Chapter 24
SINN'OUS
An inmate. A guard. Another inmate. One after the other, they trickle through A-Wing. And each new body to emerge out of the conjoining corridor is a new twitch in Sinn'ous’s eye. None of them are the one he is waiting for. None of them are his.
Why has my prey not returned?
Is he too engrossed in gossiping with his boyfriend? Too caught up flashing heart eyes at each other in the middle of the damn visitation room.
Several more inmates walk out from under the second story platform where Sinn'ous is white-knuckling the rails.
They leave the Wing without a backwards glance, while he glares holes into their sculls.
The urge to leap over the rails and tackle the lot of them to the floor is nearly undeniable, his hand automatically going for one of his razors tucked into a hole in the lining of his pants.
He growls, throwing himself away from the rails, and storms down to his cell.
Purchasing weed had been purely for bait to lure his prey, and now here he is, headed for the stash to smoke the rage out of his system.
Something he doesn’t do. But if he doesn’t do something with his hands he is liable to enact a whole ritualistic homicide or massacre.
Rolling the joint requires precision he has no patience for, and it takes several attempts until he has a thick roll lit between his lips.
It’s nothing like the few cigs he’s had over the years, no hit of nicotine to jolt his blood pressure.
This is a wave, a slow cooling wave rolling down his trachea and into his lungs.
It seeps into the soft tissues and coats the exposed nerves in a damp blanket, muffling their receptors.
He steps out of his cell and leans back against the wall, half lidded eyes flickering up the length of the empty platform. Most of the Wing occupants are at their prison assigned jobs, leaving an almost quiet air to the space. It’s almost . . . calming?
No wonder people smoke this stuff.
He feels like a fluffy cloud, or a poodle. Why? He’s not sure, maybe because poodles are the animal version of a fluffy cloud?
From raging homicidal urges, to arguing with himself over poodles and clouds. The joint sure fucking takes the edge right out of the equation.
Well, it had been, right up to the moment before a set of green eyes appear by the stairs, floating up to linger. Kicking every neuron of calm to the curb.
His blood thickens and his body tenses, he has to physically prevent himself from moving. Not to charge down, and grab his prey by the hair and demand to know who visited him. Then throw him in the nearest cell, and slit his throat.
Don’t kill him now. Not while you’re floating and can’t enjoy it.
The vacancy on Jasper’s face gives Sinn'ous pause, then backhands his inner voices and plants a kiss on his need to kill. And not the need to kill the boy, no it’s the need to torture whoever put that washed out fade into Jasper’s usually lively green eyes.
Something’s wrong.
Something is really really wrong.
Jasper walks in a dragging fashion, stiff unyielding limbs forced to go where he directs them.
Slumped posture, clammy skin, hitching breath.
And it’s not fear etched into every movement.
No, it’s something else entirely. Something .
. . lost. Directionless. Vulnerable. He’s done something that he is not proud of. But what?
Jasper drifts into the space between him and the open cell door. Eyes going everywhere but never resting on anything. He remains unfocused. A palpable wave pulsing out of him, something akin to shame swirling around him.
Then his green eyes catch on Sinn'ous’s cell, running over the Satanic mural.
Spell bound by the artwork, the words, or the vibe, Jasper drifts into his cell.
Feet scarcely moving, it’s almost as though he’s a ghost sent to haunt Sinn'ous, floating in his space but forever out of his reach. Forever taken from his touch.
Ghosts?
Sinn'ous eyes the burning end of his joint, scrutinising the orange flare flaming their. This is probably why he’s never smoked this, because what are his thoughts? Ghosts? What the actual fuck?
But perhaps his ghost of a prey could do with a hit of the calm-the-fuck-down smoke.
“You here for a reason.” Sinn'ous asks without asking, dismissing the offer of the joint for now. It’s not a question when he will have an answer, to not give an answer is an insult Sinn'ous would rectify in blood.
Jasper’s doe-green eyes peer over his shoulder at Sinn'ous. They’re consumed by a deep despair and yearning for help.
Then his prey seems to half snap out of whatever haze has its claws in him, taking a generous step out of the cell. “Your cell?”
At a loss for what to say that won’t come across as homicidal, Sinn'ous can only nod. Somehow, he doubts ‘why don’t you kneel so I can slit your throat and rid you of your troubles’ would go over well with the boy.
Smoke simmers into his lungs on the next drag. Orange flames working hard to consume the last of the paper, racing to his fingertips, threatening to burn them. It’s past the halfway point, and he’s keenly aware of how he’d unintentionally almost consumed it in its entirety.
“It’s . . . unique,” Jasper notes. It’s said in a way that should scream judgmental, but reeks diversion. A delay in the true reason he’s lingering by Sinn'ous’s cell.
The boy is so caught up in thought that his nose wrinkles, pulling a surprised chuckle from Sinn'ous. It’s out before he can catch it.
Straightening up from his casual lean to his full height, he towers over the boy. Humouring the conversation by adding dryly, “not a Satanic fan.” He rakes his gaze over his prey’s face, eating in every detail. Down to the tiny crease of his brow.
The thought hits him in passing. How ravishing his prey would be covered in blood.
His prey shivers, a tinge of pink blooming over his cheekbones. “I’m not really religious. But I hold nothing against those who are. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Devil exists.”
Sinn'ous hums in the back of his throat, not convinced his prey won’t flee the moment he discovers Sinn'ous’s true affiliation to Satan.
Building a foundation of trust means downplaying his connection to Satan.
Forgive me, Satan. It’s for a worthy cause. A worthy sacrifice for you.
Ignoring the topic for now, Sinn'ous offers the joint to placate his prey. And it works, distracting Jasper while he inhales the joint’s end.
He raises a brow when it’s gone in a flared glow of orange, inhaled in seconds. Only for the ashy remains to be discarded into the small metal bin by the cell door.
His prey throws a skittish glance back down the second-floor platform. They’re alone, and that seems to satisfy him. It doesn’t, however, open his mouth to spill his secrets. And when his eyes roll like he’s about to check they’re alone, again, Sinn'ous takes charge.
Two strides have him passing his prey and stepping into the cell. At home in the Satanic artwork, his own chest loosens. Reverting into a shell of safety to be surrounded by Satan. A warm embrace he welcomes. A consensual hug he’d never allow anyone else to do to him.
Giving a non-verbal command to the boy by flicking his head in the gesture of come.
And Jasper does just that, a prey to the slaughter.
The awkward way his prey fidgets, rocking on his feet, and blinking way too fucking rapidly, sets Sinn'ous’s teeth on edge. To stop from grabbing his throat, and slamming him onto the bunk to scare those annoying tics away—he lifts his chin to the bunk, indicating to sit down.
Jasper obeys, like the good little prey animal. Sitting on the far end, leaving a large space between them. Sinn'ous allows it. For now.
Allows the silence to speak too. To coax out the answers.
“I-I . . .” The silence works, and Jasper stutters on his words, trailing off on a shuddered breath. Then tries again, “you kill people, yes . . . ?” His tone is timidly soft, his eyes downcast. Fingers twitching in his lap.
Not what he expected. But not anything he can’t hedge around, and become ignorant of the social norms of conversation to deflect to a new subject.
“What happened.” An open-ended statement one can choose to interpret in any way. He already knows Jasper will answer it.
“It was an accident—I mean . . .”
Suppressing the urge to sigh, he bites his lip to drink in the pain, and kill the instinctual reaction of violence to get answers.
And then it hits him. The unspoken truth.
It takes every ounce of self-control from years of hiding his violent nature, to remain composed in the aftermath of this confession. Inside, his entire being is exploding as if someone shoved fireworks under his skin and lit the fuse.
So, my naive prey isn’t so helpless after all.
This must be the first time, no one looks like this if they are a seasoned killer. Which means evidence.
A body.
Evidence.
“Where is it,” Sinn'ous’s low voice carries throughout the cell. A dangerous demand.
If time is on his side, he will have all he needs to do what must be done. Disturb the scene, wash away evidence. Destroy any connections to his prey.
You are mine, I will not let the system take you from me. Not that any murder conviction will stand in my way. Jasper Marcelo is mine.
He can see the way Jasper’s eyes fade further, getting a far-off distance to them. It sends a weird twinge into his spine.
Then Jasper is peering intently at his hands, the floor, his hands again. Like he expects a body to drop at his feet. If only cleanup was so easy. To move a body, and mess by mind power alone. That would be a nice dream.
He could kill so many, then wish their bodies far away, and no law would be able to pin anything to him. Nothing would stick if bodies drop miles from his known location.
“The—um.” Jasper’s brows furrow, the cloud over his eyes clearing somewhat. Deep in thought as though he forgot where the body is. Because one often forgets where you put those things. “The filing room, down the corridor from visitation.”
Sinn'ous walks to the door, pausing briefly to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. A gesture that takes him aback, and catches him off guard. He chooses not to look too closely at it. Righting it off as more manipulation to drag his prey in closer, trapped away from the world at Sinn'ous’s mercy.
He plays it off with commanding words. “I’ll take care of it.
You stay here.” His tone stays light to encourage obedience.
It’s enough of an order to be taken as one, but not enough to discourage his prey from thinking it’s in control, and trying to flee in Sinn'ous’s absence.
Just to be sure, he adds. “Right here. Until I get back. You understand.”
He waits on any form of acknowledgement, even when it wasn’t a question. And it isn’t as though he wouldn’t be able to track down his prey if he were to run. They are locked behind bars together.
A nod from his prey and he is on his way, leaving his Satanic cell to find a body that was not his own sacrifice. It is still one he will send to Satan.
For you, Satan. All for you.