Chapter Five
I can’t stop pacing.
Eidolon. Is it a name? A code? A group?
How the fuck did they get inside my apartment without leaving a single trace?
Shit.
I drop into my chair and yank the laptop open, keys clacking loud in the silence.
Search: “Eidolon.”
Google spits out its trash:
Eidolon
/???d??l?n/
noun – literary
– an idealized person or thing.
– a spectre or phantom.
A ghost. Fantastic.
I hit enter again. Second page. Third. Indie band. Video game. Philosophy forums. Pretentious poetry blogs.
Nothing that explains anything, not even a simple hint.
My pulse hammers, my scalp prickles, that feeling you get when someone’s standing too close behind you. If they wanted me arrested, the knife would be sitting in an evidence bag, not here. Not in my home.
Wait.
The only way they could’ve gotten it—
Someone saw me kill him.
The walls seem to lean in, my stomach knots so hard I double over, my hands go slick, breathing turns shallow, like there’s not enough air in the whole building.
I stumble to the counter; the knife still waits there. I hold it under the light but there are no prints, mine or someone else and not a single drop of blood. It's completely clean, spotless.
Whoever they are… they took it, scrubbed it, then walked into my locked apartment, and left it for me to find.
They didn’t report me, so what the fuck do they want? Blackmail?
My eyes dart around the apartment. Peeling paint, a crooked rug, a thrift-store bed and books stacked in towers because I can’t afford shelves. Nothing screams “I’m rich!”. I work from home as a data organizer for a high-tech company. My salary covers my expenses and that’s about it.
The radiator groans and I freeze. I’m getting too paranoid, and I still have more kills to do.
I move towards the picture on the wall, and curl my fingers around the little pink notebook. I open on the folded page, and I see one name in red ink.
Camden Wolfe.
Whoever Eidolon is… they’ll have to wait.
I’ve got one more monster to bury first.
“Candice Malborn.” My voice is soft, almost sweet, as I smile and shake his hand.
“Camden Wolfe,” he says, puffed up like a goddamn peacock in heat.
“This car looks perfect.” I point to a top-of-the-line Mercedes I’ll never afford, but Candice? She absolutely could.
The fake ID was easy, the blonde wig—long and sleek—heavy makeup, and the rented designer dress weren’t hard to get either. It’s all more than enough shine to catch the attention of a man who thinks he owns the world.
Camden runs this place. Exclusive, high-end, and built for the ultra-rich. It took me two months to get a face-to-face, and now that I’m here? He can’t take his eyes off me.
Six months I’ve followed him, learning every weakness, everything that made him tick. What he wants and desires, and I check all his boxes.
“Want to test drive it?” he asks, dangling the key. His grin is all teeth.
I giggle. “No, that’s fine. I just want to see which one I prefer before my father comes to get it for me.” I wink, lean down to peek inside and catch him licking his lips.
Pervert.
He’s the watcher of the group, the kind who gets off on fear. Daisy said he smiled while she screamed, brushed her hair back and told her to cry louder.
Oh, sweetheart… you’ll scream louder than she ever did. I’ve learned from Henry. This time I’ll be slow.
“So, are you here by yourself?” he asks, leaning on the door, arm caging me in.
“Just for the day. Why?” I run a fingernail down his lapel, playing the part.
“Want to have dinner?” His hand slides lower.
“I’d love to,” I purr.
He grins and hands me a card with his personal number. I turn and walk away, hips swaying on purpose.
Camden isn’t as prolific as Henry, but he’s worse in other ways. He taunts first, watches, makes them say his name while he rapes them, turns pain into a ritual.
Back at the hideout, I prep fast. I skip the dinner. I text him that I only have a few hours before my plane and send an address instead—an upscale motel known for its discretion and lack of cameras.
He arrives right on time wearing jeans and a black shirt. He is over six feet and lean, but strong. Stronger than Henry.
“You look beautiful, Candice,” he says, fingers brushing my arm. I step back, pretending to be meek and shy.
“I’m a little nervous. Never done this before,” I lie, picking up the whiskey he loves and pouring him a glass.
His eyes gleam. “I can’t wait to be buried inside you.”
Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.
He downs the drink in one go, starts toward me, his hands grip my hips, pushing me toward the bed. I press my palm to his chest, buying time, but he’s already lifting my dress.
“Stop, you asshole,” I whisper.
He chuckles. “Fuck, I love when they beg.”
His hand slides between my thighs—
A loud knock rattles the door.
He freezes.
“What?” he barks, swaying as he stands.
Please let that be the drugs kicking in!
Another knock, harder this time and my pulse spikes.
“What the hell?”
If someone sees us, if this gets messy, I lose my chance to kill him.
He sways again, his balance gone. I move fast, peeking through the curtain but no one is there so I can take the chance to leave.
The motel has private exits. I loop his arm over my shoulder and walk him toward the car. He’s mumbling about feeling sick, and I smile. “You’ll be fine, I’ll take you home,” I whisper and he thanks me, poor bastard. I toss him in the back seat and he’s out cold in seconds.
I see a shadow near the pillar from the corner of my eye; my heart skips a damn beat.
“Hello?” My voice is light. “My boyfriend had a little too much to drink.”
Silence.
Fuck this.
I get in the car and drive out the parking lot, driving slow, the road empty.
The cabin’s ready, same steel table bolted down, plastic sheeting everywhere, and the chains hang in place.
I strip him. The stench of his cologne makes my head spin, but I keep going, put the chains on his wrists, hands to the wall, and pulling a cord until his feet barely touch the ground.
“Argh… fuck.” He groans, and I run to lock his feet into place.
His eyes snap open, the whites bloodshot, pupils glassy. He jerks against the restraints, metal chains rattling against the wood wall, but the drugs still make him weak.
“Hi!” I chirp, spinning around.
“Candice? What the fuck?” His voice cracks, blinks hard, glares. “Do you know who I am?”
I snarl. “Why do you all ask that same dumb question?”
Leaning in, I pull the folded photo from my pocket. Its edges are worn soft from handling. “Of course I know who you are.”
I press it against his bare chest, right over his racing heart. “Remember her?”
He looks down, I see it happen, recognition hitting like a blade to the gut. His eyes widen, horror bleeding into every line of his face.
“Daisy,” I sing it, slipping on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of latex echoes in the quiet.
“I—” He yanks at the chains again, panic surging when he sees the knife glint in my hand.
“Mercy! Please—have mercy on me! I didn’t kill her; we let her live!”
He’s sobbing now.
I smile slowly, feeling like a predator cornering prey. “Oh, honey. Mercy is for saints, and I’m definitely not one.”
The blade kisses his skin, right across his chest. I drag a long slow cut, just enough to open him up and let the blood bead before it slides down in thick, dark rivulets.
Henry was too quick. Camden? I’m going to take my time.
His voice shreds into a scream, high and grating.
“Dude, please!” I grab his face, dig my fingers into his jaw until he’s looking straight at me. “Why are you screaming? I thought you enjoyed watching. I know you’re not usually hands-on, but this?” I twirl the knife. “This is art.”
His pitch climbs higher, borderline hysterical.
I chuckle. Playing the unhinged psycho is too damn fun.
A sound cuts through, the faintest shift of air. My gaze flicks to the window above the sink. A shadow lingers there, tall and still, watching. Observing.
My pulse stutters. My hands tremble, not from fear but from the fury of not knowing who’s seeing me.
Eidolon.
If they didn’t turn me in last time, they won’t tonight.
Camden’s still crying. Praying. Promising to change.
Right.
I stab his hand, feeling the resistance of the tendon before it gives.
His scream changes pitch, sharper now. I twist the blade once before yanking it free, but the presence at the window has burrowed into my skull.
I grab Camden’s balls, drag the tip of the knife up his shaft, just a shallow cut, but his breath stutters, tears streak his face, snot glistens under his nose.
Drool slips from the corner of his mouth.
“Please. I’m begging you!”
“How many?” My voice drops to a hiss.
“W-what?” He gags, his eyes wild, the whites huge and frantic. His legs tremble against the restraints, the metal biting deeper into his ankles.
“How many women did you rape or watch your friends rape?” The blade presses into his left testicle. He whimpers and shakes his head.
Wrong answer.
The slice is fast, the blood isn’t. It gushes hot across the plastic, and he vomits, whole body jerking, but he stays conscious.
Good boy.
“Seventeen!” he screams, and I slide a mask over my face. The stench of vomit, sweat, and iron almost makes me gag too.
“Seventeen women…” I pace in front of him, the knife traces his abdomen, a clean, shallow line. “Seventeen women who still wake up screaming your name.”
I glance at the window again. The shadow hasn’t moved, and it’s getting on my damn nerves!
Time to finish this before whoever is out there tries to come in.
The blade bites into Camden’s right side, deeper this time. His scream breaks into something raw, wet. I drop the knife, pick up the scalpel this time.
This one could cut bone. It glides through his right testicle with no effort, the piece hitting the plastic with a soft slap. His scream rips through the air and then, nothing. He’s out cold but still breathing so I go for the other one, my gloves slick now, but when I look up… He’s gone.
No breath, no pulse… unfortunately.
I sigh. “Oh well.”
I turn to his eyes and dig each one out. They're the same shade as Henry's. Ironic.
Slow and steady, I press the testicles into the sockets, one by one, and stitch them shut. I didn’t expect this much blood—he bleeds more than Henry did. It pools thick and slow around my boots, clinging warm to the leather. The air is heavy with copper and bile, metallic enough to coat my tongue.
I roll the plastic up tight around him, release the chains, and he falls onto the cart I brought, the kind for hauling lumber. I drag him into the woods, careful to avoid the spot where Henry rots.
This grave is deeper, and it takes me forever to cover him up with dirt, my arms ache, and my hands shake from exhaustion.
I head back to the cabin, and I strip it all—the plastic sheets, my clothes, the wig—and feed it to the fire pit. I’m down to shorts and a sports bra as I watch the flames licking higher, curling smoke into the night.
That’s when I feel it, hear the branches snapping behind me. The hairs on my arms rise, a cold line down my spine. My pulse kicks hard, but I don’t turn around.
“I’m guessing you’re Eidolon,” I whisper, keeping my voice steady even though my throat feels tight.
“Something like that.” The voice is gravel, deep, calm, dangerous.
“Did you enjoy the show?” My fingers brush the knife hidden at my front, needing the anchor of its weight.
“A little too clumsy for me.” His tone is cold enough to raise goosebumps, and a chill snakes down my spine. I take a breath, forcing myself to turn, finally facing the shadow that saw me kill.
He’s tall, easily above six-four, broad shoulders. He’s wearing cargo pants, combat boots, a hoodie, and gloves. All of it black as the night itself. The only piece of color is on the black balaclava—a jagged red crack painted on the side.
My pulse skips twice, and I’m sure I’m about to have a heart attack.
“Why didn’t you turn me in?” My voice shakes, and I hate it.
“They deserved it.” His boots crunch against burnt leaves as he takes another step.
I don’t back up; I won’t give him that!
“How did you know?”
“I know everything.” Another step.
Now he’s here, towering, massive. I can’t decide if I want to fight him… or—fucking hell!
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. His gloved hand lifts, brushing my cheek, and my skin burns where he touches.
His thumb drags slowly along my jaw, over my throat, stopping just above my chest, right on my collarbone.
My body leans forward into his touch like it has a life of its own.
“But you need to be more careful, hellcat.” His voice is so deep my heart almost forgets how to work. “And get a better knife.”
His head tilts, studying me through the mask.
“That little toy you used?” There is a hint of amusement now. “Pathetic.”
“Oh really?” I lift my chin, smirk, and step in even though my pulse is pounding. “And what kind of blade do you prefer… hmm?”
His hand snaps to my throat so fast I gasp; he holds me here like I belong under his hand. His thumb presses right beneath my jaw. His voice stays low.
“I prefer blades that finish the job.”
I tilt my head and meet his masked face “And if I already have a new knife?” I whisper.
“Show me,” he says, daring me.
So I do.
I slide the knife from my waistband and sink it into his thigh.
His grunt is low, dark and guttural, but he doesn’t fall. I try to pull away, but his hand snaps around my wrist, blood slick between us. He yanks me in, so close I can taste the iron heat of it on his skin, his voice dragging hot across my ear.
“You owe me for that, hellcat,” he growls. “And I always collect.”
Then, just as fast, he lets go and I bolt.
The dark swallows me whole, my lungs burn, my heart slams. I reach the car, wrench the door open, and shove the key toward the ignition, my hands shaking so hard I miss the slot the first time.
Gear. Gas. Tires scream over dirt.
One glance in the mirror and there’s nothing, he’s—gone.
By the time I drop my tools at the safe spot and step into my apartment, my cheeks are flushed, and my neck feels scorched.
What the hell was that? And why is there a pulse between my legs?
No no no no. I just killed a man. Again. This is not the moment to think about some masked freak with shoulders broad enough to block out the world and a voice that could talk me into handing him my soul.
I haven’t been touched in years. And now…
God.
He touched my cheek, my neck, my collarbone and I wanted more.
I collapse onto the bed, exhaling hard.
I need therapy. The lock-me-up kind, and a cold shower.
This is adrenaline.
Has to be, no one gets this wet over a masked psycho.
Right?