Forbidden (Morgan Cross #12)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

He moved like a wraith, the darkness cloaking his form as he navigated the deserted bike path. The moon, a mere sliver in the night sky, cast long shadows that seemed to dance in concert with him. The once-bustling path lay silent, its daytime vibrancy succumbed to a chilling hush that amplified his silent snickers. The distant city's hum and the whispering leaves were mere backdrops to the sound of his suppressed mirth.

His laughter was a low rumble, rising from deep within—a private celebration of the sinister task at hand. It was the sound of secret glee, the kind that twisted at the very soul. He paused at the fork where paths diverged, the site of his recent labor. Here, in this dimly lit space, he had orchestrated the groundwork for chaos, where safety signs once stood.

Hands skilled in deceit worked deftly in the dark. One by one, he removed the signs meant to shield the innocent. Each metallic clink of the signs hitting the ground echoed like a chime in his ears, resonating with the satisfaction of his ploy. Removing these markers, he knew, stripped away the thin veneer of protection that society relied upon so blindly. Now, it would serve as a snare for those unaware of the perils lurking just ahead.

Each sign he displaced served as a tribute to his dark lord, an offering to the chaos he revered. With each act of tampering, he felt the intoxicating rush of power. The unsuspecting would venture forth, assuming safety where there was none—each accident not a tragedy but a sacrifice, a testament to his devotion. This was his ritual, his purpose; every life claimed brought him closer to fulfilling his ghastly ambition.

He operated with cold precision, methodically enacting his plan. His heart thrummed with anticipation beneath the fabric of his jacket, each beat heralding the imminent arrival of another unsuspecting victim. The path before him, once a benign thoroughfare, now beckoned like the gaping maw of some malevolent creature.

In the quiet night, with only the stars as witness, he had made his preparations. The stage was set for tragedy to unfold, disguised as misfortune. And as he retreated into the concealing embrace of the shadows, he imagined the scene about to play out—the chaos, the confusion, the ultimate offering to his inscrutable deity. His breaths came in shallow bursts, each exhale a silent prayer to the dark lord he served. Tonight, fate would be his to command, and the path would claim another soul.

He paused at the cusp of the construction site, his gaze sweeping across the expanse of danger that lay before him. The ground was an obstacle course of pits and equipment, shrouded in the velvet darkness of the night. It was silent, save for the intermittent clank of a loose chain or the groan of settling steel. This place, in the day, thrummed with life, but now it was a gaping maw awaiting the unwary.

He relished the thought of the traps he had laid bare by removing the warning signs. They were hazards only to those ignorant of their presence, not to him—the orchestrator of this deadly symphony. He stepped lightly, avoiding the pitfalls with the familiarity of one who has studied every inch of this treacherous terrain. His eyes, adjusted to the murk, did not miss a beat as he navigated through the peril.

Ahead, the NO BIKING sign loomed, its reflective surface catching the scant moonlight—a beacon of caution, a symbol of safety. He approached with a smirk playing on his lips, anticipation building in his chest. The sign stood there, guarding against the very doom he intended to invite. With a swift motion, he unfastened it from its post, the metal cold and pliable in his hands. It would no longer serve its purpose; it would no longer protect.

The safe path that veered away from the construction zone had its own sign—a harmless detour meant to guide travelers away from potential harm. He approached it with the same deliberate steps, removed it with the same ease, and replaced it with the NO BIKING sign he had commandeered. Now the innocuous became forbidden, and the dangerous beckoned invitingly. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, the deceptive switch complete. A simple exchange of information, yet it bore the weight of destiny.

His grin widened as he imagined the confusion, the moment of hesitation when someone would confront the misleading signs. That split second when the choice made could be the last—this was the crux of his game. Each person who fell into his snare was another offering to the dark lord, another proof of his fealty. Every accident was a step closer to his ultimate goal, a testament to his power over life and death.

The man stepped back, his breath visible in the crisp night air, as he surveyed the altered landscape with a predator's satisfaction. He could almost hear the crunch of gravel under tires, the soft thud of running shoes, the sudden, sharp intake of breath as realization dawned too late. Each person who took this path was a potential tribute to the dark lord he served, a silent testament to his dominion over their fates. It thrilled him, this game of life and death, and he reveled in the knowledge that he held the power to decide which it would be.

His hands were steady as he waited, the darkness around him a cloak he wore with ease. He imagined the headlines, the shock and speculation that would follow each "accident" that occurred here. They would search for reasons, for explanations, but they would never understand the truth of what he'd done. To them, it would just be an unfortunate series of events, a tragic oversight in safety. But he knew better. He knew that with every mishap, he moved one step closer to fulfilling his purpose, to pleasing the dark lord who demanded such sacrifices.

A cold smile played on his lips as he considered the chaos he was about to unleash, the lives he was about to unravel. He didn't need to know their names or their stories; they were simply pieces in a much larger puzzle, pawns in a game they didn't even know they were playing. And as the master of that game, he felt a rush of anticipation so strong it was like a drug coursing through his veins.

He reached into his jacket, feeling the chill of the metal can against his fingers. With a practiced motion, he shook it, listening to the rattle of the ball bearing inside. It was a sound that signaled the beginning of the end, the precursor to the mark he would leave behind. This sign was his signature, the symbol that connected all the seemingly random accidents to a single, malevolent intent.

He just had to wait for his time to leave it—once the night claimed another sacrifice.