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CHAPTER ONE
Diarmuid
AS I STEP onto the dimly lit street, my gaze falls upon an unusual sight—a plethora of flowers left unguarded outside a small shop. The air is cool, and the quiet of the night surrounds me. Rows upon rows of petals, some wilting slightly at the edges, others vibrant as if plucked just moments ago. It's an odd contrast to the steel and concrete that tower over them. Perhaps an elderly shop owner had left them out, believing the good people wouldn’t steal, that they might give a second thought to the shop's livelihood.
But I know better.
This world, with its fleeting moments of beauty, is nothing but a façade. The tales of peaceful streets and good-hearted neighbors—they're mere fabrications sold to us by those in power. Governments say it’s for economic success, when truly it’s greed and religion’s their salvation, when all they want to be are gods that walk the earth, all the while concealing the truth of their human nature. It's a nature I know all too well, having roamed these streets not as a guardian but as an example of what lurks in the shadows. Monsters are what they’d call us. Always taking, never giving back, leaving nothing but destruction in our wake.
The scent of the flowers hits me, overpowering in the stillness of the night. It's a smell I've never been fond of, one that many seem to cherish. They fill their homes with these vibrant colors and intoxicating scents, not realizing the irony. To me, it's the smell of death, of funerals—of endings.
The memories of those funerals linger in my mind, a mix of grief and unknowing accusations. Families wreathed in sorrow, their tears a testament to the void I'd carved into their lives. And there I stood among them, an unseen specter at the feast of their despair. It was a grim irony; the mourner and the cause of mourning intertwined, yet worlds apart.
The night deepens, drawing a veil over the city, and as I watch, the glass door across the street swings open, catching the glint of the streetlight. The sound of the church bell cuts through the silence, and my steps become cautious, deliberate. A group of jovial young men, spilling out from a pub and lost in their revelry, pays me no heed as I slip by, a mere ghost against the backdrop of their fun night out.
My target, the shop owner, remains oblivious to my presence. It's a pattern I've seen play out time and time again—the unawareness of those I follow, right until the very end. He's wrapped in a long coat to protect him against the chill of winter, his breath clouding the air in fleeting wisps. He locks up his store and continues down the street, passing more buildings until he slows down.
His path leads us to a quaint townhouse, its presence marked by a small brick walkway and a door painted a vivid purple. It's a splash of color in the gray concrete buildings we just passed. As he fumbles with his keys, a sudden apprehension takes hold, and he whirls around, his eyes searching the darkness for a threat he can feel but not see.
I remain still, a specter melded with the shadows, watching as he scans the night. There's a tension in him, a primal recognition of being hunted, yet without the sight of the predator. It's a dance as old as time—the prey senses danger, yet the hunter remains concealed, a breath away from revelation.
His gaze eventually moves on, dismissing the nagging feeling of being watched as nothing more than the night's trickery. The key turns in the lock, the door swings open, and I make my move.
As the shop owner turns his back to the night, I close the distance. There's a precision to the movement, a silence born of practice. The door is barely ajar as I push him inside, the sanctuary of his home no longer a safe haven but a stage for the night's final act. The click of the lock is a definitive sound, sealing our fates together in the confines of his world. Tomorrow his shop will not open.
I have no idea what this man has done, but he is on my kill list. With my arm firmly around his neck, he tries to look back at me, his mouth opening slightly like he’s about to plead for his life. But that would do no good. Without giving him another second, I twist his neck, the break quick. His death is over in mere seconds. He slumps in my arms, and I carry him into his living room and lay him down on the floor. I stare down at the old man, wondering when I’ll get tired of this. If I disobey, I will pay the price.
With a heavy exhale, I do what I do best. I spend the next few hours making his body disappear forever. He will become an unsolved murder, just like most of my victims are. Any cameras in the area will be wiped of my appearance. No trace of tonight’s actions will be left.
Returning to my sanctuary, the grandeur of the wrought iron gates is a stark contrast to the dark deeds of the night. I find solace in the seamless integration of technology and tradition. The gates part at the command of my vehicle's signal, a silent welcome in the quiet of the night. In the rearview mirror, I watch them close, sealing me away from the world outside, from the city that pulses with life and death in equal measure.
Here, I am not the hunter nor the hunted; I am simply Diarmuid, master of this domain. Selene and Niamh are in the main living room, and when I arrive, both of them turn and take me in from my toes to the crown of my head. This is the norm for them. Checking me for wounds, like each time I leave, I might not return. Relief washes over both their faces, and it eases some of the tension in my shoulders.
“I’m going for a shower.” I leave the statement open, letting them know they are welcome to join me. I very rarely take a shower alone anymore. Selene is the first to rise from the couch, the black silk nightgown clinging to her perfect body.
“We’ve just showered, but let me run the water for you.” Her gratitude for how I keep her safe never ceases. I keep expecting them to defy my rules, but so far, they have been obedient. Grateful, even. Selene brushes her hand against mine as she walks past, but I circle my fingers around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks.
Pulling her into me, I place a soft kiss on her lips. “Thank you.”
She smiles, and I release her.
Niamh is still watching me. “How did work go?” she asks. I know she’s wondering if I found Amira yet, but I haven’t. Her mother is missing, too, and I’m wondering if her mother came to her senses and took off with Amira in tow. My men are still searching, but it’s frustrating that there have been no sightings of her.
“It went according to plan.” The shop owner's lifeless body assaults my thoughts, and I don’t want to think about what I just did. I walk to Niamh and step to the back of the couch, reaching for her hand. I place a kiss there. “Work is boring; tell me about your day?” I say, pulling her up. She walks around to join me.
“Selene and I baked.”
I smile as I walk. “I was wondering what the smell was.”
She grins. “Liar; that was hours ago. I doubt the smell still lingers.”
She’s right; it doesn’t. All I can smell is her sweet perfume.
The sound of the running water has Selene returning from the bathroom, and I start to take off my clothes. I’ll have to burn them, so I place them in the trash chute. My maids know anything in there must be burned completely.
It’s a pity; I liked the suit. Once I’m naked, Selene and Niamh don’t leave but wait in the bedroom for me, and the thought of having two of my brides waiting makes me wash up quickly. We have grown close since everything has happened, in the most delicious ways.
When I re-enter the bedroom, the curtains are drawn, and the girls are sitting beside each other on the bed. I lean against the doorframe, just looking at them.
