20. Thatcher
20
THATCHER
“— y eah, no. I’m definitely not going to do that. Wait, really? He said that? About you ? No! I hope you ditched him right there at the table. You could get triple that from the right client.”
The jogger chuckles. The sound is breathless as he keeps up his steady pace. I’m actually pretty impressed that he’s still going. When I picked him from the plethora of morning runners, I was sure he wouldn’t be going further than three miles tops. But here he is, going strong on mile four, hardly winded and keeping up an easy conversation with whoever is on his Bluetooth headset. I check my watch. Because he’s on his fourth mile, that means I’m also on my fourth.
While I would normally be annoyed and let my prey go by this point, the exertion this morning is exactly what I need. At this pace, I could probably run ten, maybe even thirteen miles. Hell, why not run a marathon? At least it keeps my body busy, if not my mind.
With how frazzled I feel, the fracturing of my mind seems imminent.
I hadn’t expected to see Beatrix Starr stroll into the same bar the three of us had been hanging out in last night. We’d promise Knox that until after the funeral, he would have our complete and undivided attention. He deserved that after we’ve made him feel so forgotten. But fate, it seemed, had a different plan for us.
“Go see what she wants,” Knox pushed, just as curious as both Sagan and I had been. Because what were the chances she’d just show up there ?
“You do it,” Sagan urged darkly, wrapping his fingers around the back of Knox’s neck possessively. “I have some making up to do with our Pretty Boy. Be careful, she’ll get under your skin if you’re not.”
With the green light from both of them, I’d gotten up and strolled over to her. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her who I was. But conversation has always come easy to me, so when I sat down in the stool beside my stepsister, I was certain getting answers from her would be simple.
I was wrong.
At twenty-two, I expected the typical self-centered and airheaded nature that came with interacting with people her age. Instead, I found Beatrix alluring with her reserved nature. When she did speak, her words were spoken softly while she struggled—and failed miserably—to hold my gaze. Her eyes would drop to her hands or lap, where they’d stay until she’d gather enough courage to glance my way again. It was utterly charming. I had to pull out all the stops for a smile. When one would appear, it would come in slow, be filled with an unintentional seduction, and would fade before I could catch my breath.
“Ok, give the kids a hug for me. Tell them Uncle Seth will be there sometime next month. No, I promise this time. I know, I know, I need to be better about seeing them. It’s just—What? Yeah, ok. I’ll talk to you later.”
The jogger reaches up and taps his headphones. He glances at his watch and swears before picking up speed. I adjust my steps accordingly. We round two bends, go over a small bridge, and pass about ten different people who are walking their dog, running, or gossiping as a few walk together. No one looks at the jogger and no one notices me.
Still, I make a point to keep my chin tucked close to my chest. This way, the visor of my ball cap covers the majority of my face. I can’t have too many people be able to identify me.
We round the bend into a thicket of trees. Here, the lack of sunlight from the rising sun makes the shadows appear extra dark. A perfect place to strike. My strides lengthen. I close the distance between me and my target easily. When my hand comes up to cover his mouth, my foot slips between his legs, causing him to trip. With a practiced move, I use his momentum to jerk him sideways into the bushes—effectively tackling him out of sight.
I’ve done this so many times that I’ve even learned to use their body as a cushion to soften my landing.
Branches from the bushes catch on my windbreaker before effectively engulfing us in their embrace. My target struggles the minute we hit the ground. He kicks and flails his arms about, too breathless to scream just yet. Tired and confused, my victim doesn’t stand a chance against someone as vicious and well-versed in killing as I am.
Without much effort, I gain the upper hand. Quickly, I pin my victim down onto his back and straddle his waist before slapping a hand over his mouth. This position to kill is my favorite. Like this, I can watch as confusion and fear turn to understanding and horror—all flashing in their eyes like a shooting star.
The eyes are the best part of the body. Why? Because they hold a person’s soul. Seeing such a beautiful and delicate thing rise up to meet me is exhilarating. Unknowingly, by presenting itself, it marks its own demise. I have the power to snuff it out or allow it to continue to shine. At this moment, I’m the thing that this soul fears more than anything else in the world. It’s a heady sensation. This particular soul is currently screaming at me, begging for me to let it stay in its host body. While I enjoy seeing its brightness, something’s missing.
This soul is uninteresting.
Disappointment and contempt pool into my veins. This man is filled with nothingness. His life meaningless. I stare into this man’s eyes searching for something, anything that would spark the same feeling of euphoria and awe I’d experienced last night.
My effort is in vain. This man’s soul is worthless.
For the first time since I started taking lives, I experienced a rush so intense, so powerful and raw, that it left my body feeling shaky and weak afterward. Catching my breath has been difficult, going to sleep last night was impossible. My heart feels overstretched. The adrenaline that coursed through my body last night was so exquisite that I’m sure I leveled up to a god’s stature. So full of wonder and drunk off power, I hadn’t thought to savor the moment. Now I can’t think properly. All thoughts were just a soundless exclamation of marvel. How am I still reeling in the aftermath?
All that power, and I didn’t even kill Beatrix Starr.
I feed off fear, tears, and pain. With each life I take, I only grow more addicted to it all.
Yet with Beatrix it was different. While others fight me to stay in this world, she’d given me her life with eager anticipation. She coaxed me wordlessly to take what I wanted and then some. I was her dark salvation, guilty pleasure, a forbidden treat. Her soul spoke to me, encouraging me to take it away from here. To keep it close to my heart as I tore it from her body.
Fuck . All that power just handed to me willingly… I suck in a deep breath, aching to soak up more of it. But the motion is hollow. That feeling is gone. In its place? A vast, bottomless cavern inside my chest. I’ve never felt so empty and lost. I hate this. I ache to be filled once more. I just need to experience that again.
And this man beneath me is not doing it for me.
“P-please, stop!”
Oops… I slip my hand back over his mouth. Quick as a flash, my hand dives into my back pocket to pull out my box cutter. It’s not my typical weapon of choice. I prefer my hunter’s blade. But given how many people I’ve killed this morning, I need to change things up. I can’t have it looking like a serial killer is on the loose in Chicago.
Not when Knox, Sagan, and I plan to use the city as our permanent playground.
As I pull it free, the blade slides out of its sheath. Almost in the same motion, it slices across the man’s neck. The blade is so sharp that the motion is smooth. I let go of his mouth to watch as my victim tries to scream. All that comes out is a soft, gargled wheeze, then a fountain of blood. The wild desperation in the man’s face is fleeting as despair and hopelessness crush his spirit. His thrashing lessens. Bloody lips open and close, gaping like a fish out of water.
I sit here, watching angrily, as the light in the man’s eyes dims. What a waste of my time. Beneath me, my victim stills. He lets out one last croak before his eyes turn dull and his mouth goes slack.
My hand grips the box cutter handle tight while the other balls into a fist. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I need that high again. I want it so badly that I would do anything for it. With a grimace, I rise to my feet and step over the body. Someone will find it here eventually.
Leaving him there to rot, I shove the box cutter back into my pocket, yank off my leather gloves, and tuck them into the interior pocket of my jacket before stepping out of the bushes. The jog back to the parking lot is filled with internal berating. By the time I get there and slip into the passenger side of the waiting black truck, I’m practically blowing smoke out of my ears as I rage at myself for not taking my time last night.
“I haven't seen you spiral like this in a while,” Sagan's head rolls lazily in my direction. I can feel his gaze drift over me and the acidity in our bond.
I look over at him incredulously, surprised by the fleeting emotion. “Jealous, brother? Really? You know you can go kill if you?—”
“It’s not about the killing,” he snaps, cutting me off. I blink in surprise; it’s rare to get under Sagan’s skin enough to get him ruffled.
“Then what’s this about?”
“I told you before you left me and Knox that Beatrix would get under your skin. Look at you, I was right,” he says, his voice deepening into a growl. “You’re spiraling and that’s dangerous. You’re going to get sloppy if you keep this up.”
“I won’t?—”
“Shut up,” he demands sharply. Slowly, his brows come together. “ I know how she tastes, how she feels, Thatcher. There’s no one who knows better than me how addictive she is. My warning wasn’t a possessive claim. Our stepsister is dangerous to our health in the best and worst way. In order for this to work, we need to lay low and keep our heads straight.”
“I know , Sagan,” I growl back, frustrated that he’s the one telling me this.
We can’t be seen with her until after the funeral and once we have the paperwork from the lawyer that gives us possession of everything. Otherwise, this—our presence, the death of Patrick and Lauren, and the sudden acquisition—could all look premeditated. We have to be careful.
And yet all I want to do is throw caution to the wind.
Maybe I am spiraling. I take a second to rein in this chaos that’s riding me. Then I take another second when the first isn’t enough. And then another. Nothing happens. My fists hit the dash with a bang.
“Damn it, Sagan, is this what you’ve been dealing with these past few months?”
My brother doesn’t answer but he doesn’t have to. The confirmation comes as a swift breeze through our connection. No wonder he’s been so preoccupied and obsessed.
“It’s worse now that I’ve gotten a taste, but yes. It’s easier to breathe, to concentrate, when she’s present,” he says after a moment. “Once the place is ours, we can have her too.”
My head bobs slowly in agreement but my thoughts are already ten steps ahead of me.
It could take weeks, months even, depending on how quickly Patrick’s estate attorney gets around to handling business. I don’t want to wait that long. At the start of this, Beatrix Starr was just a pawn. I could be patient because I didn’t know her. I didn’t crave her. And I certainly didn’t realize the extent to which my brother suffered in her absence. Things have changed though. If Knox is one of our lungs, Beatrix is the other. We need her if we’re going to survive.
We’re not going to wait any longer.
“We’re changing the plan,” I growl as a new one forms in my head. “I need to clean up. We’re going to the funeral.”
Sagan’s pupils narrow. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Work up some tears, Sagan. We’re going to be the grieving, abandoned sons that Patrick left behind.”
Sagan starts the car without any other questions. He knows that planning is my forte—if I want to shift gears, he trusts my thought process.
“I’ll call Knox and let him know to pack up his shit then meet us at Bright Starr,” I mutter, already pulling out my phone. “We’re not going back to the motel after the funeral. When we show up, it’s to move in.”
Sagan chuckles darkly. “Knox is going to be thrilled.”