The father’s tone had told Briton that the words were brutal, but he hadn’t known the meaning of the terminology. He had angrily insisted that Vega tell him, and she had explained the insult as gently as she could. Upon hearing that his father considered him nothing more than a characterless moron with a pretty face, his temper had overwhelmed him. That had been the first time he struck Vega, but it had not been the last.
Growling like the sub-intelligent animal he had been called, Briton stepped forward. Clenching his fist, he snarled through gritted teeth, “Your dead, asshole.”
The massive hand raised and moved with mind blurring speed toward Zane’s face, but at the last minute, the chain that linked their minds tightened. The blow stopped mid-air, less than an inch from meeting its target with bone crunching efficiency.
Zane leaned forward, nearly touching his nose to his immobile opponent, and laughed as he forced the barriers of Briton’s mind fully open. Sifting through the insecurities and hate, he drew up the boy’s most basic emotions. The flavor of rotted meat and blackberry jam filled his senses.
“What’s wrong, don’t you like being helpless? How do you think Vega felt all those times you pinned her down and pummeled her tiny body? You didn’t care, did you? You liked causing her pain. You hurt her over and over again, and when she turned from you in fear and disgust, you would indulge the sick passion that burned inside of you with another woman. Go pick up your keys, Briton, and open the door. It’s time we finished this.”
Briton’s fist dropped to his side and he turned, moving as if he were a mechanical being. Doing as he had been instructed, but without knowledge of why, the boy’s face was a display of staggered emotion.
The house was dark as Zane slipped inside. “Shut the door and turn on the light, Briton.”
Doing as he was told, Briton quietly closed the door, plunging them into complete darkness until an audible click encased the room in a flood of light. Zane took a moment to reign himself in. The sickening thrill of pain was not one that he was unaccustomed to, but pulling that delicious cocktail from the otherwise useless brain had acted as an aphrodisiac for his own desires. Clamping down on the craving to seek instant gratification, he reminded himself of why he was there.
Vega’s beautiful face flashed in his mind, and she whispered, “Revenge me.”
The tension in his shoulders ebbed as Zane studied the room with a calculating eye. The only furniture was a black leather couch with matching recliner, an immense flat screen television, and a couple of cheaply made end tables. No photos or art hung on the walls and not a single book graced the dusty shelves. The only sign of intelligent life within the space was a pen and paper lying by the phone with Vega’s careful script decorating the first page with hearts and endearing words.
Glancing over to where he had left Briton staring in bewilderment at the light switch, Zane fought the urge to hurt him just for being stupid. The house was the epitome of the proverbial bachelor pad, the perfect reflection for the shell of a human being that lived within the barren walls. No personal touches or quaint décor were tucked away in the corners, only the light scent of old beer and smoke, remnants of the many parties that had taken place there.
Tugging the recliner so that it faced the couch with the coffee table between them, Zane ordered, “Briton, sit.” His voice was the same firm tone that one would use when giving commands to a dog.
Briton obeyed. Flopping down on the cushion near the arm, he stared straight forward. His eyes were filled with a listless and empty stare. The thoughts that belonged to him were no longer able to climb to the surface, though Zane could feel them as they scratched futilely at the blockage preventing their rising to consciousness. Trapped in a zombified condition, he was as helpless and muted as a small kitten.
Once he was ready to proceed, Zane loosened his grip and allowed Briton to feel the fear and anger that would come with being persecuted. He only used the catatonic state until he could subdue the victim and prepare for his game. He did not kill simply for pleasure, but he did take pleasure in his kills. None of his victims had ever met their death while locked in silent conformity, because he preferred to hear the screams of the dying as he ended their lives.
Zane allowed a filtered version of Briton’s personality and consciousness to slip back through the misty confusion. His sapphire eyes were clear and the panicked expression, which twisted his normally handsome face into a scowl, was nearly comical. Seeing the knowing smirk that toyed at the corner of Zane’s mouth, confusion quickly became anger.
“What in the name of hell is going on here? Look, I don’t know what you are trying to pull but…” Briton’s voice trailed off as he struggled to pull himself into a standing position.
Zane’s serious tone hid his entertainment as he watched the young man’s hopeless attempts. “Briton! Stop squirming and look at me.” He gave a gentle tug on the barbs that had worked their way deep into the gray matter of young man’s skull, and Briton jumped to attention.
As Zane spoke, he pulled an old straight razor from his back pocket. Flipping open the blade with an expert’s ease, he studied the sharp and corroded edge. Using the light from the ceiling, he made a reflection dance on Briton’s face, highlighting the fear etched creases.
“Do you know why I’m here? Do you understand what I am? Or, has your miscreant little mind not had the time to process such complexities?”
Trying to be tough, even as he sweated and shook, Briton snarled. “Screw you, man.”
“I am here to avenge Vega Williams’ death. I am the score keeper of the games you played, and you lost. You are an accused accomplice in the murder of a pure soul. How do you plead?”All humor drained from inside Zane’s warped and terrible mind. He had slipped too deeply inside the mentality of the killer. The path back up was a long and twisted road that he would not walk for days to come.
Tears trickled down Briton’s cheeks as he stared unblinkingly at the chipped and rusted blade, the white bone handle, and the initials branded just above a small diamond chip near the blunt end of the grip. There was only one other razor in the world like it. They were a matching set that had once belonged to the boy’s grandfather, Briton Edward Hadley Senior. There would be no mistaking that the blade was his.
Briton started talking fast, his words blurring together like bleeding ink on a dampened page. “I didn’t do anything. I got a little rough with Vega sometimes, but I didn’t kill her. I…I wasn’t even there. Man, she killed herself. Oh shit! Whoever you are, you’re wrong. I didn’t kill her. She freaking did it herself. She shot that shit up knowing she’d die.”
Zane leaned closer and the sharpened tendril spread its fingers a little deeper inside Briton’s head. “You hurt her, you used her, and when she called for help, you weren’t there. Where were you, Briton? Where were you while she lay calling your name as the drugs burned through her veins, collapsing those fragile vessels until her heart could no longer pump the blood?”
“I was at my parents’ house, I didn’t believe her. No one kills themselves. No one does shit like that, bro. How was I supposed to know the crazy bitch wasn’t just whining for attention?” The mix of defiance, denial, and shame in his voice echoed in the heavy silence between them.
Zane prolonged the moment as he watched Briton squirm like a rabbit caught in a trap. When he finally spoke, a tear drop trailed down his face. “You let her die. You might as well put the needle in her vein. The one good thing that touched your life and you let it rot above ground like a road kill carcass. We both know you weren’t at home that night. I hope your sick game was worth the life of someone as purely good as Vega, because you are going to be overcome with grief, and you are going to join her.”
“Jesus Christ, dude! You can’t be serious?” The deepening sense of dread was clear in the boy’s voice.
In response to Briton’s fear, Zane pushed his intentions in pulsating waves through the tentacle. The throbbing ache drilled itself deep inside the pain
receptors of Briton’s skull.
Each word he spoke became a piercing blow. “I’m going to hurt you until you will gladly take your own life.”
The hard shocks that surged inside Brighton’s mind made his face twist as he groaned. Enjoying the boy’s raging fear and torture, Zane pressed the open blade into his hand. Mentally forcing the boy’s body to react, he closed his enemies hand tightly over the bone handle. With a thought he disabled the fingers’ ability to open, making sure that the weapon stayed in place, no matter what torment the idiot endured.
Laying his subject’s mind wide open, like a woman waiting to be mounted, Zane ripped through memories. Each blow, cruelty, and heartbreak that Briton had dealt to Vega was now her murderer’s to endure. Not allowing him to rest for even a second, a copious amount of physical torment alternated with the electric shocks.
Unable to form the words to curse or plead, the boy’s eyes went wide as he mentally begged for release from his burden. As his body fell to the floor in uncontrollable spasms and his bowels released in a flood of putrid fluids, Briton’s inner voice was no more than a whimper of incoherent thought.
Zane’s tone was soothing, almost hypnotic, as he stood over his victim’s writhing body. “You can make it stop. You only have to swallow the fear. The pain will be nothing compared to what I have in store for you if you refuse.”
The tethers loosened, allowing Briton more control over his body, at the same time, Zane sent a reminding jolt of agony through the boy’s trembling limbs. He cried out, the sound hollow and aching. His thoughts were of a single mantra, a repetitive and useless plea that brought a smile to his tormentor’s face.
Oh God, please God. Save me. Forgive me, for I have sinned.
A surge of triumph filled Zane, making him lean forward in his anticipation. He whispered words of encouragement into the brain that was close to bleeding. No one will forgive you until you have suffered as she suffered. Only you can make this stop.
With shaking hands, Briton lifted the rusted blade and pressed the sharp edge to his throat. The first welt of blood rose above the flesh to trickle down to the white collar of his dress shirt. He faltered, but another jolt of pain gave him the gumption to continue. In one swift movement, the razor’s edge slipped through flesh, muscle, and vein. The terrible force it took to cut through the windpipe and into the main artery made his hands shake. The blood, no longer a rivulet, bloomed into a river. Strange gurgling noises rose up from Briton’s chest and burst in a spray of crimson liquid as the blade ended its journey.
Zane crouched on hands and knees, careful to avoid the splatter. Holding his face close to Briton’s, he watched the life seep away. When the final moment came, he opened his mouth and sucked in the very last breath that his enemy would ever take.
Still feeling the effects from the previous night’s kill, Zane’s heart pumped fast and his mood considerably lightened—though his mind remained set on his task. The immense power taken in from the final breath of a human life was addictive. Each time, it drew him deeper into what he had become. There were no remorseful lamentations of his baneful existence, only the driving need to avenge Vega’s death and to find the next victim. The hunger was insatiable until the reset button was hit, and he could end his personal suffering for a brief time.
He refused to rest until each of her tormentors was hunted, tortured, and brought to final justice. Death was the key to the puzzle, and Vega’s mother was the next piece. As Zane traveled the mostly empty streets, searching out Alyvia Bellator, the sound of the bike’s engine reminded him that the demon inside was growling to be fed. The gluttonous beast required blood, or else the torment would be his and his alone.
At last, he spotted her pearl-white Cadillac leaving from the back entrance of Oaksdale Country Club. Flipping his tinted face shield down, Zane tailed her through the quiet neighborhood streets. Staying far enough behind her that she could not see him, he sent his tentacle out into her mind. Slipping in like a thief in the night, he made himself privy to her private thoughts. To his happy surprise, she had scheduled the perfect rendezvous with her own death.
I’ve got to grab a shower and redo my makeup. She glanced at the clock. An hour isn’t much time, but I think I can make it. I wonder if Erickson is still at the house. If so, I will have him build a fire in the bedroom before I send him home. Shit, I better call Michael now and make my excuses. Careful not to chip her immaculate pink nail polish, she pressed the buttons on the phone.
Her husband sounded depressed when he answered, and Alyvia tried to mimic the severity of his tone. “Hey, honey. I was just calling to check in.”
She paused with an inward sigh. “Yes. Me too. It’s been hard.” Digging in her purse for a cigarette, she swerved the car across the line into the empty lane.
Zane could only think of how disappointing it would be if she were to destroy herself before he had the opportunity to extract Vega’s revenge. He watched as the car turned onto the road leading to the large brick house in the best subdivision in the area.
His hunger was growing inside of him and his heart beat quickened. Smiling to himself, he thought only of the pleasure that he would take in ending Alyvia’s life. Tasting the lingering images that had streamed in from Briton’s mind, he wondered if she would bite into her lip and moan in pain as she had in ecstasy.
As she spoke to her husband, Zane listened as if here were setting next to her in the car. “I’m sorry. I know you’d rather be here, darling. Life has to go on though.” Knowing he would chastise her for being callous, she didn’t give him time to reply. “I’m exhausted, I’ve cried almost all day. I’m pulling up to the house now. I am going straight to bed. I’ll call you in the morning, dear.”
Another long pause in the conversation nearly sent the woman into a fit. While she half listened, Alyvia checked her eye makeup in the mirror and gathered her stuff. Her husband’s need irritated her and the annoyance bounced through the connection she shared with Zane. She didn’t want to be needed. She only wanted to be desired, and not by the man she had married.
At last, he finished and she half-heartedly murmured, “I love you, too.” She left the door to the house unlocked and the alarm system off in anticipation of her company. Running up the stairs, she rushed to prepare herself for her young friend.
Zane wasted no time. Slipping through the shadows, he crossed the well-manicured lawn and crept inside. Unraveling a length of sturdy rope from around his arm as he climbed the stairs, he felt the monster’s appetite reach a new height. As he worked, he pushed the barbs of his power to slip further into her brain, priming her for the final act in her drama queen existence.
The inside of Alyvia Bellator’s mind was a twisted cage of carnal lust, dark secrets, shiny objects, and jealousy. He found the taste of her most intimate indiscretions and odd pleasures to be a succulent blend. The savory sweetness of her gratification in each moment was always laced with a coating of tart shame and self-loathing. Shifting through her memories as if they were old and faded pictures, he laid aside the ones that condemned her most.
Finished sorting through her past for the moments he needed, Zane focused on the current of thoughts rolling inside her. He saw her through her own nerve rattled vision. Standing before a full length mirror, she eyed her naked body with a mixture of loathing and pride. Her physique was still tone and muscular, though the skin had begun to wrinkle and sag. Without her makeup, the discolored spots of age were as clear as neon flashing lights and only a constant regimen at the salon prevented the silver from showing in her blonde hair. Lifting her breasts and letting them fall, she sighed in exasperation.
If only Michael didn’t believe in all that natural beauty crap. I could look twenty again with just a little nip, tuck, injection, and peel. With an audible whimper, she checked her backside. Oh my God, my ass is getting flabby. Turning away from her aging reflection before she lost the nerve to go through with her clandestine meeting, Alyvia twisted the shower knobs until a
force of hot water engulfed her body.
Zane chose that moment to enter the adjoining bedroom, slamming the door so that she knew someone was there. He heard a satisfying squeak come from the bathroom before her voice poured out, as thick and smooth as warm milk and honey.
“Victor, darling, you’re early. Be a sweetheart and light a fire. I’ll be out in a bit.”
Zane didn’t answer. He only moved to secure the killing field as Alyvia took her time scrubbing her body and preparing for something she believed she would enjoy. Intrigued by the way that the woman enjoyed the fear of rejection even as she invited it into her bed, Zane found himself gently caressing his own need to give her pain.
This death will be special. I will take great satisfaction from watching the mighty queen fall from her throne. By the time the eighteen-year-old golf caddy arrives, all that will be waiting for him is a cold body to match Alyvia’s cold heart.
He lit the fire and positioned the props for his little game perfectly. It wouldn’t take much to destroy Vega’s shallow mother, a full length mirror and her own insecurities. Sitting comfortably in a high backed arm chair, Zane gathered the heat from the budding flames into himself and waited. He could have called her, forced her to come. Instead, he chose to let the expectancy of pain and pleasure build inside him.
Zane plucked at Alyvia’s inner barriers as she showered, teasing those areas of the brain that produced anxiety, self-doubt, and fear. By the time she opened the shower door, framed by billowing steam, her hands shook and her bottom lip trembled. The nervous feeling in her stomach left her with the sensation that she was nothing but a hollow shell of a woman.
Her attention shifted to the counter top, and suddenly, the black negligee, garters, and stockings seemed too frivolous for a woman of her age. The mass of beauty products that lined the sink appeared as poisons in her head, and she saw herself as a fallen beauty hiding behind the mask of a clown. Yet, something forced her to touch the flimsy material, to slip the garments over her clean skin, and to smear the makeup on to her face with an expert’s precision. On weakened knees, she stood on six-inch-hooker-heels and glided from the steam filled bathroom.
Condemned To Die (The Death Eater Series Book 1) Page 2