Page 9 of Reaper's Hunt

“Now, let’s make you pretty, alright?” I tell the guy in the back, imagining him nodding his head as he chokes on his own cock.

Selene

Kickingthecardooropen, I step into the cold night air, thick with the stench of wet stone and decay. My nose scrunches up at the thought of a dead animal messing with my art piece, but I’m already out of the car, and I feel like I need another shower. Besides, this wig isn’t doing it for me, and the sooner I get this shit off, get a drink in me, and find some random guy to fuck me, I’ll be right as rain again.

I move to the backseat, groaning at the way this guy’s weight sinks into it as I drag him over my shoulder and make my way to the tree sitting in the middle of the courtyard. The plastic crinkles in the soft breeze, the loud thud of his body as it slumps against the bark a little too loud for my liking. Granted, no one is out here but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be quiet.

“Stay here for a moment. I need to find the right tools for you. I’m thinking… strung up might be a good name for this art piece.” I pop my hip out, placing a hand on it as I stare at the man slumped over. Yeah, definitely‘strung up’but I’m not sure I have the right equipment.

A cursory look in my trunk tells me I’m right as I continue talking to myself like a fucking psychopath. “What’s it gonna be, huh? Rope’s too flimsy and that’s so cliché to hang you from the branch. Duct tape’s a joke and it’s only fun peeling it off when people are alive. God, the scream that comes after yanking it off…” Heat bleeds through me with the sudden desire to lean further forward and have someone just fuck me right here as I pick out my tools.

Unfortunately, that’s not an option, so I’ll just have to tuck that fantasy away. My gaze sifts through my labyrinth of shiny metal—knives with crusted blades, pliers, a tangled coil of wire—before landing on the heavy-duty staple gun. I pull it out, testing its weight in my hand, and glance at the slumped bastard against the tree. “Nah, you’re not worth the effort,” I say, shaking my head, tossing it back with a clatter. Not to mention, his ribs already gave me issues, and I don’t want to fight with a dead man anymore.

I keep rummaging, hoping that I won’t have to just leave the poor guy there wrapped in plastic. It’s not the work of The Reaper, and I’d never forgive myself. “Come on, give me something worth using.” And that’s when I find it: a hammer, crusted with old paint and blood, and a handful of rusty, industrial nails, long as my forearm, sharp enough to punch through anything. A feral smile splits across my face. “Oh, Gertrude, I never thought I’d need you again, but you’re fuckingperfectfor this.”

I skip back to the guy, starting up a low, twisted tune as I kneel beside him and start delicately unwrapping him like a present. He’s a bloody mess, his open chest already leaking out onto the earth below him as I prop him up. His head flops, something I’ll fix later before I position the first nail over his shoulder, the tip dragging out another small trickle of blood, staining his pale flesh. “This might hurt a little,” I cackle. “Stay still, okay?” I swing the hammer down, the nail crunching through muscle, ripping skin, and crushing bone with a wet, splintering crack. “Guess working out in the gym has been useful for more than just carrying bodies,” I mutter to myself, staring at how more blood wells up, oozing around the metal and adding to the slow, torturous crimson stream. Excitement bleeds through me, mixing with the heat as my desire grows and the love for my art beckons a masterpiece.

I continue hammering that nail until it hits bark, the man’s shoulder now pinned to the tree behind him. If I’m not fast enough, he’ll sag and just tear through the metal. I almost want to watch and see it but we don’t have the time. Moving to his other shoulder, I place another nail and swing again. The impact jars my arm, but I savor every second.

His body jerks as I finish the second nail and start on the third, admiring how he’s taking shape, a grotesque puppet strung up for my amusement. But it’s not enough. I grab another nail, then another, losing myself in the rhythm. One through his wrist, shattering bone to pin it to the trunk by his side. Another through his thigh, the muscle tearing open, blood soaking the grass beneath him. I’m going too far but this is the whole point, isn’t it?

A thorough display of art, of emotion, of however I was feeling at the moment. That punishment comes in death or whatever bullshit I’m supposed to think right now. And so, I continue my assault on a man who has already suffered his crime, albeit not enough.

A nail through his cheek, splitting his face wider, making the dick stuffed in his mouth twitch a little and then flag. Another through his palm, crunching through bone like it’s nothing. Nails through his nose, ear, and one driven into his knee for no reason other than to hear the bone crack beneath my hammer. And then my favorite spot as one goes through his eyeball, the rusty point sinking deep inside, popping the orb with a soft, wet squelch. Blood and fluid drip from the wound, mixing with the red pooling below, and another cackle falls from my lips, showing off the truly demented side of Selene Banks.

I lean forward, running my fingers down his ruined cheek, dragging my touch along the nail there. “You were the most fun I’ve had in a while,” I whisper. “Too bad I can’t get you to play again.” His face is unrecognizable, a pincushion of rust and flesh, my masterpiece complete. This isn’t just a body; it’s art, a warning, a fucking beacon to anyone who dares step here. I wipe my hands on my black leggings, streaking them with blood, the rush still burning through my veins. This is going to be one of the messier cleanups because I wasn’t as careful.

Still, they won’t be looking for me, and even if Harley manages to drag me into the station, I can say I went out on a date with this man. That would explain my DNA. Everything else, I’ll just have to work out as it comes.

Heaving a sigh, I grab my hammer and the plastic before heading back to my trunk. There’s a special trash bag meant to lug all this bullshit back to the house, including my bloodstained clothes, a ritual I’ve gone through time and time again. My concentration is broken as a siren pierces the silence, my grin fading. No one should be here. This courtyard’s dead, abandoned since city hall moved. The sound drags closer and my heart slams against my ribs, a rare jolt of panic cutting through the high.

I shove everything into the trunk, knowing that I’m going to have to completely gut my car before I can use it again. Blood is everywhere, but I don’t have the time to be careful. I slam the trunk shut just as a light flickers in the distance, a cruiser rolling slowly below just on the other side of the courtyard.

I didn’t prepare for patrol. I’m always ready, but this isn’t Harley’s turf, and some asshole must’ve changed the routes. “Fucking shit!” I whisper-yell to myself, about to run over to the driver’s side when the police car takes a sharp turn onto the street I parked. He won’t see the car from where he is, not easily anyway, but if I open my door, the lights will alert him that something is wrong.

Is this where I get caught? Because there is no way to explain why I’m covered in my art’s blood, right now. I need people to find that man in the early morning, to truly understand and take away the gravity of my emotions.

A rough hand clamps over my mouth, an arm locking around my waist as I’m yanked back into the shadows behind a crumbling wall. My scream dies in my throat, knowing that that will only alert the officer to check out his surroundings more thoroughly. Instead, I go rigid, waiting for the cruiser’s lights to pass us. The officer must be blind not to have seen the present I left, but I’m not complaining.

However, now I have a new asshat to deal with. Someone who knows that I just propped up a dead man in the courtyard. I try to shake him off but fail as he pushes me into the stone. His lips brush my ear, sending a shudder down my spine that I hate myself for. “Sparrow,” he murmurs, a dangerous growl following his words, “you really should be more careful.”

My eyes go wide, breath hitching as his lips graze my jaw. Dante is the only one who’s ever treated me like this, but the silky, uneasy edge to this man’s voice is an entirely different vibe. I’m both turned on and a little terrified. The way he’s pressed up against me, fingers sliding around the front of my face to cover my mouth, ensures that I can’t move without his permission.

I try to curse— “The fuck?”—but it’s muffled against his hand.

His other hand moves up my side, threatening to loosen a whimper at the back of my throat. I always need a hard fuck after my kills. Calling Dante would be suspicious, so I was just going to find a bar and some unsuspecting asshole and then leave when he falls asleep. The man behind me rocks his hips against mine, the full length of his arousal nestled against my ass, and when he jerks my head back so that it’s leaning against his shoulder, my neck exposed, I moan.

I fuckingmoan.

“It would be a shame to lose such a pretty thing so early in the game,” he purrs, voice thick with that smug edge that makes my blood boil and my core clench. His hand moves farther north until it’s in my wig and then he yanks it off, grinning. “Ah, there’s my little sparrow.” Silver hair spills into my face, horror filling my chest that this man knows just a little too much about me.

And what the fuck is thissparrowthing?

I wriggle around in his grip, trying to get purchase, when the presence behind me just disappears. There’s nothing behind me or even fading into the bushes and as much as I want to hunt whoever the fuck that was, I don’t have time. Getting back home, burning the shit out of everything I used, and then leaving this town are the only next steps I need to be focused on.

So much for that drink and fuck I was planning on.

Selene

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