As he stepped from the vehicle and shut the door, Briton punched the button on his key chain to activate the alarm. Clueless to what hid in the shadows, he headed up the walkway to mount the steps to his front door.
Zane slipped up behind him as silent as a shadow.
Just as the boy reached to place the key in the lock, he froze. His body stiffened as Zane sent a sensation of wrongness walking up his spine in slow, timid steps. Dropping the keys, Briton spun around as if he expected to see a ghost. Instead, he saw Zane standing a few feet away—hands in his pockets, the perpetual cigarette hanging on his lip, hair mussed, and a friendly smile drawn across his lips.
“What the hell are you doing, freak?” Faced with a stranger on his lawn, Briton swelled chest and pulled back his lips to display his teeth in an apish exhibit of territorial aggression.
Zane’s chuckle was deep, but nearly breathless. Tilting his head down, he watched his boot stamp out the butt of his cigarette. When he looked at Briton once more, a glare of undiluted hatred gleamed in his eyes.
“I’m here to find out what you fear, Cubby.”
The instant the childhood nickname rolled off Zane’s tongue, Briton became more confused and twice as angry. With a satisfied grin, Zane sent the invisible tentacle to curl its way around the boy’s unsuspecting body.
“You better get the hell out of here before I kick your ass.”
“You know, Cubby, I think your father was right about you. What was it he said the day of your eighteenth birthday? Oh, yes, I remember now.” Zane’s voice changed, became deeper, older, and adapted a New England accent. “Cubby, the problem with you is that you’re an unequivocally, salacious neanderthal and a hopeless, one-dimensional, shameless exhibition of genetic deficiency.”
Briton’s face scrunched up, creasing his forehead and the bridge of his nose. His cheeks burned a bright red as the verbal blow made his head wobble loosely on his shoulders. Zane watched the replay inside the boy’s mind as the hateful reminder brought back the memory of that day in full force.
The father’s tone had told Briton the words were brutal, but he hadn’t known what they meant. He had angrily insisted Vega tell him, and she had explained the insult as gently as she could. Upon hearing his father considered him nothing more than a characterless moron with a pretty face, his temper had overwhelmed him.
That had been the first time he’d struck Vega, but it had not been the last.
Growling like the sub-intelligent animal he had been called, Briton stepped forward. Clenching his fist, he snarled through gritted teeth. “You're dead, asshole.”
One massive hand raised and moved with mind blurring speed toward Zane’s face, but at the last minute, the chain linking their minds tightened. The blow stopped mid-air, less than an inch from meeting its target with bone crunching efficiency.
Zane leaned forward, nearly touching his nose to his immobile opponent, and laughed as he forced the barriers of Briton’s mind fully open. Sifting through the insecurities and hate, he drew up the boy’s most basic emotions. The flavor of rotted meat and blackberry jam filled his senses.
“What’s wrong, don’t you like being helpless? How do you think Vega felt all those times you pinned her down and pummeled her tiny body? You didn’t care, did you? You liked causing her pain. You hurt her repeatedly, and when she turned from you in fear and disgust, you indulged the sick passion burning inside of you with another woman. Go pick up your keys, Briton, and open the door. It’s time we finished this.”
Briton’s fist dropped to his side, and he turned, moving as if he were a mechanical being. Staggered emotion filled his face with the struggle of doing as he was told and not knowing why.
The house was dark as Zane slipped inside. “Shut the door and turn on the light, Briton.”
The door closed without a sound, plunging them into complete darkness until an audible click encased the room in a flood of light. Zane took a moment to reign himself in. The sickening thrill of pain was not one he was unaccustomed to, but pulling that delicious cocktail from the otherwise useless brain had acted as an aphrodisiac for his own desires. Clamping down on the craving to seek instant gratification, he reminded himself of why he was there.
Vega’s beautiful face flashed in his mind, and she whispered, “Avenge me.”
The tension in his shoulders ebbed as Zane studied the room with a calculating eye. A black leather couch with matching recliner, an immense flat screen television, and a couple of cheaply made end tables filled the room. No photos or art hung on the walls, and not a single book graced the dusty shelves. The only sign of intelligent life within the space was a pen and paper lying by the phone with Vega’s careful script decorating the first page with hearts and endearing words.
Glancing over to where he had left Briton staring in bewilderment at the light switch, Zane fought the urge to hurt him just for being stupid. The house was the epitome of the proverbial bachelor pad. The perfect reflection for the shell of a human being who lived within the barren walls. No personal touches or quaint décor were tucked away in the corners, only the light scent of old beer and smoke, remnants of the many parties that had taken place there.
Tugging the recliner so it faced the couch with the coffee table between them, Zane ordered, “Briton, sit,” in the same firm tone one would use when giving commands to a dog.
Briton obeyed. Flopping down on the cushion near the arm, he stared straight forward. His eyes filled with a listless and empty stare, and his thoughts were no longer able to climb to the surface. Though the link Zane felt them as they scratched futilely at the blockage preventing their rising to consciousness. Trapped in a zombified condition, the boy was as helpless and muted as a small kitten.
Once he was ready to proceed, Zane loosened his grip and allowed Briton to feel the fear and anger of being persecuted. He only used the catatonic state until he could subdue the victim and prepare for his game. He did not kill simply for pleasure, but he did take pleasure in his kills. None of his victims had ever met their death while locked in silent conformity because he preferred to hear the screams of the dying as he ended their lives.
Zane allowed a filtered version of Briton’s personality and consciousness to slip back through the misty confusion. Sapphire eyes held wide and the panicked expression twisted his normally handsome face into a scowl nearly made Zane laugh. And when a knowing smirk toyed at the corners of his mouth, Briton’s confusion shifted back to anger.
“What in the hell is wrong with you? Look, I don’t know what you are trying to pull but…” Briton’s voice trailed off as he struggled to pull himself into a standing position.
Zane’s serious tone hid his entertainment as he watched the young man’s hopeless attempts. “Briton! Stop squirming and look at me.”
He gave a gentle tug on the barbs that had worked their way deep into the gray matter of young man’s skull, and Briton jumped to attention.
As Zane spoke, he pulled an old straight razor from his back pocket. Flipping open the blade with an expert’s ease, he studied the sharp and corroded edge. The light from the ceiling glinted off the metal as he made it reflect and dance on Briton’s face, highlighting the fear etched creases.
“Do you know why I’m here? Do you understand what I am? Or has your miscreant little mind not had the time to process such complexities?”
Trying to be tough, even as he sweated and shook, Briton snarled. “Screw you, man.”
“I am here to avenge Vega Williams’s death. I am the score keeper of the games you played, and you lost. You are an accused accomplice in the murder of a pure soul. How do you plead?” All humor drained from inside Zane’s warped and terrible mind. He had slipped too deeply inside killer mentality. The path back up was a long and twisted road he would not walk for days to come.
Tears trickled down Briton’s cheeks as he stared unblinkingly at the chipped and rusted blade, the white bone handle, and the initials branded just above a small diamond chip near the
blunt end of the grip. There was only one other razor in the world like it. They were a matching set that had once belonged to the boy’s grandfather, Briton Edward Hadley Senior. There would be no mistaking the blade was his.
Briton talked fast, his words blurring together like bleeding ink on a dampened page. “I didn’t do anything. I got a little rough with Vega sometimes, but I didn’t kill her. I…I wasn’t even there. Man, she killed herself. Oh shit! Whoever you are, you’re wrong. I didn’t kill her. She freaking did it herself. She shot that shit up knowing she’d die.”
Zane leaned closer, and the sharpened tendril spread its fingers a little deeper inside Briton’s head. “You hurt her, you used her, and when she called for help, you weren’t there. Where were you, Briton? Where were you while she lay calling your name as the drugs burned through her veins, collapsing those fragile vessels until her heart could no longer pump the blood?”
“I was at my parents’ house. I didn’t believe her. No one kills themselves. No one does shit like that, bro. How was I supposed to know the crazy bitch wasn’t just whining for attention?” The mix of defiance, denial, and shame in his voice echoed in the heavy silence between them.
Zane prolonged the moment as he watched Briton squirm like a rabbit caught in a trap. When he finally spoke, a tear drop trailed down his face. “You let her die. You might as well put the needle in her vein. The one good thing that touched your life and you let it rot above ground like a road kill carcass. We both know you weren’t at home that night. I hope your sick game was worth the life of someone as purely good as Vega because you are going to be overcome with grief, and you are going to join her.”
“Jesus Christ, dude! You can’t be serious?”
In response to Briton’s fear, Zane pushed his intentions in pulsating waves through the tentacle. The throbbing ache drilled deep inside the pain receptors of Briton’s skull.
Each word he spoke became a piercing blow. “I’m going to hurt you until you will gladly take your own life.”
The hard shocks surging inside Briton’s mind made his face twist as he groaned. Enjoying the boy’s raging fear and torment, Zane pressed the open blade into his hand. Mentally forcing the boy’s body to react, he closed his enemies hand tightly over the bone handle. With a thought he disabled the fingers’ ability to open, making sure the weapon stayed in place, no matter what torment the idiot endured.
Laying his subject’s mind wide open, like a woman waiting to be mounted, Zane ripped through memories. Each blow, cruelty, and heartbreak Briton had dealt to Vega was now her murderer’s to endure. Shock after shock erupted through the physical body as Zane shredded what was left of the brain.
Unable to form the words to curse or plead, Briton’s eyes went wide as his thoughts begged for release. As his body fell to the floor in uncontrollable spasms, and his bowels released in a flood of putrid fluids, Briton’s inner voice quieted to no more than a whimper of incoherent mumbles.
In a soothing, almost hypnotic, tone Zane said, “You can make it stop. You only have to swallow the fear. The pain will be nothing compared to what I have in store for you if you refuse.”
The tethers loosened, allowing Briton more control over his writhing body, at the same time Zane sent a reminding jolt of agony through the boy’s trembling limbs. Briton cried out, the sound hollow and aching. A single mantra filled his head, a repetitive and useless plea that brought a smile to his tormentor’s face.
Oh God, please God. Save me. Forgive me, for I have sinned.
A surge of triumph filled Zane, making him lean forward in his anticipation. He whispered words of encouragement into Briton’s brain, knowing the organ was close to hemorrhaging.
No one will forgive you until you have suffered as she suffered. Only you can make this stop.
With shaking hands, Briton lifted the rusted blade and pressed the sharp edge to his throat. The first welt of blood rose above the flesh to trickle down to the white collar of his dress shirt. He faltered, but another jolt of pain gave him the gumption to continue. In one swift movement, the razor’s edge slipped through flesh, muscle, and vein.
The terrible force it took to cut through the windpipe and into the main artery ended in a horrible popping sound. The blood, no longer a rivulet, bloomed into a river. Strange gurgling noises rose up from Briton’s chest and burst in a spray of crimson liquid as the blade ended its journey.
Zane crouched on hands and knees, careful to avoid the splatter. Holding his face close to Briton’s, he watched the life seep away. When the final moment came, he opened his mouth and sucked in the very last breath his enemy would ever take.
Chapter Three
Still feeling the effects from the previous night’s kill, Zane’s heart pumped fast and his mood considerably lightened—though his mind remained set on his task. The immense power taken in from the final breath of a human life was addictive. Each time, it drew him deeper into what he had become. He carried no remorseful lamentations of his baneful existence, only the driving need to avenge Vega’s death and to find the next victim. The hunger was insatiable until the reset button was hit, and he could end his personal suffering for a brief time.
He refused to rest until each of her tormentors was hunted, tortured, and brought to final justice. Death was the key to the puzzle, and Vega’s mother was the next piece. As Zane traveled the mostly empty streets, searching for Alyvia Bellator, the sound of the bike’s engine reminded him the demon inside was growling to be fed. The gluttonous beast required blood, or else the torment would be his and his alone.
At last, he spotted her pearl-white Cadillac leaving the back entrance of Oaksdale Country Club. Tinted face shield down flipped down to conceal his identity, Zane tailed her through the quiet neighborhood streets. The bike groaned from the slow speeds, but Zane followed from far enough behind her she could not see him. But that did not stop him from sending his tentacle of power out into her mind.
Slipping in like a thief in the night, he made himself privy to her private thoughts. To his happy surprise, she had scheduled the perfect rendezvous with her own death.
I’ve got to grab a shower and redo my makeup. She glanced at the clock. An hour isn’t much time, but I think I can make it. I wonder if Erickson is still at the house. If so, I will have him build a fire in the bedroom before I send him home. Shit, I better call Michael now and make my excuses. Careful not to chip her immaculate pink nail polish, she pressed the buttons on the phone.
Her husband sounded depressed when he answered, and Alyvia tried to mimic the severity of his tone.
“Hey, honey. I was just calling to check in.”
She paused with an inward sigh. “Yes. Me too. It’s been hard.” Digging in her purse for a cigarette, she swerved the car across the line into the empty lane.
Zane could only think of how disappointing it would be if she were to destroy herself before he had the opportunity to extract Vega’s revenge. He watched as the car turned onto the road leading to the large brick house in the best subdivision in the area.
His hunger grew inside of him, and his heartbeat quickened. With a wry smile, he thought of the pleasure he would take in ending Alyvia’s life. Tasting the lingering images that had streamed in from Briton’s mind, he wondered if she would bite into her lip and moan in pain as she had in ecstasy.
As Alyvia spoke to her husband, Zane listened as if he were setting next to her in the car.
“I’m sorry. I know you’d rather be here, darling. Life has to go on though.” He would chastise her for being callous, but she didn’t give him time to reply. “I’m exhausted. I’ve cried almost all day. Yes, I’m pulling up to the house now. After having a drink, I am going straight to bed. I’ll call you in the morning, dear.”
Another long pause in the conversation nearly sent the woman into a fit. While she half listened, Alyvia checked her eye makeup in the mirror and gathered her stuff. Her husband’s need irritated her, and the annoyance bounced through the connection s
he shared with Zane. She didn’t want to be needed. She only wanted to be desired, and not by the man she had married.
At last, he finished, and she half-heartedly murmured, “I love you, too.”
Alyvia left the door to the house unlocked and the alarm system off in anticipation of her company. Zane almost laughed as she ran up the stairs in a giddy rush to prepare for her young friend. She’d made things almost too easy for him.
Zane wasted no time slipping through the shadows. He crossed the well-manicured lawn and crept inside. A smile curved his lips as he maneuvered through the house, unraveling a length of sturdy rope from around his arm as he climbed the stairs.
The monster’s appetite reached a new height, and its wail of anger vibrated inside him. As he worked, he pushed the barbs of his power to slip farther into her brain, priming her for the final act in her drama queen existence.
The inside of Alyvia Bellator’s mind was a twisted cage of carnal lust, dark secrets, shiny objects, and jealousy. He found the taste of her most intimate indiscretions and odd pleasures to be a succulent blend. A coating of tart shame and self-loathing laced the savory sweetness of her gratification.
One by one, Zane shifted through her memories as if they were old and faded pictures and laid aside the ones that condemned her most.
Finished sorting through her past for the moments he needed, Zane focused on the current of thoughts rolling inside Alyvia. Through her own nerve rattled vision, Zane saw her standing before a full-length mirror, eyes narrowed.
She eyed her naked body with a mixture of loathing and pride. Her physique was still toned and muscular, though the skin had begun to wrinkle and sag. Without makeup, the discolored spots of age stood out as clear as neon flashing lights, and only a constant regimen at the salon prevented the silver from showing in her blonde hair. Lifting her breasts and letting them fall, she sighed in exasperation.
If only Michael didn’t believe in all that natural beauty crap. I could look twenty again with just a little nip, tuck, injection, and peel. With an audible whimper, she checked her backside. Oh my God, my ass is getting flabby.
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