A Deal With the Reaper (The Saints of Purgatory #1)

Chapter One

June

Whoever said that women prefer clean, impersonal methods of killing clearly never met a woman in their life. At least, not one like me.

The best part of a kill is being close enough to feel each precious puff of air leave their lips and see their pupils expand when they realize they’re going to die.

I relish the final, weak fluttering of their pulse as their heart works in overdrive to stay alive.

There’s nothing as satisfying as the irony that the harder their heart beats to stay alive, the more blood it expels from the body through one of the many stab wounds, and the faster they die.

“Please,” Jared begs, the sound little more than a gurgle around the blood filling his mouth. “No more.”

“Do you remember what you said when Clarissa begged you to stop hurting her?” I ask, dragging the tip of the knife in a circle over his knee, though not applying enough pressure to break skin.

He shakes in fear, hands tied behind his back and ankles secured to the legs of the chair bolted to my basement floor.

I’ve only been with Jared for five hours, and he’s already showing signs of giving up.

I’m trying not to be disappointed, because I knew he’d be weak, but it’s difficult.

I’d been looking forward to savoring this for as long as possible.

Several years ago, I could last a year before succumbing to the urge to kill.

Recently, I rarely make it eight months.

This time, it’s been seven.

“Let me refresh your memory.” I push in the knife, exhaling with relief when I feel his skin give under the pressure.

“You said, ‘This is your fault, baby. If you’d just obey me, I wouldn’t have to hurt you.

’” The knife hits bone, and I let go, letting it protrude from his thigh.

Blood slowly seeps from the wound, joining the red-tinged piss and vomit puddling beneath him.

Why these men insist on peeing themselves is beyond me. The suffocating, acrid smell is the worst part of my little hobby.

“How do you…” Jared’s question breaks off into an involuntary groan of pain.

I lean down to his level, grab his chin, and jerk up, forcing him to meet my gaze. His eyes struggle to focus, and I know I’m losing him. I squeeze harder and reach down with my other hand to grab the handle of the knife, twisting slightly, and he screams, becoming more alert, finally focusing.

“Clarissa escaped you almost five years ago, and yet you’re still an infection in her life. Nightmares, trust issues, low self-worth. You even stole her ability to have children. Did you know that?”

He tries to shake his head. “I didn’t…”

“Shut up!” I spit the words and let go of his chin, straightening my spine. “I’ve been following you for months . You’re still a drunk who takes his own insecurities out on women. I’ve seen your new girlfriend leaving the ER covered in bruises and bandages and with her arm in a cast.”

“Why?”

Always that stupid question. They know why. They shouldn't have to ask.

“Because you’re a waste, and you don’t deserve the chance to hurt one more person.”

“You Issa’s girlfriend or something?” he asks, disdain and a bit of strength returning to his voice. He thrives on hatred.

They all do.

I grab the knife and yank it free. His scream is louder than before, and I cut it off by wrapping my hand around his throat.

“No, asshole. I’m her therapist.” I thrust the knife into his chest, leaving my hand as close to his skin as possible so the blood coats mine. The life drains from his eyes, and I soak up every second. Only when I’m certain he’s dead do I pull the knife free, stand up, and look around the basement.

Thank God for drop sheets , I think as I begin cleaning, erasing all evidence of Jared’s presence.

~

Weekly Taco Tuesday with my friends is more enjoyable than it has been of late, now that the need for blood has been satiated.

“What did you guys do this weekend?” Sadie, my best friend, asks, swirling her strawberry margarita.

Her black hair is slightly longer than normal, nearly reaching her shoulders, and she’s wearing thin-rimmed, pink glasses.

Typically, wearing glasses means she either had a long day or a late night. Or both.

“Vanessa surprised me with a trip to Vegas,” Rose says. Her hazel eyes brighten when she talks about her girlfriend, and I can’t help but smile. She’s one of the happiest people I know, and it’s always refreshing to spend time with her.

After Rose finishes telling us about her trip, Evelyn gives the same answer she gives every Tuesday night.

“Worked late at the office.” Sadie and I share an incredulous look, and Rose lightly admonishes Evelyn for never resting.

She ignores us, as always. “These kids don’t have anyone else to fight for them!

” As a child social worker, she takes her job more seriously than anyone I know. Except maybe myself.

“We know, and we’re very proud of you,” Sadie says. “But you’re going to burn out. Then you won’t be any use to the kids.”

“Whatever. Let’s team up against June. She worked all weekend too!”

I hold my hand over my heart. “Et tu, Brute?”

“Is that why you didn’t answer your phone at all on Saturday?” Rose asks. “I figured you were skydiving or fighting alligators or something.”

Better. I was murdering the abusive ex of one of my clients, then cleaning his blood off my favorite knives. “I wish. I had paperwork to catch up on.”

“Could’ve invited me,” Sadie says, pointedly looking from me to Evelyn. “I would’ve made paperwork fun.”

I smile. “Next time.”

Sadie launches into a story about one of her brothers, spinning her glass in her hand.

A bit of strawberry margarita flies over the rim, landing on the table like a splash of blood.

For a heartbeat, memories surface, like the sight of red liquid is a fist around my spine, yanking me back in time to when I was fifteen, lost in the haze of red.

That day, a fire, the need to kill, burned in my chest, and it hasn’t completely gone out since.

Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a few lumps of coal that occasionally flicker with lingering heat.

Other times, like last week before I snagged Jared, the flames are so tall and hot that I’m shocked no one can see sparks in my eyes.

Only taking a life smothers the fire enough for me to survive its heat. Something about ridding the world of another abusive, selfish, and pathetic man acts like a bucket of water in my chest.

Sadie absentmindedly wipes the spilled margarita away with her napkin, freeing me from the flashback. Mentally shaking my head, I banish the dark thoughts so I can enjoy this normal night with my friends.

Hopefully, I have seven months before I need to worry about the fire burning too hot to ignore again.

~

“There are bruises all up Amber’s arms,” my client, Jennifer, says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “The police said there’s nothing they can do if she doesn’t report him because she’s an adult. She’s twenty-one! That’s hardly an adult.”

“What did she say when you asked about the bruises?” I ask, leaning forward to pass her the box of tissues. She accepts them, blowing her nose loudly.

“Nothing. She just got mad at me then stormed out of the house. I haven’t heard from her since.”

“That was four days ago?”

“Yeah. Monday. She sent me a short text yesterday telling me to stop calling.”

This isn’t the first time Jennifer has spent an entire session talking about Amber, her niece.

She became Amber’s guardian five years ago when her sister, Amber’s mom, passed away in a car accident.

First, it was Amber’s decision to drop out of community college.

Then it was tattoos. Then she was mixed up with the wrong crowd.

“She knows you care about her.” Before I can say anything else, she barrels forward, snot dripping from her nose.

“He’s hurting her, I know he is.”

“Her boyfriend?”

She nods. “I told her to break up with him. He’s dangerous!”

“Because he’s in a gang, right?” I ask, surreptitiously checking my notes from Jennifer’s previous sessions. I put “gang” in parentheses because to someone like Jennifer, any group of guys with tattoos is a gang.

“A biker gang. I forget what they’re called. Something awful like Sons of Hell.”

“Saints of Purgatory?”

Recognition widens Jennifer’s eyes. “Yes! How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen them around before. Their jackets are memorable.” I keep the fact that I make it a point to know as many of the major players in Tucson’s criminal world to myself. You never know when you’ll need a patsy to take the fall for a messy kill.

“This isn’t the first time she’s come home hurt,” Jennifer says unnecessarily.

I have a list of everything she’s told me, every possible injury at the hands of that man.

“A black eye, bruises, one time she got stitches up her shin. She said it was from a motorcycle wreck. Shouldn’t that be enough to get her away from him?

What if she never leaves? I’ve seen the statistics.

Fifty percent of murdered women are killed by their partners.

What if Amber is next? I’m supposed to protect her! ”

“Playing the ‘what if’ game will only fill your head with false reasons to feel guilt and fear. You’re doing everything you can. You’re always there for her. She knows she has somewhere safe to go, and that’s a precious thing, Jennifer.”

“But she’s not safe, and now… I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to her.”

“Try not to go to the worst-case scenario. Take a breath.” I pull in a long breath through my nose and blow it out through my lips, waiting for Jennifer to mirror the action.

The session continues with more tears as we attempt to work through her fears so she can think more logically. I send her home with extra tissues and a reminder that she can call me if she needs anything. Then I have a blessed thirty-minute break before my next client arrives.

I take the time not to relax or eat but to research the Saints of Purgatory.

There isn’t much about them online, though I do find the obituary of an older member who died last year.

It seems most of the Saints are younger now, in their twenties, thirties, and forties.

There aren’t many recent arrests attached to the club, but I know for a fact that the members have used it as a conduit for criminal activity in the past.

Flipping back in my notes from Jennifer’s appointments, I find the name of Amber’s boyfriend and quickly discover he’s the leader of the Saints of Purgatory.

Three weeks after a kill is too soon.

But as I stare at his name, an ember sparks.

Theo Zervas.