Chapter 5 Jasmine #2
I turned slow, scanning the edge of the crowd, filtering for the familiar tingle.
At first, nothing. Then I saw him, standing exactly where the shadow met the lights, face like a slab of carved intent.
The biker from the other night, my dream intruder, Torch, I reminded myself, though that wasn’t the name I’d put to him.
He was just as I remembered. He was taller than I remembered, broad, and every movement minimized to throw off a hunter.
His eyes found me, held me, and for the first time in decades, I felt the goosebumps stand up on my arms.
He didn’t look away. He didn’t check me out, didn’t scan for weaknesses or tally up the kill count. He just watched, like a man who already knew the ending and wanted to see if I’d figure it out before it was too late.
For a split second, I almost bailed. Almost. Instead, I met his stare, matched it, let the fear spike, and then turn. The air around me changed, jumpy and electric, the rest of the carnival fading to a dull roar. I smiled, a tiny flash of teeth, and saw the answer in his eyes.
I’d hunted a thousand men, but none had ever made me want to run.
The moment of fear didn’t last. Fear never does, not when you’re built for appetite.
What came next was the real danger. The thrill.
It shuddered up through my thighs, up my spine, until my lips tingled with it.
He’d seen me—really seen me—and instead of hiding, I wanted to strip off the rest of the mask and let him stare.
If he wanted a show, I’d give him a private one.
He stood at the edge of the midway, boots planted, arms folded, eyes locked on mine as if measuring the precise amount of force needed to snap my neck.
I licked my lips and let my tongue linger, a promise written in spit.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t glance away, not for a second.
For someone that scarred, he sure didn’t carry himself like prey.
I took the first step, pivoting on my heel so the dress flared, then started toward the far end of the carnival where the lights thinned out and the crowd got lazy.
The ghost train. Of course. He wanted a haunted house, I’d give him something to haunt for the rest of his life.
Or the rest of mine, if it went that way.
I put a little more heat into my stride, crossed the midway as the crowd parted for me, and aimed straight for the mouth of the ghost train.
The line was longer than I’d have liked, but the ride operator, a spotty youth with a green mohawk, couldn’t keep his eyes off my chest. I leaned in, gave him a wink, and said, “Is this the line for the best ride in town, or do you have a better suggestion?”
His mouth fell open, and I watched him try to reboot his brain. “Uh. Uh, yeah, I mean, this is it, but if you want, you can, like, go next?”
I let my hand brush his as I dug in my clutch for a bill, the touch lingering just long enough to make his head spin.
The rustle of the cash felt deafening. I peeled off a twenty, handed it over, and watched his hand shake as he fed it into the register.
When he handed me the ticket, the heat from his palm made the stub curl just a little, a fragile, perfect gesture.
I stepped away from the booth, ticket clutched between two fingers, and circled the loading platform.
My heels clicked against the plywood. The air around the ride shimmered, not from heat but from the expectation of what came next.
I paused by the plastic skull at the entry arch, traced a finger over its teeth, and looked up just in time to catch his eyes again.
He’d closed the gap, now only a few feet away, but he didn’t move closer.
Instead, he watched, waited, arms still folded, like a man willing to see how far I’d go before I broke.
The scars on his arms were visible even in the carnival lights, rivers of blue-white that pulsed with every beat of his heart.
It would have been terrifying if it hadn’t been so fucking hot.
I grinned, slow and sharp. I was the bait now, and I liked it.
The ride operator waved me forward, eager to get me out of the line and probably into his own personal horror story. I handed over the ticket, felt the brush of paper on my palm, and let the moment stretch. It felt like a contract, a deal with the devil—one I was happy to sign.
I glanced once more over my shoulder. Torch had moved at last, stalking to the base of the ramp. He didn’t look at the operator, didn’t look at the train, just at me, eyes burning with the kind of focus that makes lesser predators drop dead on the spot.
I flashed him a smile, not a real one, but the kind that shows all your teeth, and stepped inside the ride. The car was waiting, painted in lurid greens and blacks, the seat still warm from the last victim. I sat, crossed my legs, and waited for the game to start.
If he followed, it would be a bloodbath, one way or another.
I traced the edge of the ticket stub, the rough paper digging into my fingertip.
I let myself savor the anticipation, the awareness that for the first time in centuries, I didn’t know what would happen next.
The carnival sounds faded, replaced by the rush of my own pulse, the taste of adrenaline sharp on my tongue.
This was it: the last soul, or the last night. I’d never wanted anything more.
As the car jerked into motion, I pressed my palm to the cold steel bar and whispered, “Let’s play.”
Then I shut my eyes and let the darkness take me.