Page 180 of Bad for Me

“My name is Sinister.”

2

SINISTER

Now

The disheveled manglares at me with a defiant glint in his eye. I chuckle, a dark and foreboding sound that would send most fleeing in terror. The citizens of Arcadia City whisper my name, afraid to invoke The Carver. Parents use me to keep their children in line—a boogeyman of sorts.Go to bed, Timmy, or Sinister will come.

As if I would ever hurt a child.

This piece of shit in front of me, though? He’s another story. It’s been fourteen years since I last laid eyes on him. He was the one to take my sister from me, and now, he’s going to tell me where Limp Dick’s hidey-hole is. He went off the grid about a year after I pulled myself out of the river, and there have been very few sightings since.

I can’t wait to come face-to-face with the monster of my youth.

“Most men wouldn’t dare look at me with such disrespect,” I murmur, spinning my knife between my fingers. “Especially not while hanging naked from the ceiling in chains.”

“Fuck you, Sinister. I ain’t telling you nothing.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “You know who I am.”

“All of Arcadia knows who you are. The Carver, Aidan O’Brien’s lackey.” His blue eyes flick over my large frame and dismiss me like I’m nothing special. “A glorified lapdog that heels when his master calls.”

I hum and move closer to him. Sweat glistens on his brow, giving away his fear. I’ll give him credit; he hides it well. It’s a testament to his loyalty to Richard—usually by the time my shadow crosses their door, they’re on their knees, spilling their secrets before I so much as lift a finger.

“Is that the only way you know me, Jacky boy?” I ask, running the flat blade down his chest. “By my reputation?”

Jack leans back, the whites of his eyes showing. He struggles against the chains spreading his arms and legs out wide, like Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. It seems Jack can only hold on to his mask of bravado for so long. I wonder how much longer—and what I’ll have to resort to—before he begs me for mercy.

I have none. Not anymore.

“Let me refresh your memory,” I say when he doesn’t answer my question. “Think back. Fourteen years ago, you stormed into a fortress in the woods. You ripped a young girl out of a boy’s arms. You defiled her, strangled her, and left her body alone in the cold.”

The acrid stench of ammonia hits me when Jack’s bladder releases. Ah, there it is. Now he knows why he’s here, and the knowledge he won’t walk out of here alive makes him slump in the chains.

“There, there, Jacky. All you have to do is tell me where Richard is. No, wait. I also want the location of my sister’s grave. She deserves a proper burial, doesn’t she?”

Jack shakes his head. “You’re going to kill me anyway. I’m not telling you anything.”

A vicious smile splits my face. “I was hoping you’d say that.” I kneel at his feet, uncaring that my black pants soak up Jack’s piss. I take his foot in my hand and run a finger down the top. He jerks and tries to pull it out of my grasp, but my fingers tighten around it. “I like to start from the bottom,” I say while gliding my knife around his ankle. “I find it works better that way.”

The knife cuts into his skin and circles around his ankle. It splits beautifully, peeling back as I go. I ignore Jack’s cries and slide the knife up the back of his calf to his knee and cut another circular mark there. Warm scarlet blood seeps from the cuts, the metallic tang heavy in the air. My mouth waters at the sight, and I hum a nonsensical song as I work.

“Last chance, Jacky boy. Tell me where they are.” I raise a brow, but he clenches his teeth. “Okay, then.” My fingers dig into the cut along his calf. “Ready? One…two…three.” It takes several tugs, but his skin separates from his leg, leaving behind gleaming muscle. His screams pierce the air, bouncing off the walls in a stunning symphony of agony.

I grin up at him, pleased with the noises he makes. “I’m going to do your thigh next, Jack. Unless you’re ready to talk?”

“Fu-fuck you,” he groans, his fists clenching.

“As you wish.”

I repeat the process on his thigh, followed by his other leg. When he passes out, I take a break to admire my work. The human body and all its magnificence has always fascinated me. The intricate webbing of nerves and vessels, the flow of muscles, the hard-working organs determined to keep us alive.

It took me years to develop my techniques, for my knife to become an extension of my body. I wield it much like an artist does their paintbrush, bringing masterpieces of blood to life. It’s why they call me The Carver. Unlike butchers, who have no care for how they dismember bodies, I’m more of an artist. Each body is a piece of work I leave my signature on.

When boredom sets in, I push off the wall and wander over to the trolley I prepared earlier. There’s no point working on an unconscious body. I dose him with a shot of epinephrine, followed by a special little dose of something The Chemist worked up. He’s very picky about naming things, so although he created the serum over a year ago, it still hasn’t got a name. But it’s fucking magic in a syringe.

When you combine it with epinephrine, it not only speeds up the heart, draws blood away from the skin, and makes your lungs work more efficiently, but it also keeps you conscious, no matter how much pain you’re in. And it comes with an additional bonus—it amplifies your pain receptors, making a paper cut feel like an amputation.

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