by RJ Blain
If I ever did find a way to retire—or found a man willing to put up with me—I needed to make sure I never had a chance to become bored. Boredom got me into so much trouble. Boredom drove me into exploring creepy underground lairs decorated with the shattered bones of some predator’s meal.
If I managed to catch Justin, I’d have to warn him about my tendency to create trouble when bored. Nice girlfriends did that, or so I’d been told.
If I tried a little harder to be a nice girlfriend, maybe I wouldn’t have trouble keeping a man around longer than a couple of nights. I was my mother’s daughter—and my father’s daughter, too. No matter how I flipped it, I wasn’t a promising prospect to a sane man looking for a stable wife.
If, if, if. There were too many damned ifs in my life, and I needed to change that—if I could.
Damn it.
I’d have to put some serious thought into whether or not a man was worth the hassle of being nice, good, or whatever it was men wanted in women. I suspected a stable career, non-murderous tendencies, and sane hobbies topped the list.
I inched my way forward, and the glow dimmed along with the warmth, tempting me to nest beneath the bones until morning. I endured, restraining myself from hissing my displeasure.
Why couldn’t I find a predator with nice accommodations for a change? For some reason, I ended up hunting the sickos who thought an underground lair decorated with bones was actually a good idea.
Ugh.
More importantly, why couldn’t I leave well enough alone? I could’ve turned around when I’d found a staircase spiraling down inside a dead tree trunk, but no. I had to poke my scaly nose where it didn’t belong yet again.
I really would get myself killed if I didn’t get my head out of my ass and stop testing my luck for no reason other than I could.
A lunatic with too much money and time had built a maze beneath the forest, and when I found the bastard, I’d put my venom to good use. One bite wouldn’t do. No, I’d tap out every last drop of my venom to rid the Earth of the asshole behind the lair.
It wasn’t even a good maze; in an effort to disorient, the hallway branched, except the tunnels always circled back to the main corridor, and the idiot with a digging fetish only bothered to decorate the main hall with the remains of its dinner.
To add to my annoyance, the stench of death and decay intensified, leading me to where the predator likely killed and ate its meals—and left them rotting for a while before cleaning the meat and marrow from the broken bones. Most serial killers I’d hunted relocated the bodies once they finished with them. The more depraved kept the bodies long enough for putrefaction to begin, but all of them had eventually removed the bodies.
I’d only killed one man who’d kept trophies, but his collection had been hair—only hair. It’d made for an easy identification of his victims, leading to closure for the families of his twenty-two victims, all brunette women between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. The hard part had been finding the dumping spot. Of all the killers I’d hunted, he’d been the most creative.
I hadn’t been able to save his last victim, but her body had led me to the others, and I’d taken a great deal of satisfaction in his death and sending a lock of his hair to the loved ones of his victims along with a note informing them justice had been served. I’d told their families the stories of their deaths, and I’d left it to each and every one of them on how to get the closure they needed.
Years later, I still felt like I hadn’t done enough, that I hadn’t found the truth fast enough, that I hadn’t acted in time. No matter how many times I’d tried to console myself about my failure, that I couldn’t have prevented the last woman’s death, I still doubted.
I always doubted.
I’d always arrived a little too late to save their last victim.
I wanted to beat the killer rather than kill between kills, and my failure to do so weighed down on me almost as much as my inability to truly retire.
My long string of failures likely had a lot to do with my flagging desire to keep my true profession the secret it needed to be if I wanted to keep breathing. I liked breathing. If I stopped breathing, I couldn’t annoy Justin into running so I could chase him and determine if he wanted to just get away or if he was interested in getting caught.
Once I finished my business in the death cave beneath the Black Hills, I’d do what I should’ve done in the first place. I’d take a much closer look at Justin and see if I could turn my games into something more. My first job would be to determine Justin’s species. It didn’t matter what he was; it was the effort I spent learning about him that mattered. Everything mattered, from what he transformed into to his favorite colors, his hobbies, and what he liked to do when he wasn’t following my father around.
Once I was certain he’d match with me and I’d match with him, I’d ease him into the truth. He could accept black mamba gorgons. A real black mamba wasn’t a far leap. If he could deal with my father, he could deal with me, too.
Worrying about Justin kept me from worrying too much about the denizen responsible for the hellhole I explored. Even if I landed a few good bites, unless I caught the predator off guard, I’d probably be the loser. However oversized I was for a black mamba, no matter how potent, I wasn’t immune to harm, nor did I possess a lycanthrope’s swift regeneration.
After I transformed, my busted hand would still hurt, and I’d have a new collection of bumps and bruises from my adventures as a snake. I’d probably need a full week to recuperate—assuming I didn’t get myself killed being an idiot. I lost track of time slithering down the hall, and when I finally found another stairwell down, I regretted my insistence on exploring the place.
I could’ve just headed to my father’s home, called the police, and let them deal with it. I should’ve done just that, but no. I’d gotten it into my stupid, scaly head I needed to be the one to determine the truth. I’d seen it before; the police often wouldn’t be bothered to check out strange reports until it was far too late to prevent another death.
If there was a predator lurking beneath the Black Hills, I needed to know. If I could do something about it, I would.
In a den filled with the stench of death, I held little hope of survivors, but if someone did endure through a living hell, I would do what I could to defy history. I could live with failure as always.
I couldn’t live without having tried at all.
And so went the life of a serial killer princess.
Chapter Fourteen
What sort of asshole covered a hole in the step with an illusion and left it for innocent explorers like me to find? Normal humans would’ve taken a nasty stumble, probably down the steps where they’d break their necks at the bottom. Me? No, I had no such luck.
I fell.
And fell, and fell, and fell until I splashed into nasty, stagnant water. Had I been human, the fall might’ve killed me, assuming a human could fit through the hole, which one couldn’t. Had I landed head first, I would’ve submerged, drowned, and added to the motley collection of bones. As it was, it hurt like hell, I’d be a living bruise from head to toe, and I’d suffer broken ribs as a human.
In fact, I wouldn’t shift back to human until I healed for a while. I liked having intact ribs, and I had no idea how fourteen feet of broken ribs would translate to human anatomy. I expected a lot of pain.
Moving hurt, and it took every scrap of strength to reach the packed dirt beneath the staircase. Larger bones littered the ground, and while the walls glowed with the dim, ruddy light, I hid in the shadows cast by the discarded bones, all of them large enough to be human.
Next time, I’d remember when I slithered around with my head held high, gravity tended to make a mess of things for me, resulting in catastrophe. At least the hole hadn’t been wider; bouncing along the edges had slowed my tumble. As far as traps went, I gave the designer credit. In fact, the designer deserved an award for effective trap usage. A few bites would be a suitable reward for
good work.
A humanoid would’ve tripped and possibly snapped an ankle, making them easy—and noisy—prey. I’d thumped my way down and splashed into the water, which had been noisy enough, but as long as I hid among the bones and stayed still, most wouldn’t notice my presence. I doubted even a sensitive nose could pick out the musk of a black mamba among the reek of decay. I could barely smell myself, and I knew what I was looking for.
I waited, but no one came to investigate my haphazard descent.
Long after I’d tired of waiting, I emerged from my hiding place and resumed my exploration, my body aching from my nose to the tip of my tail. Like my tumble, no one investigated my vocalized displeasure, and I abandoned my stealthy creep for a more productive search, testing the ground for any more false sections of floor.
I didn’t make it far before I discovered another pit with my nose, and I lowered my head inside. For the first few inches, darkness blocked my vision, but once I broke through the magic covering the ground, sound assaulted me. Someone screamed, the high-pitched wail of an ending life, and in the gasped moments of almost quiet, others groaned. A faint glow below betrayed still, dark waters several feet below.
Pulling my head free, I drew my body forward, braced so I could get a better look, and once again lowered my head through the illusion. With a few extra feet to work with, I could make use of the dim illumination to pick out the shadows of the room below.
Bodies hung on the walls, reduced to shadows against dark stone and root-threaded earth. Some lived, the sources of the agonized cries and moans. Most were little more than skeletons held together by scraps of flesh that should’ve long since crumbled away to dust. I gave my eyes a chance to adjust to the gloom.
Below me, the shallow water hid the corpses of at least two humanoids, so far decayed I couldn’t tell their species. A body hung from the nearest wall, close enough I could touch with my nose if I really wanted. I didn’t, especially since the poor bastard hadn’t been dead for too long; I’d be able to troll missing persons databases for him to begin learning his story—and the stories of the others imprisoned beneath the forest.
I’d hate every minute of it, but his body would allow me to escape the place once I got a better look around—and see if I could save any of the victims. Shuddering at the thought of touching a corpse I hadn’t made, I stretched, touched his shoulder, and slithered down his back to the floor. I wish I didn’t have to breathe; I could taste the rancid, acrid bite of old death on my tongue. It wouldn’t surprise me if in a few days, after I transformed back to human, I’d need to go to the hospital. Diseases ran rampant where death lingered, and I didn’t want to think about what was on the ground.
It wasn’t dirt, and that’s all I needed to know.
I wanted to murder the mastermind for daring to cheapen life so much, creating a hell for those unfortunate enough to still live far below the ground. If I could save even one, I’d accept the risks associated with such a feat. To save one, I’d have to go where I might be found, explain what I’d seen—and how I’d done it.
I’d have to, if I wanted to keep breathing, sacrifice my chance to kill the killer.
Saving one meant more than saving myself. Some problems solved themselves, and no matter what the cost to me, I couldn’t let such vile evil walk free to hunt again.
But first, I had to find those who lived and see if any could be saved. If I transformed and risked the broken bones from my tumble, I might be able to get one person out. Otherwise, I’d have to race the clock back to civilization and hope I could return without making the predator aware of my infiltration.
Bracing for the worst, I started counting bodies. Everyone nearby was dead, most of them old enough I’d have to get their identification from bone or hair samples. Three, including the man who’d serve as a ladder for my escape, were fresh enough I’d be able to look for their faces. I did what I could, pressing my nose to theirs seeking any sign of life but finding none.
The first survivor I found didn’t have long to live, and she hung by her hands from a hook in the ceiling, her breaths rasping out of her. Human noses couldn’t detect encroaching death, but I’d learned its deceptively sweet scent, and when beside her, she stank of it. Old and new bruises mottled her skin, and disease stained her flesh. Pain, too, had a scent, and she reeked of it.
I didn’t believe in any faith; I’d given up on the salvation of my soul long ago. I wasn’t sure who I prayed to on her behalf, but I did it anyway. I hoped the afterlife had something better and kinder for her, or that she got a chance to live again in a happier world, one that valued her.
Even at my fastest, I wouldn’t be able to help her, so I did the only thing left to do, the one thing I’d sworn to myself I would never do. I was no angel, but I brought death to her so she wouldn’t suffer through the hours waiting for the inevitable. Picking her throat as my target, I lifted myself up and struck, sinking my fangs in deep.
In a healthy human, it could take hours to die from my bite, although I packed more of a punch than my natural brethren. The lab tests I’d had done on my venom put my potency at unnatural levels, and my minimum dose was over a hundred milligrams per bite more than natural black mambas. With a bite so deep, held as long as I had, she’d gotten a full hit of my venom.
Death wouldn’t tarry coming for her, and I doubted she noticed me.
I found four other victims on death’s door, their bodies clinging tenaciously to life, broken and waiting to go to the next life. It wasn’t until I found the screamer I held hope one might live. He hadn’t been hung up to die—he was contained in a cage with the lock out of his reach. I wouldn’t need a key; nuts and bolts bound the chains together preventing his escape.
The reason he screamed would be simple enough to resolve. He raged, and his cries promised hell on his captor.
I would help him get his freedom—and revenge—if I could. I saved him for last, checking the others in the prison. Those with no hope of survival I put out of their misery. Two, who might cling to life if I acted fast enough, I left hanging, afraid to move or touch them. I would do what I could.
I slunk to a corner, braced for the pain I’d inevitably put myself through, and shifted. As I’d feared, I’d cracked or broken ribs on my way down, but while it hurt to move, I could, which would have to be good enough. I had a victim to free, an escape to mastermind—and a murder to plan. I’d abandon every last one of my rules when I found the predator behind the torture and death in the prison, giving him the most horrific, painful death I could. I’d take him to death’s door, over and over again, nurse him back to life, and repeat until I secured my place in the darkest pit of hell before sending him there first to tell the devil of my deeds.
By the time I finished, the devil would find it a challenge to punish me for my crimes.
I strode to the cage, his scream cut off, and he sucked in a breath. “You’re not him.”
“I’m not,” I agreed, hissing. My torn hand throbbed, but I ignored the pain while I unscrewed the bolt and removed the chains from the cage. I didn’t ask how long he’d been a victim; deep underground, there was no way for him to track time, and asking would only hurt more than help. “I found this place by accident.”
“Some accident. How’d you get through the maze? He’d let us loose in the maze to watch us die.”
“Carefully,” I lied, and new worries roused. How could we had experienced such different things? Did he lie?
Was he the predator? I tensed, wondering if I’d stepped into a trap of someone exceptionally depraved. If he tried anything, I’d shift, bite him, and be done with him. Maybe I was naked, but I wasn’t helpless.
I was never helpless. In time, I’d regain the advantage if I lost it. Lifting my chin, I undid the chains and tossed them away.
“How?” he demanded.
“Luck,” I lied again, wondering what would happen when I released him from his cage. “What’s your trick?”
“Lycanthrope. I’m
a wolf.”
Great. I’d found another lycanthrope. “I must be cursed. Aren’t lycanthropes supposed to be uncommon? You have the hybrid form?”
He shook his head.
“All right, fluffy.”
“Henry.”
“Whatever you say, fluffy.” I got out of his way and opened the cage’s door. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen a pair of lion centaurs, have you?”
He pointed at one of the corners. “I’d say they died a year back, maybe more.”
I looked Henry over, who didn’t look like he’d been in captivity for a year. “How do you know?”
“He comes down in the morning and likes telling us the date. He keeps me alive because he thinks I’ll be useful.”
“As what?”
“A babysitter.”
A maze, an underground lair, bones scattered in the hallways, and a prison mostly occupied by males? I could guess what lurked beneath the Black Hills, and I didn’t like it one bit. “You have got to be kidding me. You got grabbed by a minotaur?”
“He’s a juvenile,” Henry replied, ducking out of his cage and pulling his shirt over his head, which he held out to me. “He’s had me here for six years and twenty-three days.”
Since wearing a dirty shirt from a living man beat stealing something from a corpse, I pulled the threadbare material over my head. “Lovely. How’d he get a hold of you?”
“I was hiking. He might be a juvenile, but he hits hard.” Henry glanced at the woman I’d killed. “She’s been here six months. He’d take her to the maze every morning, and she’s always refused him. She’s the one woman he’s caught so far.”
“Do I even want to know what he’s been feeding you?”
Henry sighed. “Animals. Rabbits, mostly. He’d give me a choice: shift and eat, or starve to death.”
I wouldn’t blame him for surviving. “And you say he comes in the morning?”
He nodded.
“Time to get moving, then. Follow me,” I ordered, heading back to the where the hole in the ceiling was. Grimacing over having to touch a corpse, I climbed, used the wall for leverage, and jumped for the ceiling, snatching for the ledge of the hole I knew was there but couldn’t see.