Page 78 of The Cruelty of Thorns

I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but maybe that was true. Most of the people I had encountered in this society were constantly in search of gratification of one form or another. Nothing was private with them, and I was a big proponent of privacy. I had to be. That’s part of the reason I had chosen my current home. On the hill secluded behind a high hedge at the end of the block. Forbidding to look at, like the house itself discouraged visitors. The only other person besides Myra who had been inside since I’d bought it was the cleaning woman who came once a week to keep it tidy, and I paid her well to mind her own business. Lucky for her, she did.

Myra’s food arrived, and she busied herself with eating for a few minutes while I watched her, wondering what exactly I was going to do about her. It was obvious my infatuation had moved beyond simple observation. Now that I’d had a taste of being with her, I wanted more. I just worried my desire for her would lead beyond sex, and I didn’t know if I could control myself indefinitely in those situations.

I hadn’t killed a victim in decades, and that time was intentional, so I knew I had it in me to meter my thirst. But Myra aroused a passion in me that hadn’t been awakened in a long time. It was a dangerous game, and if I intended to keep playing it, I was going to have to ensure I was well-fed before I met with her. How I would accomplish that was the problem. Most of my victims were asleep when I fed off them, which meant it was late at night. I couldn’t expect Myra to wait until after midnight to meet with me, so I was kind of stuck.

The only alternative was to use the hookers that plied their trade on the southern end of the bar district. When I’d first come to town years ago, they had been my primary feeding source, but even they’d get suspicious if a girl showed up with neck wounds and blood loss several times a week. I had to feed nightly, and there were only a limited number of prostitutes available. Besides, despite my impromptu coupling with Myra the previous night, I hated having sex in dirty alleys. The risk of discovery was too great, especially if something went wrong. And as much as I tried to be careful, that was always the chance I took.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Myra said, her eyes scrutinizing me. “I’d say you were brooding.”

I cocked a brow. “Brooding?”

“Yeah, you know, like the mysterious master of the big old house on the hill. Very Brontë.”

“So I’m like the hero from a romance novel?”

She grinned. “Yeah. All you need is a tragic backstory.”

“Maybe I have one.”

“Maybe you do. You’ve already seduced the innocent young governess.”

“You’re a governess now?”

“Artistic license.”

“I think maybe you read too much.”

We shared a smile. “I do love a good story,” she replied. “Maybe I’ll write one about you.”

“I hope you paint me in a favorable light.”

“You’re the hero. What other way is there?”

♦ ♦ ♦

After Myra finished her pancakes–and I was insistent she ate every bite–I walked her back to her dorm and kissed her goodnight. She had wanted to know when she would see me again, and I told her I wasn’t sure. That I had some things I had to take care of.

“I’ll find you when I’m available,” I promised her. “But I don’t want you wandering around in town.”

“You’re very bossy,” she had teased, but when I assured her it was for her own safety, she promised to be good and do what I’d asked.

It was still too early to visit my current source of blood, so I decided to wander through the bar district to see if I could discover any evidence of the one who was committing these killings. I had my suspicions, but I wanted to be sure before I acted. The fact that they were leaving such a distinct calling card meant they were someone who didn’t care about protocol among our kind. And I knew they knew of my presence. Why else stage the murders like they did, as though they were thumbing their nose at me? It was a dare, plain and simple.

The crowds were thinner in the bars and the police presence was notably more prevalent, but I didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary. I stepped inside a couple of bars, had a glass of wine in one to pass the time, fending off the attention of a young woman who’d had far too much to drink. I hoped she had someone to escort her home, because in her present state, she was a victim looking for a crime, but I didn’t care enough to make it my problem. Victims were born every day.

It was just past midnight when I made my way back through town toward the modest neighborhood where my current blood source lived. I’d found her while she was out jogging and followed her home, waiting in her backyard until she had fallen asleep. As I approached the house on this night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Chalking it up to my general uneasiness since this current killing spree had gripped the city, I lingered in the shadows outside the house for several minutes.

When I was satisfied I was alone on the street, I stole up the walkway to the front porch and reached for the doorknob. Usually I had to force the lock open, but tonight the knob turned easily, as though the woman had forgotten to lock her door. I found that odd, considering the wave of fear that had gripped the populace in light of the recent murders. I entered the house and closed the door behind me, listening carefully. The only sound was the steady hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the faint ticking of the battery-operated clock on the livingroom wall. There was nothing coming from the bedroom where the woman slept.

The smell hit me before I got to the door of her room.

Blood.

The air was charged with the meaty scent, and I wondered how I hadn’t noticed it from the front porch. It was the driving force of my life, a singular smell I could pick out in the middle of the most odorous surroundings. Which meant there must not have been much to notice.

I pushed open the door to the bedroom and took in the scene. The woman was splayed across the bed, her bare legs spread wide, her eyes open and staring vacantly, her throat gaping from the ragged, empty wound. No blood on her skin or bedclothes, but there was something I picked up right away.

The musky scent of cum.

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