Page 3 of A Wild Darkness

“You really should quit. That shit is not healthy for you,” River says in judgment.

“Fuck you,” I say, taking in a drag. I should quit and have wanted to for some time, but after each kill, I always reach for one. “Fine, whatever, there will come a day when I do. But it’s not today.”

“Maybe sooner than later?” River slides his phone back into his pocket. “Hayden and the night crew are pulling around the back.”

I nod, drawing in a long puff.

River walks out the back door, before returning a moment later with Hayden, who is my right-hand man and one of our closest friends.

“Not too bad,” Hayden comments as he walks into the room, followed by our small but lethal group. The night crew is a group of guys that help with our nighttime activities, handling cleanup and disposal.

I hop off the counter. “I’m headed out. Call me if you need anything.”

River is right behind me as we leave the crew to clean up and step out of the back door and into the small alley behind the studio. We then take a sharp left toward the end of the building where our cars are parked.

“What’s the status on the Black Veil Society?” River asks as we pass small businesses still closed up from the night. “Do you and Christian have a plan to reach out to them?”

I shrug. “Yes, there has been movement. Not as much as I’d like, but I’m eager to get started.”

The Black Veil Society is a centuries-old secret society of serial killers. It was believed to be an urban legend until one of the Society’s cards was found on the body of Andrew Hughes, one of our targets. Andrew was a hotel heir trying to recreate his brother’s sex ring. The card is embossed with a shiny cream-colored font with the words Black Veil Society written on the front, while a ten-digit telephone number is written on the back. It’s been a couple of weeks since Christian, our FBI contact, has been researching the FBI databases on the group before we contact them.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I slip it out. It’s Christian calling.

“Speak of the devil,” I say to River as I answer the call. “What’s up, man? Did you find anything?”

“Not a lot to report.” Disappointment fuels his tone. “But what I do know is that they might have established chapters throughout the country.”

They first came on the radar of the FBI with the surge of serial killers from the 1970s. But with the crackdown on crime and advancements in forensic technology throughout the 1990s, they were thought to have dissolved.

The allusiveness of the group only makes me hungrier to bring them down. The thrill of the hunt. But ultimately it was the tragic deaths of my and River’s parents that sent us down this road—a job gone wrong that would forever change the course of our lives.

“Chapters?”

“Yeah, so basically, I’m theorizing there might be smaller groups making them harder to detect. They can organize small-scale killings without causing too much alarm,” he explains.

I blow out a breath of annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear.”

“Sorry, bro, I wish I had more information before we infiltrate them,” Christian offers.

“River and I are on our way back to the Thompson Manor. I’ll touch base with you soon.”

“In the meantime, I’ll check in with my local ground contacts. Strip clubs, truck stops, and informants,” he says.

“Sounds good, we’ll talk soon,” I tell him before ending the call.

I stop short when I sense someone staring at me from behind.

“What are you doing?” River asks.

A small black cat with matted fur is looking right at me. “He’s cute.”

River cranes his neck around me and glances down. “It’s a cat.”

“Oh?” I say, glancing at the tiny black kitten perched on top of a tin trash can lid. He’s staring right at me. “He’s a little guy.”

We both turn our backs to the kitten and head back to our cars, but he continues following us.

I turn around to see he’s right on our heels. “Is he following us?”