Chapter Twenty-Three
She is mine.
He paused on the deck and breathed in the cool night air, the slightest hint of salt floating on the breeze. The waxing moon offered abundant light, and in the windows of the locked French doors, his ghostly reflection stared back at him. Strength and power surged through every cell in his body. Sweet anticipation.
Damn, I feel strong. Powerful.
Flexing his fingers, he formed a fist, the latex glove stretching over his knuckles. Turning, he scanned the yard. A few scrub pines shifted with a gentle breeze. A dog barked in the distance. A safe, quiet neighborhood.
Idiots.
He pulled the nylon mask over his face. Couldn’t be too careful, what with all the high-tech forensics nowadays. Strands of hair, bits of skin cells, a simple eyelash, for God’s sake. But then, that’s what made it exciting. Staying one step ahead.
With a quick jerk of his arm, he rammed his elbow through the small pane. The sharp crack of breaking glass tore through the air. Reaching through the opening, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Sweet silence. He smiled.
As he crossed the unfamiliar living room, his skin tingled, and he savored the fact his prey lay sleeping nearby. Hunger welled in his chest, his hands clenching as he remembered the well-endowed redhead who’d handed him takeout at the Italian restaurant.
She will serve my purposes just fine.
His fingers itched to touch her skin, to trace where he would cut her. To feel the knife in his grip, the power of his god surging through him, guiding his hand. He would dig deep inside her chest and yank out her heart, his offering to the deity that gave him immortality.
A drop of sweat trailed down his neck, sending a wicked shudder through his body. Yes, tasty dreams. Eager breaths rasped through his parted lips. Oh, sweet blood.
Extending his arms out with palms up, he turned in a slow circle, gathering the imperceptible threads of strength his god dispensed. Potent strands of power clung to him, featherlight yet unmistakable, each burrowing beneath his clothing, through his pores, and into his hot, pulsating veins. He sucked in a breath, tasted the salty coolness of the ocean on his tongue. An indomitable force, he stalked down the hallway, skimming his fingertips along the walls on either side.
Nudging the door open, he stepped silent as a wraith into her bedroom.
She lay there, her chest rising and falling in the depths of sleep. The cold moonlight caressed her skin. The thin sheets swathed her body, outlining the curves and dips of her delicious form.
He pulled the bottle from his jacket and retrieved a pristine handkerchief from his back pocket. Eagerness burned within him. Opening the container, he slid the folded cloth over the hole. With a quick tilt of his hand, liquid saturated the handkerchief. After capping the bottle, he returned it to his jacket.
He eased onto the side of the bed, the mattress giving beneath his weight. He studied her features relaxed with sleep. Her smooth face and closed eyes. Her full lips forming neither a smile nor a frown.
Her peace would not last. Serenity would transform into terror.
Soon.
With an intense stare, he willed her eyes to open, for her to gaze upon him. When her eyelids fluttered, satisfaction surged through him. She is the perfect gift to my god.
Slowly, her eyes opened. Heavy with sleep, her brows knitted in confusion as she struggled to separate his form from the surrounding shadows. Her lips parted to form a word.
His pulse quickened, but he lingered, drawing the sumptuous moment out. He waited in the moonlight on the edge of her bed. Waited for her to realize he was not a dream, not some nightmare she’d conjured in the elusive realms of sleep.
No. I am something else.
Her eyes widened with focus. The moment of comprehension struck. Her body convulsed, her hands thrashed beneath the sheet, and her knees bent and jerked.
With lightning speed, he slammed the handkerchief over her nose and mouth, muffling her terrified screams. He lay across her body, pinning her to the bed, rendering her struggles useless. He smirked. Damn, but I love this part.
Stifled shrieks gave way to soft moans. Her eyes rolled back, the whites flagging her surrender. Eyelids shuttering closed, her body stilled, the chloroform doing its job. She lay there, waiting for his god to accept her as an offering.
Not here.
He rose, retrieved a plastic bag from his jacket then dropped the damp handkerchief inside and tucked it into his pocket. Prepared to leave with his prize, he threw back the sheet, revealing the pink tank top and bikini panties clinging to her voluptuous body. What a delicious sacrifice to my god. He lifted the redhead’s inert form over his shoulder.
On entering the living room, he paused, a noise on the deck bringing him to a halt. A scuffing sound came from outside the French doors. Someone had discovered his entry point.
Not expecting a confrontation, he’d arrived with nothing more than the chloroform. He laid his prey on the floor then ducked into the kitchen. Grabbing a carving knife from the butcher block, he melted into the shadows and waited.
The door opened. A flash of light sliced the darkness. Broken glass crunched beneath the unknown visitor’s feet.
He tightened his grip on the knife handle.
“Oh, shit,” a male said. The sound of shoes treading over hardwood followed. The visitor passed the kitchen and knelt next to the immobile redhead, the large flashlight he placed on the floor next to him a location beacon.
Idiot. Imbued with his god’s invincibility, he slipped from the shadows. His steps silent, his breath even, he approached the man from behind. A single blow with the butt of the knife sent his adversary sprawling. Seizing the discarded flashlight, he swung, clubbing the guy in the temple. A satisfying crack filled the air. The light sputtered, went out.
Dropping the makeshift weapon, he then reached beneath the man’s arms, dragging him from the living room to the entryway. He flipped the man onto his stomach then turned to retrieve the knife he’d left on the floor.
The guy moaned. His hand moved to the gash the heavy flashlight had inflicted.
Returning, he straddled the intruder, grabbed a hank of hair, and jerked his head back, exposing his neck.
“Nyaa,” the man gurgled, the sound utter nonsense.
He laid the honed steel blade against the man’s throat and prepared for the splash. Grinning, he pulled the knife, slicing tender skin and tearing the windpipe. Hot blood. The sweet coppery scent filled his nostrils.
He released the guy’s hair. The body dropped forward, slapping against the wet hardwood. He looked at the knife in his hand then tossed it next to the body, the metal blade singing when it struck the floor.
Before turning away, he peered down. Moonlight streamed through the door’s sidelight, illuminating his adversary’s back. He paused, cocked his head, and read the word printed in white on the dark jacket.
Police.
What the hell? Had a neighbor heard the glass shatter when he’d broken into the house? He shook his head. No, I was a ghost.
The officer had been sent to watch the girl? His jaw tightened. So, had the illustrious Detective River Chastain figured out a way to anticipate the next victim?
He’d left notes to taunt River. Perhaps he’d gleaned something deeper from the messages, giving him an advantage. He would have to contemplate the possibility River might be a step ahead. The thought induced his fingers to curl into a fist. He definitely needed to up the stakes.
Pivoting away from the dead officer, he returned to his prize. He lifted the supple rag doll then laid her over his shoulder and walked to the open French doors. With a final glance, he stepped outside. Slipping through the shadows, he strode across the deck, intent on delivering the redheaded waitress to his god’s sacrificial altar.