Page 16 of The Trick

Once I find my way out of this mess that she put me in, I’m going to fucking ruin her.

She better get ready, because all those countless chats she spent going on about wishing she could meet her devilish match, are about to become the rude awakening she needs. Blair Van Tassel’s life is now mine to toy with just like she will be mine,dead or alive.

Final girl my fucking ass.

CHAPTERSEVEN

PRESENT DAY - HALLOWEEN EVE

I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that I’m about to kill the third person who has shown up unannounced to my house this week alone or that I need to use poison to do so. It’s not that I’m opposed to death by poison per se. I mean, I have an entire garden filled with deadly herbs and flowering plants just waiting for occasions like the one I find myself in right now. However, I can’t help but to feel that it’s incredibly anticlimactic. Sure, it gets the job done but it’s too…neatand lacks that personal touch I crave so much.

My appreciation for how blood sprays haphazardly from a freshly sliced carotid, or the way it gathers and then drips from a deep stab wound to the abdomen, has grown over the years. But blood, much like life, is messy and unpredictable. Not to mention, incredibly time consuming to clean. If I didn’t have to leave for my shift at Satan’s soon, I’d indulge myself in a little blood play, but I’m expected to be there tonight…on time. Hence the triple dose of aconite and deadly nightshade to this fucker’s tea to help speed up the process.

Usually, I wouldn’t complain about having to go to work. Dancing at Sleepy Hollow’s one and only high end gothic strip club, Satan’s Stiletto, isn’t a bad gig. The pay is good, the atmosphere is dark –just how I like it– and the owners Carmine Moretti and his cousin, Alex, are pretty chill to work for. However, since I observe Halloween and Devil’s Night like most would a religious holiday, I usually have off for both nights.

Though as fate would have it, the girl who was supposed to be this year’s Katrina Van Tasselhad to go help at Carmine’s main business venture, Marked Inc., at the Halloween gala.

Tonight is the annual charity gala for Marked Inc. While Satan’s pre-Halloween festivities involve an annual costume contest known as the Horseman’s Hollow’s Duel.

Each year, the participating patrons pay a fee to enter. Half the participants dress as the Headless Horseman while the other half dresses as Ichabod Crane. Then they duel, which is a dramatic way of saying the audience votes on whose costume they like out of the two and the winner gets to spend the evening with that year’s Katrina Van Tassel in one of the private lounges.

If only Washington Irving knew his famous story was the inspiration for a Halloweencostume contest at a strip club, I’m sure he’d be rolling in his grave.

Reaching my gloved hand toward the potted Wolfsbane on the countertop, I pluck a few more leaves to put in the stone mortar, just to ramp up the potency. As I begin to smash the aconite in with the generous amount of deceptively sweet berries that are alreadyin the stone bowl, an irritating sound breaks my concentration.

Mortar and pestle still in hand, I turn my head. My impromptu house guest, Brody, I believe he said his name was, is adjusting his posture in the wooden chair, causing the chair legs to scrape against the tile floor with each obnoxious movement he makes.

Faking a smile, I clear my throat to steal his attention from where he is still messing with the damn chair. “Almost ready,” I sing.

Finally settling in the chair, he turns his attention to me. He’s a bit older than I would usually go for, but his scruffy beard and bright green eyes suit him. It really is a shame that I have no choice but to kill him. With the random rise in people showing up to my house trying to gain information on my rumored involvement with the Campbell murders, he’s a potential liability to my freedom. So, cute random guy who decided to show up at my house for reasons still unknown, has to go.

“You know, you really don’t need to go through all that trouble for a cup of tea, Ms. Van Tassel. I’m fine with a glass of tap water,” he says. “This will only take a minute of your time.”

He has a point, but water isn’t going to make his throat tighten to the point of suffocation or make him convulse until his heart and lungs give out, now, will it?

I bring my focus back to where I have the nightshade berries smashed in the mortar. With my back now turned to him, I click my tongue, pressing the pestle harder making sure to blend the Wolfsbane leaves into the bowl. “Don’t be silly. It’s just part of being a good hostess,” I say in an unusually poised tone that makes me feel like an alien has overtaken my body. “So, Mister…” my voice drags, because I don’t remember him mentioning a last name.

“Van Brunt,” he answers, suddenly sounding uneasy. “Guess that would have helped if I gave you my full name, huh?” he chuckles.

I return his laughter with my own as I reach for the metal tea ball that rests on the countertop. We remain in awkward silence while I fill the sphere with the fresh leaves and herbs. “So, Mr. Van Brunt, you still haven’t told me why exactly you’re here, other than mentioning you have something that belongs to me.” I remind him. I don’t turn to look at him, but I can feel just how uneasy the truth in my statement makes him feel.

“Umm,” he begins, dragging his tone, clearly not sure of what to say. That’s alright, I’ll get it out of him, one way or another.

Fully submerging the steel ball into the hot water that I had already poured from the kettle; I take a deep inhale. Mentally bracing myself as I’m about to pivot towards him for more forced pleasantries and small talk. “You were saying?” I ask, facing him.

The nerves I detected in his voice just moments before are now written all over his face. The point of his Adam’s apple protrudes further from his neck as he swallows hard, keeping his mouth shut.

Swaying my hips, like I do when I first take the stage when I’m dancing, I begin a seductive and arguably cringe worthy walk towards Mr. Van Brunt. His awkward demeanor only intensifies the closer I get to where he sits, still speechless. “Here you go,” I say in a breathy whisper. Placing the hot mug on the table, I purposely lean my chest close to where he is sitting so that my cleavage that is already bursting from my leather bodysuit consumes his vision.

Eyes glued to my tits, he grabs hold of the mug, cupping it in both hands as he brings it towards his mouth.

Good boy.

I move to the other side of the table, clicking my heels and exaggerating the way my hips naturally sway so I can sit across from him. “Go ahead, take a sip, don’t wait for it to cool. We like our drinks hot in this house,” I wink. “So, why are you–” I begin as a slurping sound breaks from where his lips are now pressed against the mug.

Holy fuck, I’m so happy I spiked this man’s tea with a blend of untimely death because he is literally insufferable.

Transferring the mug that he was just cupping with both hands to one palm, he waves his free hand in the air, motioning for me to stop talking. He begins to mumble something into the cup, taking another healthy swig before placing the mug down on the wood tabletop. My eyes widen, hoping he is finally going to answer my damn question.

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