Richard wastes no time in getting the rest of my clothes off, in using my top to tie my hands behind my back. Swiftly, he forces me to kneel, to make me lean my head against the foot of the bed. The sound of tearing behind me is followed by the fluttering of a condom wrapper. I attempt to twist my head around to see, but Richard forces me to look ahead, one hand holding a clump of hair. My gaze instead snaps to the four plump pillows, the neatly made red sheets, and how they rustle against me – silk.
Who sleeps in silk?
A moan escapes my lips as he spreads my legs apart behind me. A soft thump; hands gripping my hips tightly – and then his thick length is pushing against me, demanding entrance. I yell, and it's muffled by the cover as he thrusts completely inside me. He starts off with some hard thrusts, but he's not getting the pressure that either of us want, because I can't brace my hands against the bed.
With a growl, he lifts me up, and I'm helpless to resist. He positions himself so that his legs are bent as if beginning to sit on a chair, and he holds me hard and firm on my thighs. Such strength in those arms. I shriek when he begins to move me up and down on his dick, putting such force into it that he grazes me inside, hitting something soft and tickling and wonderful. There's going to be bruises on my thighs – and I have to lean backwards into him to keep my balance. He's still wearing his shirt, and it scratches wonderfully against me. Eventually, I struggle out of the top binding my limbs, and he uses the opportunity to fling me onto the bed, so my arms brace it, and proceeds to fuck me into oblivion.
Hard to focus when that explosion of rough, primal lust is pounding me into submission, into coming. I yell like a banshee, scrabbling, hissing and panting, consumed by the orgasm, and he growls behind me as well, increasing the speed of his thrusts until something gives.
He lets me flop onto the bed, pulls himself out of me, and presses his chest into my back. I'm too boneless, too drunk with pleasure to say much, and just let him touch and lick at me, until he's finally had his fill. With a last growl against my ear, he gets up, and leaves the room.
I lie there, unwilling to move for quite some time after. Trying to get my heart back to normal pace.
Trying to wrap my brain around what I've just done. Again.
Tarren
Damn woman's going to get herself killed. Bad enough we're going to an illegal Hunt in the first place. Even worse that I agreed. Though she may be another one of those searching for the fate of Lisa Arrow. She's going to uncover a lot of grime that the human press will have a field day on. That's if she isn't jumped on for her immunity and taken to one of those dens that I have difficulty smoking out. Generally, it's been taken for granted as well that if you happen to be a kiddie diddler, and you know I'm attending an event – you're not going to be found anywhere near it.
My breath hisses in. I'm taking my car to the event, parking it nearby then shimmying through the arteries of our city to find the first arena. Emma's slumped in the passenger seat, eyes fixated on her cellphone. Either skimming social media or playing a game, I don't know – and I'm left to stay alert. She secretes that specific aroma that labels her as an immune, enhances her desirability. Even though I told her to cloak herself in the stinkiest human perfume possible, she's still exuding through. Along with that nasal assault of scents that makes it feel like I'm sitting next to a factory that spumes perfume smog out of the tips.
A twitch of the arm, now we're turning the corner. Nothing good has happened to this senator girl. She'll likely be locked up as a slave or eaten by a rather impatient shifter who has convinced themselves they can get away with betraying our city's laws.
I may deal low, but I deal with honor. Many here do not. They're an affront to our kind. And I find that the only way to truly deal with darkness, is to become a part of it yourself, and to shine a light in the murkiest corners. The bigger fish that eats the rest.
Outside the car, I take a moment to grab a smoke. Dragging deep, letting the fumes burn my lungs, hiss out my nose. The gimlet eye on the end glows, before crumbling into speckled ash.
Emma wrinkles her face in disapproval, so I make sure to blow away.
“Honestly, what do you think my chances are of coming out this without any harm done?” The tremor in her leg betrays what her voice does not.
“A date to an illegal Hunt. I can think of more romantic settings. Edric and I will help you, but I won't make promises of your chances.” I wonder what she's imagining in her head. A den full of filthy, rapey criminals? Tough shifters with muscles twice the side of her chest, people who speak with knives more efficiently than swords? At least one of those statements is correct.
Since my invitation is unannounced, I may just find myself a few targets tonight. She shudders at the grin that covers my lips.
“Maybe I should back out,” she mumbles, eyes darting, as if she expects gunmen or werewolves to be targeting her from the shadows.
“Maybe,” I agree pleasantly. “But if you really want to find out what's happening, you'll need to start making contacts. You'll need a better lie than searching for your sister as well.”
She gives a little gulp, and her hand twitches. Without thinking, I grasp that little set of fingers in my own, dwarfing them. I'm almost as surprised as her.
Covering up my reaction, I squeeze her fingers. “If people get any wind that you're undercover, you may as well find yourself bleeding in a gutter.”
“Great.” Her mouth purses, unamused. “Just what I've always wanted. I should resign this second, be like, see ya later, fuckboy, hang up on my boss.”
“Well, if you ever find yourself needing a job, you know I'm always recruiting.”
Her voice is sharp, her eyes bright with offense, as she replies, “You expect me to become a prostitute?”
“You've got the mindset for the kinkier side of things,” I say, grinning as she rips her hand out from mine. “You'll make many a man and woman weep with your body. People pay fantastic money to bed an immune,” I add, recognizing the disgust on her face. “You shouldn't be so dismissive of it. You'd be, twenty, thirty thousand a pop, easy.”
Her disgust changes into confusion, surprise. “You're fucking with me.”
“Oh, I'll gladly fuck with you. But I'm serious. There was a big, underground auction. An immune selling her body and first conceived child to a shifter. Forty million.”
Emma sucks in her teeth with a startled whistle. “Holy shit.”
“Pretty much the only thing that sells for more are famous artist paintings, and renaissance instruments,” I agree, enjoying her surprise. Yes... she'll be the kind that can rake in that sort of money.
I only take willing volunteers, though. And something about her tells me that even with what I taught her, she's still not quite there. She's one of those people who likes being at work, but hates getting up and going to it. Might be a while before she's willingly plunging into sex, without someone like me or Richard influencing her.
Richard...
Nothing better than making an alpha your screw toy. Nothing like making an immune the same. She has that rosy glow about her. I suspect Richard couldn't resist re-staking his claim on her. Someone like him won't allow her to be unfucked by him alone for long. I stole his thunder, and if he's like everyone else in the world, he'll try and bluster some of it back.
Little does he know how much deeper he falls into my web.
Flicking the remains of my cigarette into a trash can, I take Emma down to the arena. She's still reeling from the information I've told her. And probably getting a sense of just how much danger she's in. Humans are so, so stupid.
Better pray the others aren't as sharp nosed as a dragon. Werewolves will be her biggest issue if they're there.
But then again, in this place, maybe she or I will find some answers.
The grunts let us in after a hasty check of I.D, an affirmation that Emma is Edric's guest and that you really don't want to refuse a dragon his rite of passage.
We walk through seedy hallway, b
adly lit, with a dust riddled carpet spewing up years of dirt. We descend two flights of stairs, until we reach a vast, warehouse type expanse. A cavern brimming with activity. The arena the Hunters will take part in adorns the center, and it's reminiscent of the human velodromes, rounded and scattered with obstacles, and no way to climb out of it. A bastard imitation of the true Honor Hunt, cutting out most trial procedures and leaving us with the bloodiest of them.
Emma lets out a small gasp as she witnesses the vast arena, the people muttering to the sides, either on tables, walking around, or lining at betting booths. There's a screen like the billboards in the city, flashing a set of names for those who are entering the Hunt, and a set of odds next to those names. Eight people. Highest odds seem to be an ex-military human with a crippled hand.
A sorry bunch of people, then. Edric spots us and rushes up, giving Emma a hand shake.
“You made it! Now, be careful. Stick to us at all times. Don't say anything stupid.” Edric's all business, and I nod approval of him. Not the worse foxling I've had to pay.
“Shall I pretend to be mute?” Emma's voice comes out a squeak, and she keeps twitching her hands towards her left inside coat pocket. As if she might just be concealing a weapon there. She better hope for her sake it's not a gun. Shifters don't tolerate guns because we see it as cowardice. If you're going to kill your opponent, better to see their face for yourself – to watch the life drain out of their eyes yourself.
To remind ourselves that we're killing other people, ruining their families. And not some germ festering in a mug.
“Might be best,” I say. “But then, how are you going to ask the questions about your beloved... sister?”
Emma ribs me, and I shrug it off, making sure to wedge her between us. With her perfume smog and our own scents, it's reasonable to think she'll get away with it.
I don't think she's going to find the information she wants, though. She obviously would prefer to scout out the sex trafficking places, but there's a chance she'll become another statistic. But all the things that are wrong with society accumulate here. None who appreciate questions being asked. I hiss this into her ear as another pointer, and she's a little green.
Ah, the sweet face of regret. Doesn't do to get yourself stuck in things best left alone.
Unless you're me.
A few of the shifters give me one look and go ghostly pale. One's already making his excuses and attempting to leave the establishment. With Edric and Emma tagging behind me, I cut him off, and his face locks up in terror.
He’s not one of the ones I’m looking for, but he’s still a perfect target.
“Why so anxious, friend?” I push him firmly against the wall, just a few inches off the door he seemed to desperate to head out of. His eyes dart towards it, and his legs sway in its general direction as well. Clan tattoo – wolf on the top of his shoulder. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
“Oh, I'm n-n-not anxious,” the werewolf stammers. Quite fearsome shifters, but puppies to a dragon. His feral yellow eyes hold instant regret in them, though. “I'm just going out for a-a smoke. Allowed to do that, ain't I?”
“The thing is, friend,” I say, now crushing my elbow into his windpipe, “you seemed completely fine until you spotted me. Is there something in your job occupation that you'd like to confess to me about?”
Though Emma looks confused, Edric's wearing a similar venomous glint to mine.
“It's all clean!” His voice comes out a yelp, and I enjoy moving close to hiss into his ear.
“If I find out that you're trafficking children, I will make sure that you and your family are incinerated, and maybe your entire gene line for good measure. People like you disgust me.”
Though the threat's genuine, I also don't intend to let him get away, anyway. I let him go before the bouncers can intervene, holding up my hands in a friendly gesture. The werewolf scrambles away, strong with the stench of fear and piss. Edric spits after him, scornful, and Emma seems a little aroused by the act.
Hmm. Interesting.
“What was that all about?” Emma asked, even as we line up to place obligatory bets on the Hunt humans. Being safe, I bet on the military man. Edric's the same, but Emma decides to bet on the only woman there, though the profile says she's a rare sufferer of leprosy and has one eye. Not one most people want to bet on. But even her meat at death is worthy.
These ones likely have only been paid a pittance for their potential honor sacrifices. Instead of millions, they'll likely be paid a few thousand. But even that to some is better than nothing. They'll have documents prepared. But their deaths for all intents and purposes are illegal. No matter how much they were paid to face them willingly.
Emma's eyes are always scanning the crowd, looking for something. Evidence that maybe Lisa Arrow might have dropped into a place like this, but she's grasping at straws. People like that vanish in cracks, and never wriggle out again. She's as good as dead. Her attention darts to the raised stand on the other side, where Janus Stronghand sits. Tiger shifter – and ruler of his little underworld. He's got more influence than me. Deals in harder things than me. Guard swarm around him, all clutching guns. Assault rifles. Evil things that even an all powerful shifter has little defense against.
He has grudging respect for me, but I know he'll seize the opportunity to take over everything I control if he found more gain than loss in it.
Eventually, music blares, though people are still muttering to one another, trying to strike contact deals, even selling drugs packaged in little squares. DMT's a big seller with shifters, and more than a few look like they're tripping balls. The eight humans walk out from an underground entrance into the arena that is full of obstacles. A labyrinth visible to us from above, but an impossible wall to them.
“Is this like the Hunger Games or something?” Emma says, eyes wide, pushing herself against the barrier on top, as the distant figures line up, spread between eight entrances to the labyrinth.
The official games don’t allow there to be needless death. The Hunted is a ceremonial athlete. Traditional versions have a criminal or pariah as the hunting target, who is forbidden to transform, or to use ranged weapons. If this individual survives, they'll be allowed a pardon for their crime.
If they break the rules, they die anyway.
So, they virtually never do survive. There's been some odd cases, but not enough to let them really win, because it's also dependant on how stupid the Hunters are. The game is heavily slanted towards the Hunters. And the Hunters will kill one another in order to secure the final target.
I whisper this in Emma's ear, and her knuckles grip the barrier tightly, and she goes a similar sickly tone as the werewolf.
“That's monstrous.”
“Is it?” I lean forward in interest, as the Hunt starts. The eight unarmed humans scrabble into their entrances, which at first branch off one another. Though the arena's not as big as the official one, which is essentially a forest, it's still big and complicated enough to provide a good reason for a game.
The Hunted is a pathetic wretch of a creature. A man, shriveled and clearly starved. Likely kept in a dungeon, whipped and beaten into a cringing husk. For all I know, he's not even a criminal, but he's the one the other eight are going to kill. He doesn't look strong enough to even grasp a sword, should he be lucky to find one in this vast labyrinth.
His little figure dashes in, and above the arena, on the screens, we see his haunted, sunken face tight with fear. The individuals in the labyrinth can't see these screens, can't hear the announcers or the jeers and yells of the crowd.
“This isn't going to be like the normal ones, is it?”
“No,” I tell Emma. “He'll be actually killed. It's how the older Honor Hunts used to go. The Hunted's a criminal, and this is his or her last chance to live.”
There's a sharp intake of breath. “I can't believe they're going to butcher him.” She's still clutching the sides of the arena but doesn't tear her eyes away fro
m the macabre event. “He's got no chance. Is he even a criminal?”
“I doubt it.”
She's watching intently, along with Edric, though I'm bored. I'd rather not be escorting a human here. I'd rather just take her somewhere quiet and fuck her senseless. I'd rather be chasing after that bastard of a werewolf; I could smell his sin on him. The moment I get my hands around his throat, he's dying a long, painful death. I can almost taste his blood. He has to die. Couldn't get him in front of all those witnesses – I'd be barred from ever coming here again. They don't want their customers being picked off, after all.
“Will this be the only Hunt?” Emma whispers, staring at the screen, which gives a better image of the competitors.
“No,” I say. They usually have 2-3. Hunts can last anything from twenty minutes to an hour, so they do them back to back, with a thirty-minute break for last bets.”
Emma clenches her jaw and forces herself to watch to the bitter end. It's as the bookies thought. The military man kills the Hunted eighteen minutes in, as well as taking out three members of the competition. The leper woman was one of the first to fall, and Emma's aghast at the fact that she's watching people die. Actually die.
Blood sports aren't for everyone, I guess.
“And... this is illegal for you people?” The cheers bounce around the audience, but Emma doesn't join in. She's too shaken. Any moment she'll end up falling through the barrier, turning into a true ghost.
For an investigator, she's way too... inexperienced. You'd think she'd be used, digging through dirty laundry, finding a few bodies littering her target's secrets. But right now, she looks as if the last wisps of innocence are being exorcised out of her body.
I'm not one to cover someone's eyes to stop them from seeing the world. That's just lying to them. This is a part of our world, as much as all the other things that exist. With genteel society perched on top, ignoring the metropolis of shadows that their buildings and rules cast upon those who find themselves not fitting in, or content with the way things are.
Seducing Two Serial Killers Page 8