KALLUM
Day drinking has its benefits.
Like, say, when an infuriatingly maddening scent is embedded in your pores, and the only way to gain a clear thought is to drink your wits away. Ironic.
I throw back a shot of bourbon and breathe out the fumes through clenched teeth, then nod to Pal. I point down at the shot glass on the bar.
Pal—the owner who also bartends at Pal’s Tavern—gives the two special agents at the end of the bar top a wary glance before he grabs the bottle with a silver pourer.
“They don’t exist,” I tell Pal, trying to ease his worries of being reprimanded by the officials.
“Sure, buddy,” he says to pacify me, but pours me another shot just the same.
The way I see it, Pal owes me one. This whole damn town does. The proof of that scrolls across the flatscreen mounted above the rack of liquor bottles.
The ritual mangler of Hollow’s Row has been caught.
Caught isn’t exactly accurate, but I suppose the complete explanation is too long and complicated for the marquee bar. And honestly, whoever came up with that moniker should be eviscerated.
Pal turns up the volume on the TV when the updated news report starts.
The Hollow’s Row task force has officially released the name of the deceased suspect alleged to have been responsible for the two gruesome crime scenes of dissected body parts discovered in a marshland. The suspect, Leroy Landry, attacked an official while working one of the crime scenes earlier this morning. Landry died of complications during the attack. The official was taken to urgent care to treat injuries and is reported to be in good, stable condition. A new report from the task force announced Landry had the fatally lethal hemlock plant in his system. Further investigation into Landry is underway. There is no new updates on the whereabouts of the victims of the crime scenes.
I toss a sluggish glance outside the picture window. News crews from all over the country pack the narrow streets of downtown. Once the story broke, there was no holding back the circus.
Halen has been in a closed debriefing with Agent Alister for half the day. I was questioned briefly and released after the GPS data confirmed I’d been in my hotel room all night.
According to the FBI report I was able to obtain from my tagalong agents, Leroy Landry, who, besides having an unfortunately boring name for a man that wanted to deify himself, was confirmed to be the local’s prime suspect: the Hermit.
Did he become a recluse before or after he started altering his appearance to be so intimidating? The news report left a lot of interesting details out. The feds won’t be able to keep the media ignorant for long.
Not only did a sweep of Landry’s home prove his wine cellar was filled with wine-making apparatus, his home library housed a plethora of books on ancient Greek philosophy, Nietzsche, Aleister Crowley, and many other esoteric research material which can all be tied back to the profile.
And, besides having no eyes or ears, he was also missing his tongue. Which makes sense now as to why he was merely grunting and growling. Although, I was more impressed when I thought it was part of his dedication to the bestial personification.
Setting the shot glass on the bar, I spin the glass three times. Then I drive my bandage-covered hand through my hair and expel a breath. “Another,” I tell Pal.
This time, however, Pal takes no sympathy on my misery. “You’re cut off.”
I push the shot glass to the edge of the bar. Just as well. Pal isn’t giving me any celebratory drinks, just as the agents aren’t buying. I’m not the hero. There are no heroes in this story. But since I don’t have access to funds, this drinking session is on Dr. Verlice.
I lay Stoll’s credit card on the bar.
I’m not deliberately trying to drink her from my thoughts. That would be impossible. Obsessions don’t yield so easily.
I’m just trying to learn to breathe without her.
I revel in the burn at the back of my throat, savoring it like I savor Halen’s fiery fragrance that sears my senses more fiercely than any watered-down bourbon.
I was quite possibly delusional in my pursuit. I should have locked her up in the basement of my mountain home like a fucking lunatic and rubbed lotion on her skin until she accepted our inevitability.
But when her pleading hazel eyes—so full of anguished heartache—seared through me, she gave me little choice. She owned me in that moment. I sold my soul to my muse, the little fairy creature of myth, and I charged a sigil right on her flesh.
Did I believe it would work?
That she’d vanish into the night and forget all our atrocities?
There was just enough curiosity left inside me to say fuck it, let’s see what happens.
Here’s the truth of it: No matter the method of practice or conjuring—whether you’re a believer or agnostic—it all comes down to the “will to power.”
Nietzsche’s mind over matter.
Or, as Aleister Crowley, one of Nietzsche’s most devoted disciples, stated: “Every intentional act is a magickal act.”
The mind is the most powerful form of sorcery in this world.
And I intentionally acted on my desire to will her into my life.
Maybe I gave the powers that be a helping hand also… But, as I’ve said, patience is not my virtue. Even the Fates need a nudge in the right direction.
My effort to unblock Halen by utilizing every trick I’ve picked up from a lifetime of study failed. Sex, blood, saliva, semen—the most potent combination—all employed to charge a new sigil, and yet her mind, and her will, remains stronger.
My muse wants to linger in the dark.
Feeling the burn of alcohol course my veins, I touch the bandage around my hand with a forlorn sentiment. When questioned about how I obtained the injuries, I told the truth—that I’d given them to myself. I am diagnosed with brief psychotic disorder, after all. There’s never any reason to lie when people are willing to provide excuses for you.
They want the lie. The truth is too disturbing to accept.
According to the rumors I’ve been able to overhear from the bar patrons, the story is Dr. St. James was further investigating the crime scene when the perpetrator attacked. The attack left Dr. St. James injured and in a state of shock after she defended herself. Agent Alister noted the task force’s efforts to close in on the hermit suspect is what drew him out.
Of course, Alister would take the credit. I’m sure Halen was all too willing to fade into the background. In the end, her profile was accurate, and the locals made the connection to the hermit suspect faster than the feds. Only they didn’t realize how vital his ritual site was.
Did I know he’d show last night? No. Not for sure. It wasn’t part of the initial design. But when you’re asking chaos to answer your prayer, you accept the gift.
I did suspect the offender would be drawn out eventually, as there was one thing Halen overlooked in the tale of Zarathustra.
The sorcerer.
The corrupter of morals.
He presented a challenge to Zarathustra. The suspect would feel threatened by both me and Halen on his sacred grounds.
And yes, I may be the fucking devil incarnate for using Halen’s extremely heightened emotions to try to break the seal of her mind, but if she was going to resurface, it had to be during extreme duress, channeling the frenzy.
Just as I’d seen her that very first night.
Walking the university grounds, immersed in her pain, luring me into the mystery of her.
Despite what lies she feeds herself and me, little Halen had a reason to be at my university as, on that day, on the anniversary of her parents’ death, she was visiting their alma mater in remembrance.
Research is what I do.
I watched her. Followed her. Seeing her take a life brought me to life. So call it what you want. I don’t care if she’s a gift from the gods or the abyss—she’s the muse that revived my dead soul.
Of course, at the time, had I known my muse would return and make me the prime suspect, and that I’d be charged with murder… Well, I might not have given in to her request so easily.
In retrospect, I should have left a note in block letters. However I did try to help her by hinting to Wellington’s wife as a suspect. Instead, her psyche mistook the intensity of our connection as instinct to point the finger at me.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announce.
I leave the bar, knowing the agents will keep up. With dulled reflexes, I dodge camera crews and reporters and true crime fanatics on my route toward the rickety bridge in the town’s central park. The hotel is crawling with leeches, and this spot is the only place to get a moment’s peace away from the mayhem.
The trimmed, bright-green grass of the common reminds me of the campus grounds I strolled daily in my previous life.
Admittedly, I was bored. With life. My career. Achievements. All of it.
Before she crashed my world, I was even contemplating a way out. Hell, all the greats had their untimely demises. No one fades out, pissing themselves in a diaper bound to a death bed and is remembered.
That’s an eternal death sentence.
To be revered, first, you go stark raving mad, then you exit this world in a blaze.
I thought I was nearly to the point of acquiring my madness—especially when, after the keynote speech where Wellington pushed all my hot, little buttons, I decided to carve a sigil in my chest and beg the universe to either give me a muse, some reason to wake up the next day, or I’d go out in a blaze of philosophical glory.
Yes, I realize how overly dramatic I was. But unless one has battled the damning confliction of a brilliant mind, then one cannot commiserate the astounding torture monotony wreaks on that mind. I could never achieve that sort of blissful ignorance that comes from a simple life. I needed divine inspiration to exist.
So when little Halen washed up on my shores of despair, all fiery emotional damage and beautiful agony, my heart beat for the very first fucking time.
Passion lit a fuse of obsession.
Everything about her was new. Exciting. Dangerous. She had extensive knowledge. However, not completely surprising when, the very next day, she wandered up on the crime scene as a profiler.
The start of a dangerously intoxicating game. Our very own secret society of two with a shared, hidden wisdom.
Oh, there is more to the story of that night. How events unfolded. Details that will help Halen further shed light on her dark corner—but she will have to be such a good girl to earn it. I promised her I’d be an open book, and I have every intention of honoring that promise.
To the bloody, blazing end.
I brace my elbows on the wooden beam of the bridge. The winding stream below flows over boulders, tranquil until it encounters the hardened obstacle in its path. Even the destructive, powerful force of the water is thwarted in its mission at times and has to navigate a new course.
My blood heats as a fiery ember sparks in my veins. I can sense her like the tide senses the moon. Her gravity draws me around and, when our gazes connect, the breathtaking sight of her makes the dead muscle caged inside my chest beat.
A light breeze carries Halen’s consuming scent my way to further entrap me, shocking me sober.
She’s showered and wearing clean clothes. Her dark hair is styled in loose waves around her shoulders. The pale strands frame the side of her face. She’s wearing a light coating of makeup. She had to make herself “presentable” for the meetings.
She looked just as goddamn perfect to me last night, bathed in our essences and covered in filth.
Her gait is hindered as she walks onto the bridge. She’s favoring her left leg, her arm wrapped around her midsection. I imagine the number of contusions and injuries she’s nursing, and the fierce need to carry her to bed and work her pain into pleasure grips me.
As she draws closer, I make out the bruising along her neck that she’s tried to conceal under makeup. Knowing not all of the marks were put there by me sets my jaw. I fought the demand to slit Landry’s throat as he strangled her, but that would have interfered.
Gaze aimed on the worn boards of the bridge, she says, “We need to talk.”
I suppress the urge to touch her, force her eyes on me. “Let’s go to the hotel,” I say.
On instinct, her eyes clash with mine, and I see the fear banked there. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “We’ll talk out here.”
A bite of anger snaps at my patience, but I relent. I eat the distance between us to bring her as close to me as this setting will allow.
She reactively takes a step back. “Kallum…”
“What’s the verdict?” I ask her. “I know you’re not scared to go for the jugular, so are we working together to save your precious victims, or—”
“You didn’t run,” she says, inhaling deeply to stabilize her uneven breaths.
“I don’t run,” I say. “Especially from what is already mine.”
“So I took that into account,” she continues, evading my statement, “along with your behavior on this case. Your expertise to locate the offender was valuable, and although that expertise could potentially help to locate the victims—”
“Tear the Band-Aid off,” I interrupt her.
Inadvertently, her gaze drops to the bandage wrapping my hand. A hard shiver rolls through her body, and she crosses her arms. The sight of the rope burns abrading her wrists assaults me with a deviant desire.
She nods in the direction of the two hovering agents in the park. “They’ll be leaving soon to escort you to the airport where you’ll be transported back to Briar,” she says in a rush. “Dr. Torres is making the necessary arrangements for your transfer to a new facility, as the contract for your services to the FBI stated.”
“And the other?” I probe, my guttural voice raking the air between us.
She shakes her head, refusing to look at me for long. “Once the victims are located, I’ll turn myself in and request a full investigation to be launched into Wellington’s murder. I would petition the judge for your immediate release, as it was my profile and testimony that was responsible for having you committed—” her gaze pins me “—but your confession as an accomplice, along with the likelihood that the investigation will bring to light that all this is an attempt by a highly unstable person with motive for revenge—”
A harsh chuckle escapes to cut her off. I nod once, wiping my bandaged hand over my mouth. “I understand, Halen. No need to justify your denial to me.”
She clears her throat. “It’s just best if you remain detained until the full truth is uncovered.”
Halen turns to leave, and I grab her wrist. “My turn.”
A heated current arcs between us. No matter what muted color she tries to paint our connection, our canvas is splashed in red, and her soul is every bit as dark as mine.
“What about what you feel for me, little Halen?” I ask, noting the acceleration of her pulse against my fingers. “Can you logic that away, too?”
Her breathing shallows. “I can’t,” she admits. “But it’s not an area I’ll be exploring further. My feelings have no bearing on this case.”
“Then what about my feelings? What I’ve sacrificed?” I demand. “My feelings for you have no bearing either?”
“You can’t feel,” she says, her words slashing sharp as a blade. “You’re a sociopath, Kallum. You’re simply feeding off me like a leech. There’s a difference.”
She snatches her wrist free, and I’m relieved to see some spark of emotion flare in her eyes.
“Why do you think killers kill?” she asks, her voice strained. “To get the adrenaline rush, to break through the desensitized layer shrouding their emotions so they can feel anything at all.”
“I’ve never felt more alive than with you,” I say honestly. “And I never contemplated taking a life until you, Halen.”
She shakes her head repeatedly, her body trembling. “Where’s the evidence, Kallum?”
A cruel smile slants my mouth. Oh, how fucking ironic. “You’re right, Halen. No physical evidence, no crime. Right?”
Her features fall as realization of what she’s said registers.
Admittedly, that was a cheap shot on my part. But I have been incarcerated for over six months all because of her profile based on circumstantial evidence.
Let’s just say, where Halen is concerned, if there is such evidence tying her to the crime, it would make sense that someone with the means to hold on to said evidence would keep it safely hidden.
A well-constructed contingency plan is another thing I hold in high regard.
However, Halen doesn’t need all the details right now, just as she stated about the locals not requiring all the details to name their suspect. Details can get muddled. The mind can only process so much at once.
“I want you to think about this.” Before I let her escape, I take her arm and purposely graze my fingertips over the sleeve covering her forearm. “You inked your own sigil in script and you recite your affirmation every day,” I say. “Where do you think your subconscious picked up on that?”
Her forced swallow looks painful. “Not everything needs a connection, Kallum. Sometimes, it’s just our humanity.”
I huff a sardonic breath. “There have been too many coincidences in this case drawing parallels to us. That’s the universe bringing us together.”
“And I wonder how much of those parallels and coincidences are influenced or even orchestrated by you. Six months is a lot of idle time for someone with the means to feed their delusions and obsessions.”
“I love your witty devil references.”
She touches my hand, and I feel her fiery current through the bandage. “I think you’re sick, Kallum,” she says, her silvery gaze bleeding into mine. “But I think I might be sick, too. I hope you’ll utilize your doctors instead of torturing them this time around to really seek help.”
I am sick for damn sure.
But the only doctor who can remedy this sickness is pulling away from me.
“That’s pretty patronizing coming from you, sweetness,” I say, “but, you need to believe the lies, even believe you didn’t love every second of fucking the villain, so you can do this now.” I lick my lips, then push in close. Her broken breaths coast across my neck, and I wonder how long I can stave off the hunger.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says, putting distance between us. “But it’s even more reason for me to stay the hell away from you, Professor Locke.”
As she turns away, I glance at the agents to gauge their distance.
I stalk forward and step in front of her path. Grasping her jaw, I look down into her beautiful face, those hazel eyes wide with fear and want. “You had your chance to walk away from me once, and the goddamn universe brought us back together. Now, there’s no way I’m ever letting you go. We are the duality, Halen.”
Her lips tremble and, as I grip her to me, I drag my gaze over her, absorbing the tangle of fear and lust inside her with a dark growl. I breathe in her sweet scent, then capture her mouth in a violent kiss.
A moment where she surrenders under the swell, her soft lips closing rhythmically against mine, before she bites into the kiss. The metallic trace of blood fills the kiss and, as she breaks away, I lick my lip and smile.
The agents apprehend me, pulling me away from Halen and restraining my hands behind my back.
“Time and tide… sweetness.” I remind her as they haul me away. “And I’m done waiting.”
