Seducing Two Serial Killers
Hollie Hutchins
Contents
ACT ONE
1. Emma
2. Richard
3. Emma
4. Tarren
5. Emma
6. Richard
7. Emma
8. Richard
9. Emma
10. Tarren
11. Emma
12. Richard
ACT TWO
13. Emma
14. Tarren
15. Emma
16. Richard
17. Emma
18. Tarren
19. Emma
20. Richard
21. Emma
22. Tarren
23. Emma
24. Richard
25. Emma
More By Hollie
Captain’s Claimed Property
ACT ONE
The only way to complete my mission is through bedding Richard Forge – a top figure in shifter society. Only thing is… I’m not experienced.
This wasn't my first choice of career. Lurking around shifter establishments in their state, trying to pull in Richard Forge. I could have been back at college, finishing my courses, so I could finally become a Profiler. But instead, my boss yanked me right out of there.
And why? Because I'm “immune.” Immune to shifter's hypnotic powers. An object of desire. And it seems that Richard's very, very interested in me.
I know I have to do this. The senator's daughter is missing, and Richard's a suspect. Everyone wants to know what happened, but not everyone can make it to Richard Forge’s bed.
But what I didn't expect was the other man Richard had struck a deal with. A man called Tarren Vale. Crawling straight out of the underworld, binding us both together... calling to the darkness inside us...
Emma
My long dress flutters over the ground. Red to stand out like a glittering ruby, to wink in the sun for any who glance my way, and see just how overdressed I am, how violently scarlet my lips are in comparison to my fishbelly white skin. One knee is crossed over the other, and I cradle a light gin and tonic in my hand, complete with a fancy cocktail umbrella for show.
I'd rather not wear such things at all. The lipstick's a heavy, caking substance. I can almost taste it on my teeth. And honestly, I loathe the dress. It's the kind of shit, impractical concoction you'd expect to see in a James Bond movie.
Other women in the establishment are dressed up as well. An array of peacocks, racks on display, legs exposed and talking to one another with the soft ting of glasses, rings, and the clack of high heels across a hard floor. The heady smell of perfume mixes with the stale breath of alcohol, creating a musky, sexual atmosphere.
That's always the thing. Cigarettes and smoke. Drinks and lacy dresses. Perfume and heels. Stuff of the 40's and 50's.
The target is fixed firmly in mind. I've read the profile, gone through the briefing. He has a thing for the color red, and it looks like my ginger hair fits the occasion. I'd have to have dyed it, otherwise. It probably won't be the last time I'll need to dress up. The clients I'm sent after all want different things. Sometimes they want Marilyn Monroes, sometimes they want someone who looks vulnerable and easily led on. Despicable as some of my targets are, they have one thing that my boss values.
Information.
It's always about the information.
The clear water and glass allows me to peer into the reflection at the target.
He matches the picture I have in my cellphone, aside from a fresh hairstyle, and formal clothes which make it appear as if he'd just come out of a funeral. Stern face there. His lips are smiling, but his eyes are tugged down. Something's up, there. Not anything in official news, and not something I can hazard a guess at. Not yet.
The bartender purses his lips at me as I swill the last of my tonic. He's got that gleam to his eyes, betraying what lies beneath his skin.
Friend or foe? I smile, before I gulp down the drink, and hold out the glass for him to refill. His almost orange eyes hold some kind of silent judgement. He might be the same kind as my target.
Since all I have to do is throw a rock, and I'll hit a shifter.
My boss told me to dress up in this ludicrous outfit, to put my flesh on display. I have to find out what's happening in the enemy camp, after all. To contact the shifters who have direct involvement in the wars.
Even if it means being dumped in a potentially hostile city, with the strings to my operation ready to cut, in case I become compromised. Still, at least they have entertainment, same as any normal human city.
I know I accepted this job, but I can't help but feel sometimes that my boss is a fucking dick. He made out at first that he was from some hotshot company, and it wasn't until after I gave up my original uni course to join him that I realized otherwise.
Sure, my boss's employer is rich. And sure, I get some of that richness passed to me. But I'm little more than a grubby P.I whose sole talent lies in the fact I happen to be immune to certain things. A spy.
The target's moving. If he comes to me, I'll have to start the seduction game. Pull those stupid faces that men seem to think is attractive, without feeling like an idiot in turn. Lean forward and do the boobity boob thing, and hope that I don't give anything away.
Wonder what my mother and father would think, knowing where I sat. They still think I'm studying Criminal Psychology. Aiming to be a Profiler. Right before I was snatched.
I breathe in relief, still, glad the target's approaching me first. I'd seen other men eyeing me up, probably debating whether to brave me or not, and I wasn't looking forward to having to deal with the flood.
“You're a new face around here. Drink?”
I turn to look at my target, slightly frozen, before saying, “Sure. Want me to pay?”
He twitches his fingers towards the bartender, who promptly gives me another one of the gin and tonics. Really need to be careful of just how much I consume. His body language's predatory, of course. A drunk, pliable target, dressed in the kind of things that attract him, wearing the kind of perfume that's supposed to trigger his shifter senses. I can almost hear my mother's accusation, as if she were sitting right next to me to say it.
Don't ever allow shifters to talk to you long. They got some kind of hypnosis. Something that makes you grin like a puppet and do whatever the hell they want.
An extended version of the don't talk to strangers warning. Don't talk to shifters. They're the enemy. You can't trust them. Send them back to their country, build a wall.
Common sentiments among the crowd. In my mother's case, she's got a point.
“I'm Richard.” His thin lips curl into a smile. No way to tell if it's genuine, with the way the light casts strange shadows upon our faces in the night bar. The cigarette smoke has a way of lacing the air around us. There's something about his lips that tells me he smokes, or at least he once did. There's a hardness to them. My eyes flick to his fingers. Searching for tells.
No marks. If he does, he’s fastidious about it.
“Emma,” I say, imitating the smile. I'd say something else, something witty, but my vocal cords are locking up. A tiny thud of fear hits the inside of my skin, pulses up my neck. I can't afford to lose this. Gotta say something.
Anything.
“What accent is that you have? You humans,” he says, making no pretence at thinking of himself as human, lying about the beast under his skin, “I never understand how it is that you have so many different ways of talking, despite living in the same county.”
Evolution of linguistics, I think. Imitation of sounds, adoption of phrases. “Portland,” I say. “Maine,” I add, because I don't know how famili
ar he is with human cities and locations in general.
“Ah, yes. You're a long way from Portland. What brings you to Animus?” A gold cufflink chinks against his new, foaming tankard. So solemn. Maybe he did come from a funeral. He's not putting all his heart into charming me.
Or is he?
Something brushes against my mind.
There it is. I sit instantly upright, nostrils flared. Stiff as a chair. He's attempting to use his hypnosis. His amber eyes have a gleam to them, as if projecting energy. Here's the sell. Here's my moment to shine.
“Honestly, I wanted to see this great Animusa for myself. Always been told to avoid it, to leave your kind to your own devices. You people can't be trusted, after all.”
“Oh?” His voice comes out a growl. Danger. But I think I'm in control of it. As long as he's patient. The gin boils in my stomach, leaving a kind of warm fuzz. Tipsy. Not quite all the way drunk.
“But personally, I think it's nonsense. I don't think you guys are any more dangerous than humans. Pretty sure we've done worst things, actually. My ma'll have a heart attack if she knew I was here.”
He considers me for a moment. It's different seeing him in 3D, of course. The jaw is square, almost too big, and there's a heavy set to his face that makes me think he could probably punch through walls with it. His nose is crooked, as if it's been broken a few times, but he fits into his features well. It's an odd phrase, but sometimes, people are just not comfortable under their skin, and you can see it. Despite those features, though, his hands are slender, like a musician’s, and there’s a general thinness to his body.
He's in control. And it adds a fierce beauty to what otherwise might be unexceptional features. The muscles define things, fitting well into his suit.
I wonder who broke his nose.
“Well, she might be having a harder time understanding why her daughter appears to be in a bar, all alone, wearing a flimsy dress... you can't have expected to make it very far out the door before getting accosted.”
The tips of my ears heat slightly. My make-up manages to hide the worst of my blush, though probably not on my neck, before I say, “You caught me. I definitely wanted to attract attention. If I'm honest, I probably could have just ditched the dress, right?”
He grins. “Probably. You'd have the same effect, either way. So, Maine girl. Interested in taking this conversation elsewhere?” His eyes flick over my form, and there's greed there, coupled with lust. Ah, and the ever familiar linger upon my cleavage. No doubts what's going on there.
“Perhaps.”
Now there's confusion knotted in his gaze. He looks into my eyes.
“I think you misunderstand my meaning,” he says, a rumble now forming upon his lips, a command building. “You will come with me. For a little talk elsewhere...”
“Will I?” I continue smiling pleasantly at him.
I can almost see the little cogs in his brain whirring.
“You're immune?”
And the mic drops. Guess my smog of perfume really worked. He didn’t catch what I was until now. Should get this brand again.
“Took you long enough. Tell me. Is this how you get all your women? Just order them to come like they're dogs? Can't have had a particularly satisfying romantic life if the only way to get them into bed is to hypnotize them.” I slurp at my drink, now leaning one elbow on the bar. There's a savage pride in my head, even though, technically there should be no pride in luck. But hell.
One of the reasons my employer plucked me was precisely for this luck.
Because the hypnotic suggestions don't work. Something to do with some brain mutation. A beneficial one, for once.
“My romantic life is quite effective, thanks.” There's a type of dented anger in him, now. I consider how to push this further. Don't want to bite at his pride too much, so that he recoils in. Don't want to act too unconcerned, or he'll decide that I might actually be a P.I.
Spy.
Odd to think of that word when considering myself.
“If you say so. I'm sure you can snatch any of the human women up here for yourself.” I sip more of the drink, the heat inside me shifting. There's an ache between my thighs. The adrenalin is doing strange things to my body, making me want to give into impulse. The fact he wanted to take me and fuck me is hot. But to make me do it without any free will of my own – slightly less hot. My emotions war with the conflicting desires. The primal arousal with the rational, offended part of my brain.
“And if I want you?” The words slip out of his mouth, barely above a whisper. The tendons on his neck are almost popping. He's maintaining calm on the outside, but inside, there's a battle going on. “I can't believe I didn't scent the immunity before. You mask it well. Good perfume.” He takes a deep sniff. “But it's there.”
Yep. Perfume can throw shifters off scents. Immunes like me secrete something that appeals to them. “How about a date?” I uncross my legs, because the cramp's killing me. He follows the movement, and I can almost see the fantasy simmering in his brain. Touching me. Sliding a hand right up that bare flesh, into the part my dress covers.
Not yet.
“Date?” He blinks as if the word's an alien concept to him. Eventually, however, his lips spread into a smile. “Well, I suppose... it wouldn't do any harm. Though I must say it's a novel concept to associate with someone like you.”
I bet it is, I thought. What use would a man or shifter have for building social relations, when they can take what they want with their words, and the magic of supernatural persuasion?
All those people in the past, unsure why they went through with what total strangers asked them. All those stories about those mysterious encounters.
And it's all because the predators of humans have an extra trick.
“Excellent,” I tell him, deciding whether getting up would seem too hasty, or if my limbs can in fact support the idea. “I'll give you my number. We can arrange at each person's convenience.”
He nods, those amber eyes scrutinizing me carefully. Possibly wondering if it's a good idea or not to deal with me.
Meanwhile, I feel as if the door has shut behind. No backing out. No escape.
I'm committed to the mission, succeed or fail.
Richard
What a stupid woman.
She has absolutely no idea. Coming into a shifter dominated state like the Nevada Desert, wafting off her immunity like it's fashionable – she may as well hold a gun to her own head. The price tag above her head must be catapulting into the thousands.
Once other shifters, particularly certain ones of the underworld and lesser animals catch wind of what she is, she'll disappear from the world before it has a chance to register what's happened.
Not my problem.
Except... I did agree to a date. Even though I don't really have the time to do such a thing. Enough time for a wham, bam, thank you ma'am. A quick hypnosis to a susceptible target, one satisfied woman, a goodbye.
But not dating.
Seeing her sitting in that bar, alone with that dress barely containing the flesh underneath it, it was as if she'd been waiting for me alone.
Perhaps she had. It's not like people can't pull up Google and find out a little something about me. The kinds of people who form groupies around shifters, wanting to be charmed into sex – it's not unusual to find certain human tourists in Animusa, waiting to be seized by a werewolf, a cat shifter. Anything powerful. The thrill of being dominated by such a powerful male or female calls to them.
And then there's me.
It's a day after the encounter, and I'm sat in my penthouse apartment. Business with the humans is going well. I've invested in a few more stock shares. There's been a trade war scare between America and China, and I've been snapping up shares in the panic. I'm due to go to Club Phoenix shortly, and I highly doubt I'll be taking Emma to such a place. No.
I'd have to avoid anything with a high density of shifters if I take her somewhere. Or just not agree to the date
, feign a commitment. Wash my hands of additional trouble.
That'd be the easy path. Easy path is good, right? Life's complicated enough without making it more so. And someone like Emma – that's a complication. A headache. Worth more trouble than her pretty face and immunity.
I shift my legs, moving over to the balcony to stare down to the busy streets below. Cars, bikes, humans, shifters. Some shifters like to get to work in their true forms. I see a few pumas, a golden eagle, and one dragon.
Issue is, no matter how hard I tell myself to pick the easy path, it's not going to happen. Emma's in my periphery. She might be some shifter groupie, she might be a damn spy. Human agencies love the idea of immunity, think it's a valuable asset. They also know that shifters go crazy for the immune. An immune human could look like a gremlin and we'd still go for them.
Just the way we're built, I guess.
I continue staring down into the street.
Can't stand here being lost in my own thoughts. Not when there's a threat to deal with. There's time enough to ponder later.
Right now, I need to walk into the jaws of a devil.
Here's hoping he doesn't snap me up.
* * *
The bouncer squints suspiciously at me as I walk up, out of hours from normal club time. He's bald, along with the other monstrosity guarding the entrance. Each has tattoos upon their skulls, denoting their shifter clan. Bears, of course. They can out-fight most other shifters, unless taken by surprise.
“I'm Richard Forge.” I stand, waiting, uncomfortable in my black suit against the midday sun. It's both for intimidation and respect. I wear my brother's gold cufflink. Pretty much the only valuable he had left, squandering the remaining bulk of his assets. Liquefying the material wealth to continue pursuing his altruistic lifestyle, in trying to expose the ugly side of our world.
Seducing Two Serial Killers Page 1