and an eye roll. She bends down slightly to pick up the yellow and brown shopping bag she’d set on the floor when she’d entered. It’s odd to see her with something other than her usual designer bag, which she was currently missing.
“People.” She huffs in exasperation as she raises her phone. “It’s impossible to plan a fundraiser over the phone, especially when you’re working with incompetent people.”
“I can imagine,” I answer, watching her glide toward me, a move she makes effortless in four-inch heels. She is such a stunningly beautiful woman that even I’m not immune to her looks. With her tousled, blond hair, big, blue eyes, pert nose and full pout, she is that rare combination of innocent beauty and sexy vixen. Her body is made to entice. And beneath her open black fur-lined coat, dressed as provocatively as she is in the nude, lace dress, she knows exactly the effect it has. I can only assume it’s for my benefit. The sudden thought puts a frown on my face.
I catch a glimpse of what’s inside her bag when she sets it down on the front counter. Groceries. My frown grows deeper. I’m not in the mood to entertain her.
“If you keep that up, your face is going to get stuck that way,” she teases lightly, with a small smile.
“What are you doing here?”
The smile turns to a pout, “You can be such a bear sometimes, Knox. I came for a visit.”
“I’m busy.”
She sighs as she comes around the counter. “Don’t be difficult. I’ve had a very frustrating morning and I don’t need you to ruin the rest of my day.” I don’t make it easy when she reaches out to me for a hug and a kiss.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come,” I reply laconically. “I’m hardly the sort of person one comes to, to bright their day.”
“True, but that’s what makes you so special to me, Knox. Come, take me upstairs, there’s so much I have to tell you.” She tugs on my arm like a child to get me to stand.
�
�Shouldn’t you have friends for this sort of thing?”
“I don’t have friends, you know that. That’s why you and I work so well together. Besides, you’re so much better to talk to. Come on, Knox…” she wheedles, and I’m irritated enough to finally come to my feet just to shut her up.
“If you ask me to braid your hair, I’m going to stab you.”
***
“You’ve been absent.” It is said lightly, but I can hear the reproach in her soft voice as she pours herself another glass of wine from one of the bottles she’d brought. She heads toward the living room and I trail behind her. But when she stops in front of the coffee table, I’m quick to wonder why.
She bends down to take the leash I accidently left on the coffee table. “You’ve been entertaining?” she muses with half a smile, her eyes all the while assessing the fine leather, the silver chains clinking as her delicate fingers trace the embossed L indented into the front of the neck cuff. “How lovely.” She fails to mention the letter, but I know she’s curious as to whom it belongs to. With a small smile, she sets the leash back down on the table where she found it. “Two missed dinners and now Thanksgiving. Have you been avoiding us?” She continues her earlier conversation as if nothing has happened.
“I’ve been working.” I don’t know what to make of her current mood or what she thinks about the leash. But if she isn’t bringing further attention to it, it can only be a good thing. I do not speak any further and simply watch her from where I stand. Leaning against the dining table with one leg crossed over the other and my arms emulating the same position across my chest, my obsessive habit of earlier returns. I glance at my watch. Time has shifted again and rather than the slow, debilitating pace it’d assumed this morning, the minutes are flying by now. I have exactly one hour and thirty minutes in which to get rid of Katia.
“Are you sure that’s all that’s been keeping you?” She keeps her tone even, but I can hear the implication. When I tear my gaze from my watch, it’s to find her watching me from behind the rim of her glass, her blue eyes carefully assessing me. So the leash did have some sort of impact.
I return her look, “What else would there be?” I will not give her the satisfaction of baiting me.
She lowers her glass and laughs. The throaty sound has the power to seduce. “Well, I don’t know. There couldn’t possibly be a woman because you don’t date!” She says it like it’s an absurd thought, but it’s more of what she isn’t actually saying that one needs to pay attention to. I’m good at reading between the lines. “Matter of fact,” she continues, after taking another sip, “I’ve never seen you with a woman out in public. But then again, we both know all too well that what you do with them isn’t for public consumption.” Again, her eyes meet mine and it’s as though she’s trying to read what she assumes I’m hiding from her.
There is something about Katia that I’ve never been able to figure out. There are times when I look into her blue eyes and see what it’s like to be normal, to be completely human, whole. I’m usually able to feel, understand, and utilize the full scope of her emotions without difficulty. Which is quite often why I can stand to be around her at all. But then all that changes when I see that look of nothingness on her face. And my past assumptions that she is just like me, flawed, empty inside, reaching blindly in the darkness for something, anything to grab and annihilate just to feel alive, returns with a vengeance.
I’ve attempted to analyze her countless times before, but her true personality continues to elude me. She’d played a significant role in my life when we were younger. Whether it was providing comfort I hadn’t really needed or a willing body for me to exercise my sexual brutality, she’d always been there. My adoptive sister, lover, and sometimes friend. But her appearances in my life had become sporadic over the years, her altruistic ventures keeping her so occupied that I hadn’t minded not having her around. It’d been good enough seeing her at the occasional Sunday dinners at her familial home. She’s been the only Khitrova I can say I remotely liked, which is why I try not to be bothered by her presence in my space, however difficult that may be right now.
But our history aside, I will not tell her about Lacey. I’m going to remain selfish with this secret.
“Each woman I take is very well compensated for her…troubles. And as I’ve said, I’ve been working.”
“Oh,” she murmurs, and comes to her feet, but not before finishing off the rest of her wine, which she downs in one go. “Poor Knox,” she clucks, setting the glass back down. “Father works you too hard. He’s always worked you too hard.” A few sashaying steps closes the distance between us and she’s standing in front of me. “Making you slaughter all those bad men for him. All the lives you’ve taken.” She unfolds my arms and takes my left hand in hers. “All that blood on your hands.” She continues as she whispers against my knuckles, “Do you remember spilling my blood, Knox?” When she takes my index finger inside her warm, wet mouth, I want to shove her face away, but I stop myself. “I do. I remember. It was special. I remember every second of it. I remember how hard you were when you carved the blade of your knife across my skin.” I remain still when her hand sneaks between our bodies to run suggestively over the front of my pants. Before she has the chance to cup my unresponsive cock, I reach down to grab her wrist.
“Don’t.”
“Hmm,” she muses quietly, the sound almost a laugh. “I’ve come for a visit because I’ve missed you.” She raises her light blue eyes, her intense stare full of guile and quick thinking, and asks, “Have you missed me, Knox?”
“What do you want?” I demand, despite knowing full well what her answer will be. When I take hold of her neck, grasping it in a bruising grip, her eyes gleam with excitement.
She licks her lips and bats her lashes before looking up at me. “I’m just reminiscing...we’ve had such great times.”
I shake my head as I grip her neck tighter, “Katia.”
The next smile she gives me is a slow stretch of her full, sensuous pout. “Take me to your vault, Knox.”
I almost want to say no, but the sadist in me will not allow it. I don’t need to be fond of my subject to relish the agony I’m going to wring from her. And it will only be agony she receives from me. I’m very well aware of her sexual preference and as fond as she seems to be of my cock, I have no interest in her other than pleasure I will take in beating her ass black and blue.
Chapter Twenty
Lacey
I don’t know what wakes me but the small process of opening my eyes seems like the hardest thing I can possibly do right now. There’s an incessant throb right beneath my left eye that only worsens when I raise my head. I look around and immediately notice I’m surrounded by complete darkness. I forget for a brief panic-stricken moment where I am and my thoughts run toward the worst anxiety imaginable, believing I’m back in the room Knox first put me in. It takes the softness of my flattened pillow beneath my searching hands to get me to calm down. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but I should probably be getting ready for school.
Getting up is a chore, my whole body feels like it’s been smashed into the ground by a sledgehammer. When a dry cough escapes my throat, I bring my hand to my chest as if that will stop the explosion of pain the cough induces. I push open the closet door and fall into the dimly lit embrace of my bedroom. There’s a thick fog covering my brain and giving a shake of my head is a considerably bad idea when the throb transforms into a bang and everything starts spinning. Jesus, I can’t seem to do anything right when it comes to my body right now. My legs are still shaking from the exhaustion of my orgasm from the night before. Any attempt I make to come to my feet is a complete failure because my legs refuse to function. So I’m left to crawling, a position I’m finding all too familiar, across my bedroom. If I can just make it to my bed, I’ll be okay, but even that thought doesn’t sooth me when my eyes land on the tips of two booted, black feet. I nearly choke on my tongue as a sick sense of déjà v
u washes over me. The river of sweat streaming down every inch of my skin has nothing to do with how horribly I’m feeling right now. That twinge of panic that I’ve come to associate with him steals my breath and has my heart twisting painfully in my chest. I don’t need to look up to know that it’s him.
“You were not at school.”
“I’m heading there now,” I croak miserably, all the while wishing he was somewhere else entirely.
“It’s a quarter past five.”
“Five a.m.?”
“No, five p.m. Look at me.”
My head rises to meet his shuttered gaze, but it’s not a look I can hold for too long because my vision blurs and everything starts to spin again. I need to lie down. I sway, I can feel myself tilting toward the ground, but just before my body makes impact, I’m enveloped in the warmth of my blanket. I don’t fully grasp what is happening until he bends down to pick me up from the floor, blanket and all, like I weigh next to nothing.
“What are you doing?” I rasp, only to hide my face against his chest as a barrage of coughs force their way out of my sore throat. Every breath I take in between the coughs burns so much that it brings tears to my eyes.
He remains silent and I am left wheezing weakly as he carries me out of my room and then past the apartment door like he does this sort of thing all the time. The fact that Dante isn’t anywhere around to stop him is disheartening. I should be struggling and fighting him to let me go. The first time he did this, he’d drugged me and taken that opportunity from me. The difference between then and now was that I could actually do something about my abduction. But it’s easier said than done. Even the idea of screaming brings an involuntary ache to my throat. I rest my pounding head against his shoulder because that’s all I can manage and when I close my eyes, there is a burning heat behind my eyelids. Despite the thickness of the blanket, the blast of cold air reaches between the layers of faux down and freezes the sweat against my skin, causing my bones to rattle and my teeth to chatter. It gets only mildly better when he tucks me inside the passenger seat of his car and blasts the heat when he comes around and starts the engine. I zone in and out for the remainder of the ride so I don’t remember much of anything. Everything happens in snapshots, each time I come to, my mind takes in brief images of my surroundings before I drift away again.
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