Requiem & Reverie (The Sandman Duet Book 2)
Page 19
The growl at the other end is Milo groaning. “That kid … I don’t know where the hell they recruit ‘em, but I promise, no future fuckups.”
“Good. I’ll wait to hear back from you.”
“Voss … it’s good to have you back,” he says before clicking out of the call.
Tipping back the whiskey, I make my way to the bathroom. “Lights on.” The soft ambient glow reminds me of the night back in Chicago, when Nola and I fell asleep in the hotel and only the faint city lights filtered in through the heavy drapes. “Heat shower.”
Phone still in hand, I set my drink down on the bathroom counter and dial her number. It rings once. Twice. Three times. At the fourth ring, it goes to voicemail. I don’t bother to leave a message, and instead, click the phone tracker app to see she’s at home. The fact that I’m eight hundred miles away doesn’t keep me from watching this woman like a hawk.
An obsessed and slightly perverted hawk.
The night before, I had her get naked and masturbate in her bed on camera, while I watched, and I’ll surely be looking for an encore later tonight. For now, I undress and hop in the shower.
My thoughts revert back to the conversation with Simon. It’s futile to put too much stock in his words, considering the guy is straddling life and death and probably doesn’t have a clue what the hell is spilling from his mouth. It’s a wonder he can still remember his own damn name.
Killing him feels like I’ve closed the chapter on the shitty history of my past, and can focus on my future with Nola. I’ll never give up this side of me, though, because the moment I become idle is the moment I risk the ability to control the urges that call to me, sometimes. If I’m being honest, a part of me is disappointed that I’ll be forced to go back to menial and mindless kills.
Finishing up quickly, I flip the shower off, and while sliding the door open, I notice there’s a message lighting up my screen. Nola, no doubt. After wrapping a towel around my lower half, I grab my phone and drink, exiting the steam-filled bathroom to my bedroom.
Another sip of whiskey, and I stare down at the screen. It’s not Nola’s phone number flashing across there, but a message to my CryptMail account.
I click on the link, and my blood turns ice cold. No. No way.
The echo of the question on the screen bounces inside my skull, and I shake my head in disbelief.
Want to play a game?
Epilogue
The city slept under a cover of darkness, as Carl clicked out of the CryptMail account and set his phone on the table beside him, where he sat staring out the window. In the distance, he could make out Willis Tower, with its dual peaks piercing the blackness above it. The wasted efforts of man to put himself that much closer to the heavens.
Of course, Carl knew better than anyone, it didn’t take heights of a building to feel like a God.
Tipping his head back, he took in the scent of death on the air—the tinny flavor of blood that hit the back of his throat, and the putrid odor of infection festering beneath it all. The piss poor attempt to mask it with bleach and other disinfectants, which failed to hide what his surroundings had become. Nothing but a contaminated compost pile.
It brought to mind the days when he’d been forced to scrub all traces of blood from the old shed, to eliminate all vestiges of his sacrifices, the small animals he would take and spend hours observing. Studying with a keen and amused eye. Diversions that often satisfied his sadistic predilections. How differently those little creatures perceived pain, nothing like human beings, whose minds and emotions often got in the way of instinct. Even in the thick of their tortures, animals would claw and writhe with the will to survive.
He loved capturing that divine moment of transcendence in their eyes, when he could almost witness the soul leaving the body, their suffering more than any living creature could bear.
He’d always carried pieces of their bones in his pockets, tiny trinkets that brought him comfort, on days when everyone and everything had disappointed him. When they failed to see the potential in him. The artistry in his work.
Years of mastery, that his own bastard spawn attempted to exploit for his own fame. Carl recalled the day he’d seen the first news report on TV about The Sandman, a cartoonish figure, as far as he was concerned, who left flowers with his dead corpses. An insult! He’d made a damn spectacle out of himself, and for what? To claim credit for something Carl had accomplished years before, while carefully curating his prized collections.
Carl had been the one to abduct the first girl who’d gone missing. She was never found because he hadn’t been careless enough to dump her somewhere obvious. Not like Simon, who was sloppy and theatrical, a glutton for attention.
Nothing but a cheap knockoff.
Simon would never be worthy enough, and his demise was inevitable.
Carl continued to stare off at the city’s many thousands of lights spread out before him, each one representing life, and somewhere in that noise, a light would be extinguished and his final torment carried out. A single message that would ensure his brother, Barrett, his flesh and blood from the same mother, would never be at peace again. He would always wonder. Always be waiting. Every minute of dreamed happiness, Barrett would be reminded of the shadows lurking in the corner. The whispers too loud inside his head. It’d taken years to track him down, and even longer to decide that the effort would be worth it.
And it had been.
All those years he’d believed Barrett to be his nephew, his sister’s only child, just to find out the two of them had suckled the same breasts and tore into the world through the same wretched cunt. The only difference between them was that Carl had been born as a product of his grandfather’s incestuous relationship, while Barrett represented his mother’s failed attempt at freedom, her desire to escape with a man she’d hardly known.
So, of course she’d have loved his youngest brother more.
The view through the window softened with his staring, until he could make out the reflection behind him—the nursing station across from his room that reminded him how little time he had left.
Air choked up in his throat, and he coughed something hoarse and dry, as if his insides had nearly desiccated in those final months. An agonizing stab of pain scraped across his bones, as he gripped the arms of his wheelchair, his body trembling enough to knock away the blanket that covered his now useless legs. He’d learned shallow pants of air often eased the miserable jolts pulsing through him like electricity, but nothing would stop the malady that’d begun to consume him from the inside out.
Ironic, really.
He’d spent years hollowing the rot of corpses, while his own body had been slowly decaying all the while.
Doubled over in his chair, he caught his breath and noticed a figure standing behind him, donned in black clergy garments, with that signature white collar peeking from beneath.
“Would you like to receive last rites and communion?”
The priest asked the question in a voice far gentler than his own, when he answered, “No.”
Eyes turned back to the window, Carl watched the dark silhouette move into the doorway, reflected on the glass as the priest retreated. Another twinge of pain left him rubbing the heel of his palm over his chest. The sickness had grown stronger, more unbearable in recent months. But unlike the cats and raccoons he’d observed, Carl wouldn’t claw for his life. He wouldn’t beg and plead and wallow in his pain, like so many of his victims.
Instead, he smiled, staring out at all those lights, some of which he’d extinguished himself. Like God, deciding who should die next.
Carl’s time might’ve been coming to an end, but the game was far from over.
* * *
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Acknowledgments
Thank you for taking a chance on my first thriller. While the darkness may seem familiar, it is a slight departure from my usual romance. That said, there are a number of people who cheered me on, as I ventured into a new genre and I’d like to take the opportunity to thank them.
As always, endless thanks to my husband and children who remain both supportive and understanding, no matter how crazy I might seem during the writing process. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to live with a woman who talks to imaginary people all day, but they’ve never had me committed, and for that, I’m grateful. Love you infinity.
To my family for having my back, believing in me, and going so far as to encourage this little addiction of mine, thank you.
Julie Belfield—friend and editor extraordinaire. You’re cold and merciless when it comes to these manuscripts, and I’m grateful for that. You make them better through tough love, and I’ve learned so much from you over the years. Thank you for sticking with me, even the times when you probably want to strangle me.
Diane Dykes, who does a lot of the behind-the-scenes work both in my reading group and during releases, to keep me on track with my writing. You’ve been a tremendous help over the last year and I’m so grateful for you. Thank you for having my back and for helping make this book better.
Lana, Terri, and Vanessa, my incredible betas who tore into the very early drafts of this thing like some special forces team dropping into enemy territory. Without you, this book would’ve undoubtedly sucked. Thank you for whipping it into shape.
Many thanks to my insanely talented designer, Sarah, for taking a mess of notes I sent in multiple emails and turning them into two covers that blew me away.
To Trisha Wolfe, the queen of thrillers, for encouraging me to jump into a new genre and for letting me bounce ideas. I’m so glad to know I’m not alone in my fascination with serial killer psychology.
Special thanks to the Vigilante Vixens. You’re always there to cheer me on and offer support when I’m locked away in the writing cave. Thank you all for sticking with me. I’m so lucky to have each and every one of you on my team. Love you guys!
I couldn’t do this without the love and support of the bloggers. Thank you for taking a chance on my books, and for taking the time out of your busy days to read and write your reviews, so that other readers might find them. I appreciate all you do for indie authors.
Finally, to my readers … this wouldn’t be possible without you. I don’t know what I did to make you want to pick up these books, but I promise to do my best and write a better story than the last, and keep delivering the swoon-worthy antiheroes you love. Thank you for reading.
HERE’S MY GIFT TO YOU!
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Other Books By Keri Lake
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About the Author
Keri Lake is a dark romance writer who specializes in demon wrangling, vengeance dealing and wicked twists. Her stories are gritty, with antiheroes that walk the line of good and bad, and feisty heroines who bring them to their knees. When not penning books, she enjoys spending time with her husband, daughters, and their rebellious Labrador (who doesn’t retrieve a damn thing). She runs on strong coffee and alternative music, loves a good red wine, and has a slight addiction to dark chocolate.
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