Seducing Two Serial Killers

by Hutchins, Hollie

  Would like to meet up again. Can't stop thinking about our fuck.

  Heat rushes, along with a ringing in my ears. Grinning, stomach tickling in delight, I jab the call. She only sent this ten seconds ago. Even the memory of what happened is enough to stir everything, but I keep it controlled for now.

  She answers almost instantly.

  “Thought you were a busy man.”

  “A busy man who suddenly has a lot of time on his hands.” I suck in a wonderful, cool gust of wind. “How've you been?”

  “Okay. I hope my inexperience didn't rattle you too much...”

  “I think you can be forgiven on that.” Tarren's the unspoken name between us. A weight around our necks, pushing us closer together. “Sometimes I wonder if it had even happened. Seems like a dream, all of a sudden.”

  “I admit, part of me's, uh, worried that...” her voice tumbles for a second, “that you might have felt... shame. Betrayed. Is that the word I'm looking for? Yeah. Betrayed.”

  I consider this. Turning the notion over and over in my mind, looking at it from different angles. “It might have been. But tell me. Did you truly allow him to take you because you were concerned you might not be satisfactory in bed?”

  Her breath hitches a moment. Without seeing her face in front of me, with that little button nose, those limp blonde curls, that dark eyed wonder, I can't be sure of what I'm seeing. If she's happy or suddenly nervous. “I thought at first that maybe you were tired of having easy women. Maybe you'd prefer someone with dignity, someone who wouldn't throw herself into bed at the first opportunity. Then Tarren mentioned about your, erm, acquired sexual tastes. And I admit I felt... pressure.” A pause. “I don't have nearly the amount of experience you seem to have.”

  A low growl builds in my throat. A stirring of secret offence from the shifter who cornered my date into such a position. By weaving truth in with his lies.

  The sad thing is, I can't even reassure her that I wouldn't have retained interest, if she turned out to be... average in bed. I'm not a particularly honorable sexual partner. A pretty face means nothing.

  The thought leaves me uncomfortable. Maybe if I actually tried to keep a relationship. Maybe if I sought more than a good fuck...

  “The reason why I may not have continued is nothing to do with sex,” I lie. Well, part of a lie. “It's the headache that comes with an immune. But... I don't know. Maybe you'll be worth it.”

  Maybe. But whether or not that we start to depend on each other more, one way or another, I suspect my associations with Tarren Vale is going to make sure she stays in my line of fire. I still wonder if she's here for an ulterior motive.

  I'll have to keep a watch, either way.

  “We'll see. Another date? Somewhere a little less... intrusive than a restaurant with shifters staring at me like I'm a piece of meat?”

  “Oh, um.” I almost drop the phone when a gust of wind buffets me. “Yeah. Sure. Tonight? Meet you outside my place. I'll text the address.”

  Part of me wants to ask: with Tarren? But I don't let it slip past. Seems imprudent, somehow.

  Tarren by himself is obnoxious and slippery. Tarren with Emma becomes... different. Emma by herself, seems a sweet, nice enough girl. With Tarren... something unlocks.

  Will I trigger that same effect by myself? Or will it only happen when the three of us are crammed together?

  “Sounds like a deal.” Emma's voice comes back with more than a breath of relief. Maybe she thought I would refuse?

  I smile. She can't see it. Maybe she'll hear it. “I look forward to it.”

  Ending the call before she can slip another word it, I purse my lips, wondering if I'm going to regret my plan.

  To try and see if it's Emma who can carry the weight of her sexual allure alone, or whether I need Tarren to compliment the odd dynamic.

  I squint out at my city.

  Yes, it's lonely on this perch. It never bothered me before. Or, well... if it did, I never let it linger for long. Just that lump in my throat, a hollow that couldn't quite be filled up with coins and ejaculations.

  And somewhere down there, underneath everything, might lie the body of my brother in a gutter. Or a group of people scraping their knives together, ready to demand a ransom.

  But of course, they would have ransomed already. The time ticks, an enemy whispering in my ear.

  And the web I'm attempting to weave may eventually wrap up me in the end.

  Emma

  My dickhead of a boss is at it again. Proof, his call roared at me. Show me proof that you're actually fucking Forge. Photo, sleazy video. Make it blackmail worthy. Councilman sleeping with common whores. And keep digging it up. Anything that smears his name, you're on it like a pig after truffles.

  My teeth grate at the image, even as I sit in the back of the yellow cab, letting the driver weave me down to Forge's place. That's not what I want to go down as in this mess. Not the woman who found out what happened to the senator's daughter, but a woman who shows what a despicable, immoral character Richard Forge is. Gathering dirt like cotton candy.

  That's not what I wanted. But I should have expected it. I regret more and more being in this organization. Senator Arrow's got plenty of PI's, and my boss is right under his thumb.

  Seems to me that finding the girl is just the cherry topping. And unfortunately, I do have ample evidence mounting up already to collect. That Forge likes to frequent brothels. That he's directly dealing with an underworld criminal and giving him free rein to do whatever the hell he wants. A criminal whose employees seem to know about quite a few illegal gambling events. Including unsanctioned Hunts.

  My paycheck demands that I scoop up everything immediately. So, reluctantly, I'm gathering information, but my heart's not in it to send.

  The cab trundles and slows down one street, before parking outside a high-rise residential block, one of the tallest buildings in the area. I see the jut of balconies, large enough for dragons to flap onto. Paying the driver, I sidle out of the car and text Forge, letting him know I'm here.

  I don't know what to think about him. Here's a person I'm supposed to betray. A person who doesn't seem like some arrogant, baby-eating monster, like the human press would have people believe. I expected there to be skeletons too big for his closet. I just didn't expect this. Rearranging my top underneath, because the sleeves are bunching up, standing awkwardly in low heals, tights and a knee length black skirt, I wait for Forge to buzz me in.

  He does, and I walk inside the vast main entrance, to one of five lifts waiting on the side. Floor 22. I jab the button, looking into the dark mirror behind me, that covers the entire wall. In the dim light of the lift, it casts an eerie effect. I use the opportunity to check myself over, open my mouth to see if there's anything stuck between my teeth, and pull a few dumb expressions that I'd hate to show in public. Feels like the lift takes forever to reach the top.

  Forge is waiting for me in the hallway outside the lift, and greets me with a bow, and a wave towards an open door.

  “You planning a date at home, then?” I smile at him, admiring how clean cut he is. He's smooth shaven, and his amber eyes twinkle merrily. He's keen to show me his apartment. Boys with their toys, I guess.

  “Maybe. I figure we'll wait and see how it pans out.” I walk inside a huge, black and white themed apartment, where all the storage cupboards and sinks have a simple, black wood or metal detail to them, and there's a vast black glass dining table in the center of his living room, which I'm pretty sure we could play ping-pong with. Stylish lights with glassy shapes like stars and flowers hang from the walls or ceiling, which likely add to a mesmerizing atmosphere in the evenings. Where Tarren is short and to the point, Richard's pulled out the stops to make his home a visual triumph. Walking through such wealth is intimidating. I don't entirely feel comfortable with it.

  That chair could be worth a month's rent of my apartment back in Maine. Everything is elevated to a place that should be far beyond my grasp, li
ke a mud-dwelling peasant stumbling onto an opulent palace. I still don't think I've been able to peel off the mud of my modest upbringing to stand here.

  Forge sees me goggling like a child at a planetarium for the first time, dwarfed at the vast sense of the universe, and he grins. “You know, I never tire of getting people's reactions to my property for the first time.”

  I flush. “I'm not – I'm not really used to seeing such wealth.” Great. That drops the potential image of a classy woman under the carpet. I can hardly pretend to be some socialite who drinks up city cocktail parties with their hors-d’oeuvre like they're going out of fashion. Might have attended a few formal dinners, but that's about the extent of my experience. And I almost wept when I promised to go with my friend to a fine-dining event and spent a quarter on my check on bitefuls of food. Delicious bitefuls, mind you, but I'm not a food blogger or a person who worships food. I'm the person who will always prioritize budget. Not quality. The heartless kind who'll pick up her battery farmed chicken eggs simply because I can't afford to keep buying the organic, free range ones.

  “It's okay. I can show you a lot of things I'm sure you're not used to.” His voice has a deep purr to it. “Admittedly... I do have another idea in mind for a date.”

  He doesn't really strike me as a man right now who is terribly hunting after his brother. There's something weighing him down, but I can't put my finger on it. We talk, he presents me little bruschetta snacks, he proudly tells me the price of his sound system, and his crown walk-in shower with its own massage seats inside. I still don't know if I like him or not, but I think if I truly did start to enjoy him, then it'd make the guilt hurt harder.

  Already, there's unpleasant build-up of shame in my gut. From my mother and father, so unaware, thinking I'm doing a good thing, still stuck in uni. From Richard Forge, his eyes bright with introducing me to his world, when he has no idea I'm plotting to bring it all down.

  Issue is, even if I hold it back, no doubt someone else will soon get the dirt and unearth it anyway. One of my boss's other agents might be in a brothel like Tarren's, learning that Richard's been down and under there in some spanking dungeon or something.

  Would be nice if things were simple. Just to take this man's hand and walk around, not a care in the world. No schemes hissing from the shadows. No reason for him to keep that golden cufflink as a reminder of his brother. I remember how it spilled onto the ground when he erupted into his green dragon against Tarren, watching these two insanely dangerous men potentially brawl to the death. That's what the human groupies like. Power.

  Helplessness. Knowing they're in the control of someone who could do anything to them – but controls that beast enough to participate instead in horizontal activities. All those T.V shows about vampires and werewolves, charged with sex, gore, and sin. What is it about these creatures that drag out our darkest desires?

  And why do I find myself wanting to explore this more?

  Richard's left one room untouched. His bedroom. I think he's planning to save it for last, that he's building up to whisk me off his swanky cream white sofa mid-sentence and rush me into there and do all the things that must be stewing in his brain right now.

  Those glances on my form. Not quite as Marilyn as before, since I've given up wearing those stupid fucking dresses and breath-choking bras. Went and brought a shitty one from a charity shop instead, like the classless peasant I am.

  Maybe he thinks I'm one, too.

  My attention screeches on a nugget of information Richard's belted at me.

  “What? You're kidding. Your father's 700 years old?”

  “Nope. No jokes here.” Richard's got his hands folded politely in his lap, even though there's hunger in his gaze. A lord in his domain. “He's around 709, actually. One of the oldest dragons around.”

  “And... that's how long dragons live? Is this normal for all shifters?” I'm surprised. I knew they had better longevity, better resistance to diseases, better rate of healing. At least, that's the sound bite I always hear regarding them. But it didn't occur to me they could live for maybe thousands of years.

  “Only dragons live that long.” Richard gives me a wry smile. “And we're not one of the species offered as a conversion choice with the Honor Hunt. We're very choosy about who takes on the mantle of dragon.”

  I like the way he smiles, here. It's soft with a hint of steel. A sheathed weapon, careful not to use his power in the wrong way.

  Yet.

  “Okay, so I don't think I really understand the big deal with this Honor Hunt.” And I should really find out, considering that I'm going to attend an illegal one tomorrow. Tarren might have agreed, but he's not giving me any information on it.

  “There's not much to understand.” Richard frowns, unhappy with my choice of questions. “Humans with nothing to lose and everything to gain enter the Honor Hunt. Some succeed. Most don't. Success lets them convert to a shifter species, legally, and be registered as a legal citizen within our state.”

  “And the rest just... what? Die?”

  “They are sacrificed.”

  There's a sour-sick feeling bubbling in my throat from this. “Murdered?”

  “Murdered?” Richard's voice escapes as a hiss. “No murder. It's a specific contract they sign if they choose to take part in the Honor Hunt. Their families will be looked after, their wishes tended to – for the honor of being tribute to the shifters that need human flesh every now and then to stay healthy.”

  Sounds a lot like institutionalized murder from where I'm sitting. But I can tell that debating this issue isn't going to sit well with Richard.

  “I can tell you disapprove.” His lips curl, sardonic. “It's not a happy situation, grant you. But it's better than some of the things you humans do when you desire cash. Murdering relatives and friends for money, for that next drug hit. At least these people choose, and they are blessed for it. Honor sacrifices are revered. We use their bones as good luck charms, because there is nothing worthier than someone who blesses their life to us.”

  My stomach continues to boil uneasily. I can see how the human press will word this. Has worded it. Barbaric practise – using the bones of humans in a primitive cultural display of luck. Like grinding albino bones to dust after sacrificing them – usually against their wills.

  I don't trust myself to comment any more on the matter, so I choose instead to remain silent. I knew about it. But I didn't understand it.

  His nostrils quiver. The right side of his lip twitches, as if a fly had just landed on it. “I don't expect an outsider to understand. Truly, even those you call groupies struggle to respect our customs at times.” The atmosphere seems to crackle between us, and I scurry to repair the damage, even though I'm not entirely sure where the leak's coming from.

  “I'm sorry. It's just – I've only seen one view on all of this. My side's quick to point the finger on anything you do. It's easy to see you as monsters when you shift into what we depict as monsters.” All those shows. Those books, those movies. How many are just savage beasts with a taste for flesh?

  A growl rumbles in his stomach, seeming to vibrate to the tips of his fingers. “You humans are good at demonizing those you do not understand or wish to understand.”

  Humans has the force of contempt behind it. I want to shrivel into my seat. I'm out of depth, here. There's so little I actually know about things. I've taken perhaps too much of our media for granted. Not done enough research where it counts. All my training was originally for human criminology. Not for something like this.

  Sure, these people may look human, but there's something that seems unassailable. “To be fair, we do a good job of demonizing each other, too.”

  Crunch. Like he's bit down on a loose tooth.

  We humans don't exactly have a great track record, do we?

  “Hmph. Do you actually like me at all, Emma?” Richard closes in on me, and his breaths are hot, tickling my skin. Sending shivers to all sorts of places. Raising the body tempe
rature. “Or am I some sort of meal ticket to you?” Now his fingers are teasing across my cheek, and I don't dare move, or breath, or think. “I still feel like I should be angry at you. For finding you with Tarren. Finding that you chose to rush to him instead of give me a chance...”

  I gulp nervously, feeling as if sandpaper rakes my throat.

  “Come.” His hand grips my top. I allow myself to stagger upright and after him, my emotions swirling, breath hitching, as he leads me to the bedroom. He's not –

  The door slams, and I'm crushed against it. He's growling, and the sound vibrates through his chest, rattling every inch of my body. There's a cold glint in his eyes, and I have a horrible feeling he's got something to prove.

  But even that isn't enough to stop me from gasping when his mouth presses against my neck – over the mark Tarren made, and he sucks hard, teeth nipping – covering it with his own bruising. I let out a strangled whimper, eyes fluttering shut. When I open them again, I focus on the bedroom he kept from my sight. A four-poster bed with gaudy drapes. Red, compared to the black and white décor of the rest of the apartment, like a bloodstain upon a white floor.

  It's such a bright slash of red that I keep staring, even as his hand gropes up my top, scrabbling to unhitch my bra.

  Getting hard to concentrate. He's all hunger, and I'm all acceptance. Arousal surges through me, whipping everything into a frenzy, and I take the chance to lick at his neck, try and create a bruise of my own. He doesn't let me. Maybe he doesn't like being marked.

  He's already hard against me. I let out a frantic whimper as he begins to grind my body into the door, rubbing that bulge over my jeans.

  More.