Page 59 of Girl, Reformed

So he ran. Scuttled like a roach throughthe dark cracks of the city, the parts that never saw sun and stank ofhopelessness and human effluvia. Twitchy, glancing over his shoulder everythird step, half-expecting to hear the baying of hounds and the wail of sirenson his heels.

But there was nothing. Just the jaundicedgloom. Piss-stained walls and the smell of rotten fruit between his ears.Dover's rancid underbelly, the seedy substrate where he'd cultivated hisglorious fungi of vengeance.

He laughed to himself. Fungi. Classic bit.

He'd have to write some of this downlater, mine it for material. The harrowing escape, the thrilling pursuit.Stretch it out, punch it up, turn it into a bit that'd make them wet theirpants even as their guts froze in the chest.

But that was for later. For the next town,the next stage. When he'd finished his encore and could finally take his bow,bask in the bravos and the thunderous silence that was sweeter than anyapplause.

He slipped down a narrow passage, morecrevice than alley, brick walls pressing close on either side. It was tight,claustrophobic. A place to hunch shoulders and walk sideways, praying your coatdon't snag on some jagged outcrop or spent needle. He scurried along,rat-quick, sharp little breaths puffing in the fetid dark. Just a littlefurther, a little deeper into the dank bowels of the city and he could reachthe safety of his vehicle.

He stumbled to a halt, chest heaving,sweat stinging his eyes and turning his world to a smeary Vaseline lens.Propped himself up against the clammy wall and felt the damp brick leaching theheat from his skin like some kind of backward vampire. He needed a minute. Justa minute to get himself together, to tamp down the twitchy roil in his gutsthat felt like a stomachful of wasps.

The last one. It all hinged on the lastone, the final piece in his glorious puzzle of payback.

And he already knew where to find theschmuck. Knew his haunts, his habits, the sad little ruts and routines thatmade up his pointless, puttering existence. Had cased him for weeks, swallowedhis own tongue 'til it was thick with the sour taste of surveillance.

The sad sack would never see him coming.He’d go down easy, like a sack of turds in an elevator.

A quick in and out, then exeunt stageleft, with a spring in his step and a song in his shriveled little heart.

This son of a bitch had it coming realbad. He'd earned it in snubs and slights and arrows that stuck in the skin andfestered like thorns dipped in anthrax. Every cutdown, every smirk, every cruelchuckle seared into his memory like a red-hot brand.

Well, he was doling out thepunchlines now. The setups and sendoffs, bloody and final as the tomb. No morethe jester, capering for peanut shells and guffaws. Now he was thestraight man, and all the world his bumbling, stumbling foil.

Infamy. Not fame, never fame - that whorehad spurned him, turned up her powdered nose and laughed in his face. But infamy,oh yes. The dark renown, the black-edged notoriety that clung like a miasma andseeped into the cracks in the pavement.

The last laugh. The ultimatejoke. And he'd be there to see it, to toast it with rotgut and grave dirt, spitand semen and the salt of his own mad, crowing laughter.

It was so close he could taste the greasepaint and smell the sawdust. Just one more. One more, and he'd be immortal.

Laughing. Always laughing, even as theworld gagged and retched and clutched its splitting sides. He'd bring the housedown, alright, and he'd stand in the center of it all, bowing to the twitchingcorpses and the shell-shocked survivors.

And then, at last, blessed silence.

Because a good showman knew when to makean exit. Knew when to step offstage, while the crowd was still writhing andwheezing and crying out for more. Always leave 'em wanting, even if what theywanted was for him to choke on his own blood and die screaming.

So he straightened. Pushed off the clammyalley wall and sucked in a deep breath of that thick, fetid air. Let it fuelhim, nourish him. The stink and the rot, the decay and despair. It was all sodeliciously funny when you really stopped to savor it.

But now it was time to move. To find hisvehicle, stalk his prey, close in for the kill. And when the time was right,when the stage was set and the players all in place, then at last, it would betime for the gag to end all gags.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

The club squatted at the ass-end of agrimy side street. Ella cocked a brow at the faded sign hanging askew above theentrance. Pandora's Toybox. Cute. Probably thought it was real clever,a wink and a nudge to all the dark and dirty delights waiting inside.

‘Looks like this is the place,’ Luca saidfrom the passenger seat.

Ella’s instinct had been wrong, becausedespite the late hour, Lord Leatherworth wasn’t at home. According to Luca’squick-fingered research, he was doing a BDSM show at Pandora’s Toybox at one AMtonight. God only knew what a BDSM show entailed.

‘Charming place,’ she drawled. She fishedinto her pocket for a pack of non-existent cigarettes. Anything to take theedge off, to dull the sense of wrong itching under her skin. Lucagrunted, his pretty face pinched tight.

‘Could this Leatherworth guy really be ourunsub?’

Ella was in two minds. There was everychance their perp had a connection to the BDSM scene, but would such an unsubbe so brazen as to employ the tools of their hobby for homicidal recreation?

‘One way to find out,’ Ella said.

Luca's lips thinned, but he didn't argue.Just squared those broad shoulders like a soldier marching into battle and fellinto step beside her as they exited the car and approached the club. The doorloomed before them in a pockmarked sheet of metal with a slit of a window cutat eye level.

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