Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
BOSTON
My soon-to-be wife. The thought is like fire in my brain. She’s … infuriating, yes, but brilliant in a way that makes every nerve in me stand at attention. And to realize she’s the one they call Venom? That changes everything.
A few years back, a couple of deaths looked like they were caused by heart failure.
They were ordinary cases at first glance, but one family requested an autopsy.
The pieces clicked, and suddenly the media was speculating there was a new serial killer in our midst. Tiny needle.
Venom injected directly into the bloodstream.
No marks, no trace, just like a sting from a box jellyfish.
And the question that haunted me… How many others did we miss?
And it was her.
Clever, cold, murderous little vixen.
And somehow, knowing it, seeing her now… I’m proud. Proud and fucking obsessed. I can’t stop thinking about how she moves, how she thinks, how she kills. She would terrify any other man, but I’m completely captivated.
Knocking on the door, I wait for someone to answer, and no one does.
It’s dark out here on the outskirts of Las Vegas.
Victor loves Vegas. He loves that he can get away with so much here.
It’s one of the reasons I had to come and see him.
It’s been a while since I last checked in with him.
And while he’s helped the Forsaken before, he’s not someone we would consider a member, because he has not been officially initiated.
I pound on the back door again, and finally it opens. There he is, all six-foot-seven of him, and appearing fucking angry as hell, which is how he usually looks.
His jaw is set in a hard line as his eyes meet mine. “What?” he growls.
“You don’t answer calls anymore?” I don’t dislike Victor, but I respect what he does.
“Busy,” he grumbles.
“You don’t answer emails either,” I say.
“Fuck the emails.”
Releasing a breath, I shake my head. “Soren sent me,” I tell him, which is a half-truth. Our membership numbers are dwindling, and since I just found another member dead, thanks to my future wife, I knew I had to act sooner rather than later.
He turns, goes back inside, and leaves the door hanging open.
Victor is basically an honorary member of the Forsaken Society.
And though he isn’t truly one of us, Soren trusts him with most of our secrets.
He’s content being on the fringes of the society, and he’s a safe option for disposal of bodies.
I step inside and close the door, then follow him into a back room where he dons a shiny black apron and a pair of latex gloves.
“What does he want?” he grumbles.
“He wants you to join,” I tell him.
Not looking up at me, Victor starts peeling the skin back on the arm of the body on his table, and he has a small smirk on his lips as he does it.
Hardly anything bothers me. I’ve seen many crime scenes, the most horrific, gruesome things you can think of. Fuck, I kill people myself. But what Victor does? Well, that’s a little more fucked up than even I can take most of the time.
“Busy,” he mumbles.
“Victor.” My tone is hard, and he stops and raises his head, meeting my eyes.
Blood coats the floor beneath the table, and body parts are everywhere.
Victor is what we refer to as a cleaner. Got a body you need to get rid of? He will clean it and dispose of it for you. What he also does is play with said bodies before making them disappear. Which makes him as fucked up as the rest of us.
Actually, probably even more so.
Definitely more.
“I’m not doing your initiation bullshit,” he growls.
“We know, Victor, but you have to attend the next hunt. That isn’t negotiable.”
“The parties?” he asks.
“You have to go to at least a few so the other members get to know you and you get to know them.”
“I don’t want to know them. I know you and Soren. That’s all I need to know.”
“I’ll send you the details,” I tell him.
He goes back to work on the arm, and I pause as I reach the door.
“Victor.”
“Hmm?” His focus remains on the body.
“I need a witness. Care to come to a wedding?”
He stops what he’s doing, then locks eyes with me, his narrowed. “I hate weddings.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Sure,” he says on a heavy sigh, and drops the scalpel.
“Make it quick, or the bride may very well end up on this table,” he warns as he removes his apron.
I think about Maven and how she might relish the thought of strapping someone down and playing with their body parts.
Fuck, right now, she’d probably choose that person to be me.
“I think you’ll like her,” I tell him.
“I don’t like anyone.”
“Even me?”
“Especially you,” he mumbles.
I chuckle, not believing him.