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YARA
Darkness is a familiar feeling, like an old friend with whom you’re comfortable sharing even the nastiest parts of yourself. It’s like a book you read repeatedly until your skin is tattooed with words, until your memory bleeds with the lives between the pages.
It was the only constant in my life.
I loved the place because of how dark it always was. Down On Luck was an Irish pub full of drunk, loud people who wouldn’t look twice at you—it was exactly what I needed to stalk Victor Bane, my next sacrificial lamb bleating to be butchered.
“Your whiskey, ma’am.” The bartender slid the cold glass of Jameson toward me. I took a sip of the smooth drink, my eyes scanning the crowd for my target. Victor would be here every night with one of his many women at eight o’clock on the dot, but he was missing tonight. “Do you need anything else?” the bartender asked as I played with my blonde wig.
“No,” I replied, settling onto the stool, mingling with the shadows. This part of the bar was the darkest, lit only by a dim yellow light, and I preferred it that way.
My phone vibrated with a text message. Pulling it out of my purse, I read the text with an indulgent smile.
Detective R: U r a lifesaver, Dr. West. I want to send you 100 scalpels.
Me: I’ve got enough scalpels. How about u get me a new bone saw? The old one makes this weird chewing noise when I cut through corpses.
Detective R: I got you! 1 new bone saw coming right up :)
Smiling and wondering what the good detective would say about my nighttime activities, I switched off my phone and put it back inside my purse.
An erotic song filled the air, and bodies moved together, drawn in by the voice. I was singing under my breath when a man slid onto a stool a couple of spots away from mine. He was wearing a dark shirt and a cap pulled low over his brows, covering half of his face. His voice was a hoarse command when he ordered a whiskey.
His shirt, casually rolled above the elbow, showed off his toned muscles. My eyes lingered on the tattoo of two intertwined snakes on his hand, starting from his wrist and disappearing into his shirt sleeve.
He raised the whiskey glass to his lips. “You’ve been staring.” His voice was deeper than the fucking Pacific Ocean, and my body trembled.
“I-I didn’t—” I stammered, caught off-guard. My stomach tilted uneasily. It almost felt like nervousness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. The snakes are fascinating.”
“You’re still staring,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m not someone you want to bring home from a pub. I wouldn’t be good company.”
Oh, that smug son of a bitch.
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, but did I miss the part where I invited you into my bed?” I retorted, my voice sharper, my pulse stronger. Frowning, I slammed my empty glass on the counter and ordered another round of whiskey. I needed more to survive this madman.
He shrugged, leaning over the counter, his shirt tightening over his muscles and my throat went dry. My eyes lazily traced his big hand—I wanted his hand around my fucking throat. Just the thought of it made me breathless.
Fuck, Yara, that’s insane! Kat sounded so close as if she were right next to me. I wished she was.
I am insane. The proof’s right here, Kat. You’re still talking to me. You’ve been dead for four years.
“Well, I guessed because you keep staring,” he said, his voice tinged with laughter.
“Next time, don’t. You’re not good at guessing,” I snapped, while my intestines performed a pas de bourrée followed by a jeté to the strange beat of my heart.
“Well, I think I’m quite good at that,” he said, emptying his drink. “I’ve never—”
“Fuck you, you little whore.” A voice cut through the beat of the music.
I scanned around for the owner of the voice until my eyes landed on a stocky, blistering man. My fingers tightened around the glass, already itching to cut him into pieces.
Control. It’s all about control. Kat whispered. Remember how the animals hunt?
Kat had taught me how to be patient and to hide in plain sight until it was time. We used to watch the Discovery Channel together, watching how the animals stalked and hunted. Waiting was the first step of a good hunt.
“I said no, Phil. Are you deaf? No,” the woman in front of Phil said, struggling to pull away from his hold. Her chair fell, breaking the night air. Heads turned, but nobody moved.
The man next to me let out a low growl, his hands tightening into fists. “Excuse me.” Without another look at me, he walked away.
