“The first body was only found a few days ago,” Lincoln muttered, frowning. He was not thrilled she’d changed the station on him, but he didn’t care enough to switch it back. “No killer becomes that confident that fast. He’s either been killing for a while, or he’s planned this out.” He spoke with conviction, as if he were the blasted Angel Maker.
Which he wasn’t. Neither of us were. We liked to kill, but we didn’t make a public spectacle about it.
Stella quieted, thinking about Lincoln’s words. She was slow to nod. “I think you’re right, but that begs the question—what else does he have planned? And who is his audience? Who does he want as a witness? Leaving the body in a house, right near a window…”
I scooped the cut fruit onto three separate plates, focusing on the omelets next. “Bold,” I said. “It’s obvious he wants someone to pay attention.”
“But who?” she asked. “Who does he want to pay attention?” Stella pursed her lips, lips that were still a bit raw from last night’s activities. “What if…what if it’s me he wants? You found me through my articles, so it isn’t too far of a stretch. What if you two weren’t the only killers reading my stuff?”
Pausing, I met eyes with Lincoln. I sure as shit didn’t want anyone else sniffing around Stella—and that included her fucking boss and whatever guy was her Angel Maker—and it looked like Lincoln felt the same. A definite step up from wanting to kill her.
It was a moment before I said, “It’s not out of the realm of possibility. You should be careful. Don’t go anywhere alone.” I would’ve offered to spend the day investigating this Angel Maker, but I had work. Plus, Lincoln was the cop, not me.
“Callie’s always out,” Stella said. “Most of the time I’m alone in the house.”
“Then maybe you should stay here,” I said.
She shook her head. “No. If this is all for me, I want to see it through.”
I stared at her, knowing exactly what she meant. She wanted to see what else he would do for her, how many other people would meet their end at his hands in her name. Stella could very well be wrong, and maybe the Angel Maker wasn’t focusing on her—maybe it was all one big coincidence—but it was hard to think that when I’d found her the same way.
What if this Angel Maker wanted her attention because he wanted her to write about him? Most killers today wanted fame, to be immortalized. It wasn’t too far of a stretch, even if her theory was grasping at straws, because as far as I knew there was no evidence to point to his inclusion of Stella. The police would’ve been all over her if there was a connection between her and the Angel Maker.
“Fine, but no unnecessary risks,” I said. “You try to be safe, and if you think he’s anywhere near you, you call me.”
Lincoln tittered, managing to chuckle out, “What a hero.”
Stella smiled somewhat at that.
I knew there was nothing I could do to make Stella realize that if he was after her, there were only so many steps he’d take before coming directly for her. If his obsession was anything like mine, it was only a matter of time before he tried to have her, regardless of what she wanted. Although, with her strange thought processes, maybe she would want him just like she wanted Lincoln and I. Maybe we weren’t enough for her.
No. I refused to think about it. I would not. I would only drive myself mad.
And right now, we had all the madness we needed with the Angel Maker.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Stella
Too soon was I back in my house, practically collapsing on the couch. I was exhausted after last night, and truthfully, it kind of hurt to walk. Almost like I had an aching sore between my legs. Like a rash that would go away with time. I hoped the guys wouldn’t want me over again tonight—because I knew I couldn’t deny their request, but my body needed rest. Time to recover and recuperate.
Plus, I had researching to do.
While it was already too late to fix the article going to press for tomorrow’s paper, I could start Wednesday’s article, or even a blog post.
I had a lot on my mind. After wondering if the Angel Maker was similar in Edward in the way he followed my articles, I couldn’t shake the thought. If all of this was for me, if he was doing it so I would write about him, I wasn’t sure how I felt. I knew what I should feel, what society would want me to feel—freaked out, disgusted, angry. But I felt none of those emotions. I only felt…curious.
So curious it hurt.
I was just me, after all. I wasn’t important. In the grand scheme of things, in the great big world, I was a nobody. Unimportant in every single way, unremarkable even with my focus on serial killers. There were others out there who found them as interesting as I did; I was not alone in that respect, just like I wasn’t the only one to write about them. The news covered the crimes and the trials, and documentaries were coming out at an almost alarming rate.
No, the entire world was obsessed with serial killers just as much as I was.
Which only made me wonder if I was indeed the focus of the Angel Maker, or if it was all in my head. If I was connecting dots where there shouldn’t be connections. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d overreacted.
Callie’s feet shuffled from the hallway, and I heard her reach into the fridge for something. Within a minute, she popped around the couch and saw my crumbled form. “Tonight I’m staying in,” she said, immediately groaning and gripping the side of her head. In her other hand, she had a bottle of water and some pain-relievers. “You want to do a movie night, like we used to do in middle school?”
I wasn’t sure why she wanted to have a throwback to our childhoods, but I nodded against the pillow, which seemed to appease her. I was too tired to go to Edward’s and Lincoln’s tonight anyway, and if they asked, this would be the perfect excuse.
Besides, it’d been ages since Callie wanted to have a night in with me.
I couldn’t let myself sleep the whole day away, so after a little more laziness, I got up and showered. Callie was in her room, probably sleeping off her hangover, which meant I had a few hours of quiet in the house. A few hours of silence were all I needed to whip up my next blog post.
This next one, I decided, would be a call-out post. I would know soon enough whether or not the Angel Maker was focused on me.
After I showered and changed, I grabbed my laptop and got to it. My fingers typed furiously; writing about him, practically writing to him, and it was easier than I thought it would be. The words flowed out of me at an impressive rate, and before Callie got up, my next blog post was done. Proofed and everything.
I read over it one last time before publishing it, and I followed the comments all day, until Callie got up.
I let her choose the movies and pick the food. Pizza. She wanted pizza. While I fiddled with the oven to put one of those frozen pizzas inside, she put in the first movie. We were going to have a Disney marathon, I guess. Disney was something everyone seemed to like, and while I enjoyed the animation, I could never really get into them. Something about the good guys always winning seemed…fake.
Because the truth was, the good guys didn’t always win. In real life, the good guys lost just as much as the bad guys did. The bad guys did whatever they had to to win, which was something I’d always respected. While the heroes had lines they wouldn’t cross, the villains didn’t.
The villains were my kind of characters, and in Disney movies, they always lost.
I needed a movie where the villain won. I needed to see something where the heroes fought valiantly yet still lost in a bloody, gory display. I needed more than these children’s movies could offer.
But it was fine. I didn’t focus on the movies, and neither did Callie, unless it was one of the movie’s many musical numbers, of which she had to sing along while giggling. We spent most of the afternoon and night talking like we used to. She asked me question after question about Edward and Lincoln, still shocked I’d gone over to their house again.
Of course, I didn’t tell her ho
w I’d wound up at their house, just that Lincoln and Edward wanted to see me. It wasn’t like Callie would ever understand how I’d felt when Lincoln announced he’d been there to kill me. It had been…an indescribable feeling, one any sane person would never comprehend.
“So,” Callie started, shoving a piece of cold pizza into her mouth, “does that mean you’re like a thruple now?”
I blinked at her. “A thruple?”
“Yeah, you know. A couple, but with three people instead of two.”
Thinking on this, I slowly said, “I haven’t seen Lincoln and Edward together like that, if that’s what you mean.” If they were only with me and not with each other, what did that make us? I wasn’t even sure putting a label on it was a good thing to do, considering we’d never talked about what we were yet.
Edward had talked to me during the drive home, though, about Killian. He didn’t want me to see him again, in any non-professional capacity. No more dates with my boss. I could handle it, since it wasn’t like I wanted to date Killian anyways. I wasn’t even sure why I’d said yes to begin with. Killian…I wasn’t into guys like him. Too preppy. Too normal. Too…everyday and average.
Callie let out a laugh. “Then you’re just the meat in the man sandwich? God, Stella, I’m so jealous of you. Don’t tell John I said that.”
“I won’t,” I said, trying to smile. I never had even met John, so it was very unlikely I’d ever talk to him about anything Callie said. “When is John coming back to town?” I didn’t know much about him, only that he worked as a businessman or something for some company that required a lot of travel. He seemed to be out of town more than he was in it. Had to be difficult on their relationship, right?
“I’m not sure. From what it sounds like, the deal isn’t going too well,” Callie spoke, checking her phone to see if John had texted her. He didn’t, so she quickly put it down. “I was hoping he’d be home by Monday, but now it might not be till Friday.” She groaned. “Long distance is hard, but the money’s good.”
Money. Money was something Callie’s family didn’t really have to worry about. They were loaded.
Time passed in a blur. The world turned to night, and all was quiet on the Edward and Lincoln front. I wondered what they were doing, wondering if they would not see other women since Edward clearly didn’t want me to see any other guy. It was only fair, right? If we were…committed to each other, there would be no one else for any of us. Strangely, though, the thought didn’t worry me too much. Somehow I knew they cared for me in a vastly different way than any of the others they’d brought home.
I put in the next movie and went back to the couch, getting under the blanket we were sharing and tucking my legs beneath my butt. My toes grazed Callie’s leg, and even under the blanket, she was cold.
I asked, “Do you want me to get you another blanket? You’re freezing.”
Callie shrugged. “Nah, I’m fine. I always run cold. You know that.”
Nodding, I knew it was true. It was something I’d gotten used to over the years.
Both of our attention went to the TV screen across from us. Callie was oblivious to the fact that Lincoln and I had had sex on the floor right in front of where we sat on the couch. I must’ve done a better job than I thought at cleaning it all up, because there was a lot of bodily fluids involved. Lincoln was…very good with his tongue and his fingers, when he wasn’t using them to insult me or try to kill me.
It hadn’t escaped my notice that Lincoln was gentler last night than he’d ever been. Whether or not it meant he finally realized I belonged with them was up for debate. Lincoln seemed a stubborn sort, so I bet he’d need more convincing. Honestly, though, I wasn’t sure what else I could do to convince him. I’d found a dead girl in his bed and hadn’t run from him, screaming. He’d tried to kill me, and I’d slept with him half a dozen times.
I mean, what more could I do? What more was there to do? Maybe he just needed time. He had to be used to his life with just him and Edward. He had to be a creature of habit. My sudden appearance in his life had been unwelcome; I knew Edward was the one who followed my articles, not him. Lincoln had no reason to be as obsessed with me like Edward was.
Time. I would give him time. How much time? I couldn’t say, but I’d try to be patient, because I couldn’t give either of them up. A thruple, whatever the hell we would be—I wanted it. I wanted to be with them.
I wanted them more than anything, more than life itself.
Chapter Twenty-Five - The Angel Maker
I know it isn’t my usual posting time, but I find I cannot keep my thoughts to myself. I know you’re all used to my rambling thoughts—I let my blog posts run rampant sometimes, freer with my words here than I ever am with the articles I publish with the Tribune—but this post is…it’s going to be different than the others.
Because, while I normally ramble away my thoughts or give you little known facts about history’s many serial killers, today’s post won’t deal with that. This is unlike any other post I’ve ever done.
It’s a call-out post. This post is meant for only one person’s eyes, even though I know more than one set will see it. My blog has been and will always be public, and maybe that’s why my reach is so wide. You are used to me telling you the truth in my Tribune articles if you follow me there, so I’m going to be blunt.
This is for you. You know who you are. There isn’t a doubt in your mind that this isn’t for you—which is good, because I would never expect someone like you to have self-doubts. How could you, with everything you’ve done and everything you still plan on doing?
We both know you’re not finished yet. We both know there will be more to come. More death, more blood, more questions. Let’s not pretend otherwise, you and I. We’re both smarter than that.
Let’s get down to the nitty and gritty then: this article is for you, simply because I want to ask you some questions. Why them? Did their lives matter to you, or were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Though I suppose it would be the opposite for you—they were in the right place at the right time to become one of your victims. But I digress.
Why do they pray? Is it salvation they seek, even after death? Or is it you they are praying to—their god of blood and death, their savior from the chaos of the world? After all, what could God give them that you couldn’t?
How long have you planned this? How many years did these ideas stew in your head, formulating in your mind until you had something concrete? Have you killed before? I bet you have. I bet murder is nothing new to you…which begs another question.
Why do this now? What was it about this week that made you decide it was the week to unleash yourself upon the world, a scourge upon mankind? Tell me, because I am dying to know.
The truth is I want to know more about you. I need to know more. If you’re reading this, which I have a strong feeling you are, tell me more. I want to know more about you, what made you, what thoughts run through your head as you slice up your victims and arrange their hands toward the sky. Why make them pray when they’re already dead? What purpose does it have?
Are you a religious man? Do you believe in God? In an afterlife? Pray tell, I want to know everything there is to know about you, because I can’t help but feel like I brought you here. Not that I made you, per se; not like I crafted you out of stone and set you loose upon the world. But I had a hand in this, as did every other person who loves to read about you.
We made you. We created you. Society has failed you, and now you want to make it pay and have us watch and wonder. But I am not scared of you, unlike the others. I am not afraid of you or what you could do.
Now this is when you might be asking your own questions. Why am I unafraid? Why am I not frightened of you like the rest of the populace? After all, you could theoretically strike at any moment. You could be anyone, wear any face, and no one would know. How am I so bold that I could freely tell you I am not scared?
Because I am not. Because like you, I am
different than everyone else. Because I am curious and I am logical. There is nothing to fear in this life. Nothing at all. Fear is a man-made construction. Fear is not real.
I am not afraid of you, and if I ever met you, I would say it to your face. You might think you hold the power, you may think you are unstoppable, but you are just a man. Deep down, you aren’t so different from me. We are alike in more ways than you think.
Tell me more about you. About where you came from. Tell me everything about you, and I promise you I’ll do you justice in ways the news stations would never, could never. I won’t psychoanalyze you; only say what is. What will be. I would give you the respect you deserve, because you are a cut above the rest. You are just a man, but you are so much more.
You are more than your skin and your bones put together. You are your mind, and I am dying to delve into it and feel the things you feel.
By now, even if you aren’t who I’m talking you, you’ve probably already guessed who this particular blog post is for. You might even be thinking of commenting and pretending to be him. In which case, I’ll know you’re not, because the person I’m talking to would never do something so asinine, so leave it be, and let him come to me without your interference.
Yes, this is all for you, Angel Maker. I want answers.
I’ll be waiting for your next reveal with bated breath. Don’t keep me waiting too long.
I couldn’t believe she’d be so bold as to write an entire blog post dedicated to me. Almost like it was meant for my eyes only. So she knew I did this all for her. She knew, and yet she was still so blind. It never ceased to amaze me how blind people were.
Until I made them see. Until I took them and forced them to their knees, made them pray to whatever God they might’ve believed in. Did their God ever answer? No, because there was no God. There was no ultimate being in the sky who could save them from their pain. There was nothing up there that could save them from me.
Cruel Black Hearts: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance Page 17
