Seducing Two Serial Killers

by Hutchins, Hollie

  Wonder if he can feel my hatred upon him. He's twitching and looking around with a nervous air. Or maybe he's always like this, because the weight of his sins cripples him. They should.

  Not enough to stop him doing the act again and again.

  The sound of long ago laughter pierces my mind and heart. Usually I shut it behind the doors and lock them, so the memories don't hurt, don't –

  I drink my ale furiously. Wipe my mouth of foam. Set the mug down again. I don't realize until I glance down that my left set of knuckles are almost popping through the skin.

  Laughter and painted handprints pressing against paper. Eyes so innocently dark, wide as they took in the world.

  Blank eyes. Limp hair. A hand that doesn't press itself against paper. Doesn't hold mine. Doesn't do anything at all.

  Hissing sharply, I watch the man furtively. Nerves seems to get the better of him, and he leaves an unfinished drink and heads to exit the bar. I get up slowly, acting like I don't have a care in the world, and stroll towards the exit. He leaves it about three seconds before I do, and when I get onto the street, he's walking briskly towards the main road, likely to grab a taxi.

  Oh no you fucking don't. Sure, there's a few people who can see what's going to happen, but it doesn't matter. I speed up, checking how the other people are looking – walking on the other side of the street, a few coming around the corner, talking to one another, one person on the opposite side, eyes fixed upon the ground. I put on huge sunglasses, to better obscure my face. Hopefully the dye job on my hair will disguise me.

  My target turns around, just in time for me to pull the syringe from my pocket, jab into his neck, and push the plunger. He yelps, and I draw back, acting smooth. No one saw. They'll see this, though. The man draws a breath.

  “What the fuck? I'll kill you! You bastard!” He claws at his neck for the needle that's no longer there, but I've hit him good. He begins to froth at the mouth. I rush to him, the picture of concern, and some of the people are now glancing at the commotion.

  “What's going on?” Someone yells, even as I grab the twitching shifter in my arms.

  “It's my friend, Robert!” I say, hoping I look suitably frightened. I alter my voice, making it higher pitched than usual. “He's having one of his seizures! I told him to keep taking the medicine, but he refused! Oh, Robert, you bastard.”

  “Want help?”

  “Yeah. I need to – get him in my car. Take him to the hospital.”

  I grin inwardly when the nearest stranger helps me secure “Robert” by the legs to keep him still, and he even helps put Robert into the crappy rental car I took out a few days ago.

  “You'll be alright, Robert,” I say, holding him by his head as he continues to twitch, before falling still. My heart's thudding with adrenaline, half-delighted at the way I've tricked this guy. In broad daylight. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem. Hope your friend'll be good.”

  “Yeah, they always look bad when they happen. Okay, I better get him to hospital now.”

  He waves me off, and the others gather the story from him. I make sure to head in the direction of the hospital. At least for a good few minutes. Then, when in the clear, I start to drive elsewhere.

  Grinning like a demon.

  * * *

  I pace around the room. My victim's tied up, bound to a rickety chair. A small warehouse that recently became abandoned – a new company's in the process of snapping it up, but until then, there's no-one here. I scouted it out especially. Ready to commit the perfect crime.

  He's taking too long to wake up, and my guts are crawling. I feverishly imagine all the ways I'm going to address this despicable bastard. I want him dead so bad, but I also want him to know why he's going to die. I want to hear his screams, his begging, see his salty tears, the way she did.

  The way she must have, and he just ignored her, hurt her, broke her, and fucking hell, he just needs to die. I give the chair a vicious kick. It scrapes across the ground, but he doesn't wake up.

  Has to die. Has to suffer. I'm taking great, gulping breaths. Heart's beating so fast, it wants to leap out of my chest.

  Some ten, fifteen minutes later, he awakes, but he's out of it. Still heavy in the dog drug I stuffed into his system. I help him along by splashing a bottle of water on his head, and he splutters, shaking his head, bleary eyes attempting to fix on me.

  His instant reaction is to try and shift, and he lets out a scream as the reinforced rope constrict his blood vessels further. Can't shift without breaking his body in the process. Gasping, he gives up on the effort to shift, and glares at me with sullen, indignant eyes.

  As if he genuinely doesn't understand what wrong he's done.

  But his face is burned into my skull, burned like a carving I can't rub away.

  “Do you know why you're here?” My voice dips to a low, intimidating growl. Don't expect him to, but I want to feast on that confusion, that scared defiance.

  “What the fuck? What is this? Why you got me tied up? Let me go!”

  “I have you tied up,” I say with a throaty growl, “because of a crime you committed uh, let's say seven years back. Though I can't imagine you ever stopped, did you?”

  He gapes at me incomprehensibly. Of course he doesn't know. I don't look like the person I was seven years back. There's more shadows, more lines, more anger. And, well, the dark blonde hair and beard. I continue to pace, feeling the locket tucked away in my jeans, rubbing it over and over.

  “You've – you've got me mistaken with someone else!” he squeals, but there's some definite tension in his voice now. I imagine the sweat to be the evidence of his sins bleeding out of him.

  I tug out the locket as I step in front of him. “So, you don't recognize this person, then?” The golden chain glints in the dim lamplight I've set up, as if I'm prepping for a photography session, not a torture one.

  I see his pupils contract. Nostrils flare. Hear a sharp intake of breath. He licks his lips.

  “Oh, I see you do,” I whisper, the growl in the center of my body growing deeper, harsher. “Your body doesn't lie.” The anger's reaching boiling point. So many ways to damage him. So many ways to make him pay.

  “I don't know her!” He attempts to thrash out of his bonds, but it's useless. There's no escaping from me. Not anymore. Never again will he do what he did. “I swear, I don't –”

  He whimpers and lets out a choked scream, since my fist just dove into his crotch. He manages to squeak, “Motherfucker!”

  “She must have cried,” I hiss, pacing around him, as his eyes well up with painful tears. “Must have begged. Must have been so scared. And you ignored her. You probably enjoyed what you did to her.” My breath's coming out, shaking, and my body's humming, same as my brain, barely suppressing the hatred that's seconds from consuming everything. My muscles are tight enough to snap like guitar strings.

  “You thought you'd get away with your crimes, didn't you?”

  He mumbles something, unclear, but I'm too taken by my own burning desire for revenge.

  “All of you did. But you should know – I'm coming for all of you. You might have gotten away with it before. You might still be getting away with things like it now. But no more. No fucking more.” I can't resist it anymore. I start taking off my clothes. Not going to ruin them now. I place the chain on the side, and now, naked, I step into an empty space.

  He starts screaming, whimpering, when I morph into a dragon in front of him.

  Emma

  Richard shows me to my new apartment, and it's not everything I expected it to be.

  I thought it'd be like the one I've recently abandoned in Portland. Old style building with sparse, 1960s furniture adorning the space, along with all the basics. Sure, Richard lives in a penthouse suite, but penthouses are always grandiose compared to the rest of a building. Penthouses and lofts are where all the parties happen, the rooftop pools exist, and where an insubordinate number of movies always seem to think where rich
guys live. They're not wrong, to be honest. Maybe it's to do with height. They want to look down upon the lesser mortals, like birds do.

  I'm still thinking about how birds equate height with social rank, even as Richard rather proudly shows me around the fantastic apartment. It's the type of place I wouldn't be able to afford, something that'd easily be rented for thousands of dollars a month if the property happened to be in a place like Cali or Long Beach. Maybe even Coney Island.

  My eyes sweep the immaculate kitchen with its gleaming, speckled white marble surfaces, and the handy dishwasher which I'm sure I'll be using at a later point. In the living room, pictures of various painted sunsets adorn the walls. One with a poppy field and a neon bright sun gleaming from clouds. Another with a ship at sea, dawn breaking, and another with snow-capped mountains, an eagle, and the sun's brilliant light.

  Cotton sofas, an armchair by a bookcase that looks as if it might be hiding a secret passage. A bathroom with a glorious cylindric shaped shower and a bathtub, as if the shower itself isn't enough. The bedroom, of course...

  Richard watches my expression overtly, enjoying my childish reactions to it. “Even stocked up drinks for you. I have a substantial collection. You'd need to get your own food and furnishing for the bed, of course. And whatever exotic shampoo you women like.” He pulls out a bottle of Famous Grouse whisky. I don't have the heart to tell him I'm a basic bitch wine drinker and let him pour out shots for the both of us. Dragon shifters have a taste for drinks with high alcohol content, like whisky, gin, or Richard's father's preference for absinthe.

  I uh, don't really have those kind of tastes.

  “You know, when you said you'd be putting me in a property, I didn't think you'd be shoving me into the royal suite,” I joke, though I still feel a little weak at the knees from seeing all this. I can't wait to get bath bombs and smelling salts and soak in that bath. I can't wait to start singing tunelessly in the shower, to chill out in front of that huge plasma screen television with its flimsy stand to binge watch Amazon Prime or Netflix. Got subscriptions for both because I don't want to miss out.

  “I fully furnish each apartment,” Richard says, pursing his lips as if offended at the idea he'd be shoving me into some ramshackle home. “People want quality living, and I make sure they get it here. I usually charge two, three thousand a month for each property, or negotiate to sell each apartment for close to a million dollars. Cheap by most standards, I know, but...”

  I shake my head, amazed. I could have been paying over two thousand a month. I'd be broke before I could have even taken my first steps around the city with the advance rent and early deposit alone. “I'm not used to this kind of lifestyle. High rise. Expensive. Luxury. For god's sake, Richard, I've gone around a cheap supermarket with a calculator before just to make sure I don't spend over my budget each week.”

  He snorts at this, amber eyes regarding me with a certain admiration. All of a sudden, I'm far more aware of just how alone we are. In the new apartment, being shown all these wonderful things.

  I attempt to shoot down the whisky in one, and almost choke in the process. If this is his idea of a “light” drink, I'd hate to see what he considers heavy. Probably pure alcohol, and he flicks a lighter underneath it so he can get a real burn. I'm just vaguely wondering if dragon shifters do actually do this, when he sidles closer, smiling rather wickedly at me. “Maybe we should make the place a little more lived in. Check the couch is comfy, make sure you're happy with the goods on offer.” His broad, strong hands lightly trail up my arm, and a deep shiver rips through my veins, my spine, settling at a point between my shoulder blades.

  “Richard,” I say to him, voice coming out half-strangled, “I feel like shit from the flight. Need to get all those gross flight germs out of my system.” Change my panties, because they feel awkwardly wet right now. Another reason I hate the shape of my overlarge lips down there – feels like everything's rubbing, trying to turn me on. Feels like my clit's already poking out of its hood, ready for action. Might not even be able to move to the bathroom without the electricity bringing me low. Now his mouth brushes lightly against my ear. He's growing possessive, hungry, and I know if I don't stop him now, he's not going to stop himself. He'll fuck me barely an hour since I've gotten off the plane, helping me to christen the new home with that extra special flavor.

  And it's so tempting. All I have to do is keep my limbs still, or wrap my arms around him. I let out a sound, I'm done for. Easy to melt into his touch. Easy to remember how hard I get turned on by Richard's presence.

  Tarren's, too.

  The thought of Tarren chases away from arousal like I've just sucked on something sour. “Much as I want this,” I say, gently extricating myself from him, “I really want to try and settle in. Get the food shopping, try the place out myself.”

  Richard appears a little wounded by this – I can already see his black pants shifting under his own arousal, but he clenches his jaw, nodding. “Right.”

  I don't want to explain to him why I've changed my mind. Just in case it drops his mood further. I know he has a thing about being compared with Tarren. He might be sharing me with Tarren at this moment in time, but it doesn't stop him from feeling like he should have more access to me. To slowly tease me away from the mobster that lives in the underworld of his perfect, neat apartments and high-flying career. Wonder if that's what the relationship really is. Me and Richard, acting as respectable members of society. Tarren reaching out to us from the darkness, seizing us in his arms, dragging us with him to the places we'd never dare go by ourselves.

  That can't be a healthy relationship. But Richard needs Tarren. Even with Richard's brother rescued out of the mire of their criminal underworld, there's more yet to come. And there's a senator's daughter still missing.

  After another last, lingering look at me, Richard says, “Take your time to settle in. Maybe we'll catch up later.”

  “We will,” I promise, flashing him what I hope is a mischievous smirk. He seems to appreciate it, eyes no longer wearing their storm clouds. His hand seems to twitch towards his pocket, where I know his smokes are.

  Maybe he'll be much happier later, when I invite him over for a casual film night. One that ends in lots of sex.

  Or maybe I just won't find the mood again until I understand why Tarren isn't answering anything I send his way. When Richard leaves, I pop out my phone instantly, checking the messages. Tarren's confirmation he'll try and meet me. And then – nothing. I send him a message that I've arrived – radio silence. I send a Alive? Y/N, and I might as well be hearing crickets.

  I'm debating whether or not to send him another message, concerned it might look too spammy. Maybe I'm just overthinking it, getting offended for nothing, but I can't help feel that gut churn of disappointment.

  Guess I've always wanted to be escorted by a guy who looks like he belongs to the mob out of the airport. Or maybe I had told myself that I meant something to him, only to be reminded that clearly, I don't.

  Bastard. I stare at my phone for a little longer, before deciding that I'm not going to lower myself by sending him more clingy messages, and instead unload my suitcase, then lie on the stripped white bed sheets to rest for a little bit. I lie there, eyes closed, thinking about the kind of future that awaits.

  Stuck in a shifter dominated city and state. Getting a job here, working, associating with two powerful men – Richard Forge and Tarren Vale. Different as night and day. One's neat, manicured, wearing ten thousand dollar suits and an air of corporate calm. He's the type of man women wish they could be with. The other's rough, bulging muscles, tattoos everywhere, dark haired, sallow faced and looks like he might kill you with a glance. He's the type of man that exists in the most sin fuelled desires of our imaginations.

  Not that those two really matter. I've lost my former job. I have only a partial education, and I'm not even certain that I want to enrol in courses within Animusa to get my degree completed. With my gift as well, of being an i
mmune – shifters with hypnotic powers can't affect me.

  You'd think that makes me safer from them. But instead, it makes them want me more. Making strong babies and all.

  And, according to Tarren, they'd pay tens of thousands in dollars to have sex with me. That kind of money just makes me freeze to imagine. Makes me revisit all those fantasies I've harbored about winning the jackpot, becoming rich, doing whatever I want. Getting my mom and dad into a decent retirement house, a servant to take away some of the boring chores of their days. They're not old enough to retire, but I bet my father'll love to be on a farm with chickens and goats. My mother would want a lake close by, to paint at and feed the ducks. Maybe they'll even start one of those rice farms and use ducks as organic pesticides, rather than the nasty chemical shit.

  I'm blinking myself awake, realizing I fell asleep at some point during my daydreaming. Automatically, I check my phone. Still no message. Some from my mother and father, glad to hear I like my new place, and asking for pictures to be sent. I get up and gladly oblige, telling my mom that if she wants some luxury, she better get her ass over here to test out the bath and views. I can see the park from outside the window, as well as the busy street below, and restaurants with their winking signs. A prime location for easy access to everything. People would kill for such convenience.

  Eventually, I shower and change into a fresh, comfy outfit. I've ditched my skimpy, cleavage hugging dresses from before, though I kept a couple, just to entertain the shifters every now and then. I'm now wearing a hoodie, blue jeans, ankle high boots, and sporting a backpack for all the extra things I'll be buying. I want to do a quick shop now, get the basics in. I'll use my laptop for online shopping later, and get stuff ordered for maybe the next day. The nearest little supermarket has all my basics. Shampoo, new toothbrushes, bread – even some bedsheets in the non-food section that are on offer, so I scoop everything up into my cart, pay almost three hundred dollars (yeah, I know I said basic) before staggering into a taxi with bulging bags, paying the driver extra to help me carry them up. He's more than happy to do so.