Chapter 6 Rowan
ROWAN
Itear across Hatch Street Burial Grounds, adrenaline surging me forward. I can’t believe I did any of that. I can’t believe I touched her. Or kissed her.
Everything was heightened in the office.
Abi herself was a riot of sound and scent: heartbeat and breath and fast-pumping blood.
She smelled brighter and sweeter, like I was choking on hyacinth and funeral orchids.
If she had run, I could have tracked her across the county on the trail of her scent alone.
That sort of thing happens to me when I’m going after a kill. But I wasn’t going to kill Abi. I will never kill Abi.
I leap over the fence and land on my feet, never once slowing down as I leave the cemetery behind me. I fucked up, I know. I pushed her too far. I shouldn’t have asked to touch her—
You should have just done it.
The thought comes to me in Uncle Nash’s voice, because it’s something Uncle Nash would say.
But I’m not him. I won’t hurt her. I shouldn’t have even kissed her like that, but she was so close, her eyes huge behind her glasses as she drank in my killing face, and I wanted her to bless it with her lips.
And then it wasn’t enough, that blessing. Nor was it enough when I pulled the mask away so there wouldn’t be any numbing barrier between us. That’s why I asked to touch her, and why I ran when she didn’t give me permission.
Because I was afraid of what I would have done to her if I stayed. I know I’m a monster. I know my killing face represents my true soul.
I careen through the scrubby open field that juts against the cemetery, the barrier between the dead and the beach.
This isn’t a great place for me to be, and I force myself to slow down so I can stick close to the spindly mesquite trees that offer almost nothing in the way of camouflage.
Beachside Boulevard is several yards to my left, and even though it’s probably after midnight, I still hear the occasional sigh of a car as it drives past.
I don’t want to think that Abi will call the cops on me. But I’m sure she has.
I keep myself low to the ground, moving quickly.
I don’t tire easily, which has always been a boon given what I like to do in my spare time, and the adrenaline of speaking to Abi twice in one day—once as Rowan, and once as myself, something I never thought was even possible—gives me an extra boost of speed.
It’s not long before the smell of the ocean overpowers Abi’s lingering scent, not long before I hear the waves rolling into the shore.
I take my killing face off before I step out onto the cracked, weatherworn sidewalk that runs parallel to the beach.
This isn’t the main strand, but there are houses here, shabby little bungalows like the one I call home.
Although my house is about a mile from here, right at the place where the string of hotels and restaurants begins.
No one’s out, fortunately. The houses are all dark.
Still, I walk as if I live there, sliding off my gloves and tucking them into my killing face, which I press under my arm so it’s not obvious what it is.
Dunes crest up ahead, the vines silvery in the moonlight, and I walk parallel to them until I come to one of the boardwalks, gritty with wet sand from the tar showers.
When I finally see the beach proper, with its pale, packed sand and dark mounds of seaweed, I can finally relax. I always feel safer on the beach. I suppose it’s because I imagine I can dive into the waves and swim away from danger.
Or maybe it’s because I always come this way when I visit Abi, and I know there’s a bathroom up ahead, a standalone brick building locked up for the night.
Two years ago, when Abi came back to Rosado, I loosened some of the bricks in the side of the bathroom so I would have an easy place to hide things.
Like my gloves. My killing face. My shoes, too, which are black boots that look absurd on the beach.
If the police somehow find me out here, I won’t look like the monster who just finished terrorizing the woman he loves.
I’ll look like the insomniac I also am, wiling the night away by the shore.
I cram everything into my hiding hole and slide the bricks back in place. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to fetch everything, but I tell myself it’ll be safe for now. My gloves and shoes and socks I’m not worried about, but I don’t want to lose my killing face. Especially since Abi—
Abi kissed it.
The thought floods me with a hot, dangerous lust. I jog down to the water, kicking the sand around to try and hide my footprints.
I stop at the place where the waves crash frigid water over my bare feet.
The night feels endless; the moon is tiny tonight, little more than a fingernail, and the sky and the water bleed together.
I reach down and rub my cock, listlessly.
There’s so much to process. But all I can think about is Abi. The sound of her footsteps and then the sight of her in the cold, sterile hallway, practically naked in her nightgown. The shocking warmth of her body against mine. The quiet, fearful noises she made against my glove.
Her lips against my lips.
Her pussy against my thigh.
The throb of lust that I’m certain I felt from her.
I slip my hand into the waistband of my pants and pull my cock out, thrusting furiously into my hand. I know it’s stupid, doing this out here. I know the cops have probably descended on her house already, that they’re fanning out through the cemetery and surrounding streets.
But all I can think about is her scent, and her heat, and her mouth.
I kissed her. Finally, after all these years.
Cum erupts from between my fingers, disappearing into the pale surge of sea foam. I drop my hand to my side, breathing heavily, wondering what might have happened if I stayed. Where that cum might have ended up.
The sea wind gusts around me, bringing the scent of the oceanfront. People scents. Sunscreen, sweat, food, blood. None of it is as sweet as Abi, and all of it dulled down. Faded. The cops haven’t come looking on the beach.
I tuck my cock away, feeling deflated after that paltry excuse for an orgasm. I conjure up Abi’s face again, although this time, I imagine her in my office at the hotel, smiling and shy. I know she wasn’t smiling at the real me, but I can sort of pretend.
There’s nothing else for me to do but go home.
I’m not going to sleep tonight, that much is certain, but I can plan my next kill.
It’s an auspicious one, because the victim will get a K somewhere on their skin.
I like that. K for Kill. I already know the location: Neptune’s Adventure, the mini golf course that looks out over the beach.
A good place for a death. Lots of moving mechanical parts that can trap clothes or hair and murder someone in a way that doesn’t look like murder.
Which has always been my speciality, even when I was killing for Uncle Nash.
I amble along the beach, walking where the water meets the sand. The night creatures are out. Ghost crabs, mostly, little pale streaks that slide into their sandy tunnels as soon as they feel the thunder of my feet. Prey hiding from a predator, although I’m not a predator they have to worry about.
The wind shifts, shoving my hair into my face. When it does, the scents change, too. The dull underscore of humanity is still there, the way it always is. But I smell something different.
Darker. Muskier. Dangerous.
I stop, the waves splashing around my ankles. I rarely experience fear, but a trickle of it rises in my throat now.
The cops? Did they track me here?
I turn around, my footsteps already disappearing into the wet sand. But I don’t think this is the cops. Whatever this is, it doesn’t seem…
Human.
The thought startles me. It’s not an animal. Animals have their own presence, a wildness in their scent like gamey venison. This is closer to a human than that.
But it doesn’t feel like the presence of the humans on the beachfront. It doesn’t feel like Abi, either.
“Hello?” My voice is immediately swallowed by the wind, and the only answer I get is the rhythmic crashing of the waves. I tilt my head, listening.
I think I hear a heartbeat. Or maybe I’m just hearing my own, since my heart is currently pounding against my ribcage like it’s trying to warn me of danger.
But there’s nothing out here.
It’s just me. The only monster in Rosado.