Page 24 of Lovely Violent Things

I shrug. “Every villain has their motive, sweet little Halen. Usually a virtuous one.”

While Halen seeks hidden clues, I try to curb my growing impatience. I slam the red leather book closed and set it aside, my wandering attention drawn to other objects on the desk.

“Back in the eighteenth century, there was a British secret society called the Hellfire Club,” I say, angling a map my way. “Their motto was: Do what thou will. Another take on the Will to Power.” I trace a finger over the map of the town, following creeks through the marshland and beyond. “The society met in caves. The Hellfire Caves. Rumors sparked that it was where the members offered sacrifices to Bacchus, the Roman equivalent of Dionysus. The society practiced black magic, pagan and satanic rituals, orgies.”

She peeks down at me from the top rung. “Does this have a point, Kallum?”

I smile at the way she says my name so casually when she’s distracted. “You never know what tidbit will be useful.”

“Speaking of useless information…” she says, making me chuckle. She uses her foot to roll the ladder and reposition herself. “You said at the hunting grounds that the killer chose his victim as a scapegoat. Explain.”

I rub my palms together, giving the healing, irritated cuts much needed friction. Halen accepts the truth better when she comes to her own conclusions. “What are you looking for?”

She shakes her head. “Are you going to explain what you meant back there?”

“No. Not until you tell me something first.” I push off the desk. “Why are you here with me, alone, if you truly believe I’m capable of a heinous act like the one at the hunting grounds.”

“We’re not alone. Agent Hernandez is here.” She slides a section of books aside as she plunders the top shelf. “Are you avoiding my question because you don’t actually have a theory?”

I stalk closer to the bookcase. “Are you avoiding mine because you don’t either?”

She wants me to be the killer. Locking me away forever would be so much easier for her. No conflicting feelings to confront, no dark little cravings to provoke her. If she had any evidence at all, or even a sound theory about the Harbinger crime scene, I wouldn’t be here right now.

The atmosphere of the library charges, the rain pelting the stained-glass windows to further the tense silence.

“What are you really looking for here, Halen?”

Her gaze finds mine. “The murder weapon.”

I narrow my gaze on her. “If I was the killer, I wouldn’t plant the evidence to damn me in the one place where authorities would search.”

“Then where did you plant it?” She angles her body so she can glare down at me. “There wasn’t much time, so did you stash it somewhere close to the crime scene?”

Her accusation hangs in the current snapping between us as we lock gazes.

The carving knife. The one I used during the ritual to slash my palms. On reflex, my hands curl into fists to reopen the wounds, the fresh pain satisfying.

She thinks the knife was used to kill and sever the head of the victim. She’s not here to search for that weapon. She’s here to force a confession from me.

“You’re quite adept at manipulation tactics yourself, little Halen.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s an insulting question.”

“What’s insulting is—” Her words break off as she turns and tries to reposition her grip.

I see the moment the ladder shifts, and she loses balance.

Halen’s foot slips from the rung. She curses as she futilely grasps at the rail. I rush to reach her in time, jamming my foot on the bottom rung to stop the ladder just as I catch her, curling her lithe body into mine.

For a stunned moment, she doesn’t fight me. Her hair has fallen free of the band to slip over the side of her face. Giving in to the fierce demand, I sweep the defiant streak of white behind her ear.

Drawn into the gravity of her gaze, I trail the backs of my fingers down her neck, where she’s tried to conceal the bruises beneath a layer of makeup in an attempt to keep me from them. Then I drift farther down, across the bite mark on her shoulder, over the ink on her forearm she hides under her clothes, the bruises and rope burn on her wrist, not stopping until I reach her thigh.

She tenses in my arms as I dip my hand between her legs.

“Kallum…” She places her hand over mine.

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