Moth to a Flame

by Cambria Hebert

  “Mrs. Preston,” I rushed to say. “I promise you I’m not wonton, and I haven’t cast any spells.”

  She laughed. “Call me Blair, and of course you haven’t.”

  I glanced at Nick. He winked. “Mom knows all about the press and what a pack of liars they are.”

  She nodded. “They’ve definitely been having a field day with you.” She stroked the side of my head. This time, I did pull away.

  “I am staying at his house.” I burst out. What the hell had possessed me to say that?

  “She knows,” Nick whispered loudly.

  I made a face. He could have told me all of this before we walked in.

  “Are you hungry?” Blair asked her son. “I won’t tell your trainer I fed you.”

  “This isn’t a social visit, Mom.”

  Whatever she heard in his voice made her concerned.

  He told her, “I need to see the box.”

  Her face paled. Clearly, she knew what “box” Nick was referring to, and clearly, it wasn’t something pleasant.

  “Why would you—”

  “It’s important.” He cut her off. “Please.”

  Blair’s eyes slid to me, then back to Nick. “I’ll get it.”

  She went back up the stairs, and Nick took my hand to lead me into a large dining room with a table that could easily seat twenty people.

  One wall had floor-to-ceiling drapes, and I imagined when they were open in the daytime, the fabric would frame a magnificent view.

  Pulling out a chair, Nick guided me into it, then sat down in one right beside me.

  “Ever since I met you, I couldn’t stay away,” he told me, stretching his arm out over the back of my chair. “I felt connected to you... drawn to you.”

  I shuddered, thinking of the note we’d surrendered to the police just a short while ago. “Not a good choice of words.”

  “I couldn’t understand what it was about you.”

  “Fascination?” I tried, thinking of all my scars.

  He shook his head. “I stopped caring after a while because it didn’t matter anymore.” He leaned in, and my stomach flipped. “All that matters is that you stay by my side.”

  “Nick.” I began, feeling jittery and shy. He was so very good with words. Turns out my heart was so very good at being swayed by them.

  It scared me.

  “I realized tonight there is a reason I felt so connected to you.”

  “There is?”

  He nodded. “Because we are connected. Through the past... through tragedy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Blair came into the room, carrying a large white box with a matching lid. “Here it is,” she said, a lot of the earlier warmth in her voice lacking.

  Taking the box from his mom, Nick placed it on the table and pulled off the lid. A moment later, he pulled out a large envelope, opening the flap.

  Taking out a sheet of paper, he slid it across the glossy tabletop in front of me.

  I looked down.

  My blood ran cold.

  “What is that?” Abruptly, I stood from the chair, nearly falling over it in my attempt to get away from that sheet of paper.

  Nick caught me, using his body to support mine. I melted into him, unable to tear my eyes away from the pieced-together note.

  Pieced together with magazine and newspaper clippings.

  “Where did you get that?” I whispered, horrified.

  His arm slid around my waist from behind like he knew I was about to need him to hold me up.

  “This was sent to my grandmother... a couple weeks before she was killed on set.”

  He took my weight readily when my knees gave out.

  I pointed at the paper. My voice shook. “That looks exactly like the one we just gave to the police.”

  “I know,” Nick replied.

  Still holding me, he leaned around and pulled something else from inside the box, laying it on the table beside the note.

  A whimper passed through my lips. It was a photograph. A headshot of the late Deborah Ascott. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Bright smile.

  “My grandmother was killed on the set of her movie, Moth to a Flame 2.”

  “You think the man who tried to kill me is The Moth... a-a-and,” I stuttered, no longer able to form words.

  His arms slipped back around me. “And if he is The Moth, then my grandmother was the original flame.”

  By now, she’d gotten my note. All the pieces would fit together, revealing the truth of everything I’d done. Sequels cannot be rushed, but I’d been waiting a very long time for mine.

  Our climax was coming, and my only regret was that I couldn’t be there to see the look on my flame’s face when she fully understood I’d found her.

  I had work to do.

  A walk to take down memory lane.

  It was like coming home after a long trip abroad. Memories lingered, even if they were coated in dust. Everywhere I looked, I was re-energized by how it all began, by the pure love of horror and the rush of first kill.

  Dropping my bait onto the floor, I stared down, disgusted. So bothersome but a means to an end. Placing my boot flat against the cocoon, I pushed, unrolling until the unconscious stand-in lay atop the blood-smeared plastic.

  Dragging her to the center of the tarp, I checked to see if she was breathing. I didn’t really care either way, but live bait usually worked better than dead.

  Oh, good. She was still alive.

  Taking out a metal shackle, I fastened it around her ankle. I doubted she would wake up for a while, but still, she had to play her part.

  Leaving her chained in the corner of the room, I went to prepare the rest of the scene.

  “No. No way.” Zoey refused, flat denial in her voice.

  Her body pushed against mine as she backed away from the items on the table. I went backward with her, allowing her the distance from the evidence but keeping my arms tightly wrapped around her as she went.

  “It’s too much.” Her voice wobbled. Turning in the circle of my arms, her chin lifted. “It’s just a coincidence. A creepy... tragic coincidence.”

  I knew she wanted to believe it. Hell, I think I probably did too. Why else would it have taken me so long to piece this together? Why else did it take so long to comprehend?

  Because shit like this is unbelievable. Shit like this only happens in the movies.

  My life was like a movie, though. My family was “old Hollywood” and my grandmother literally died on film.

  Film.

  Releasing Zoey, I hurried to the box, digging around until I found the slim case. Clutching it, I spun around.

  Without me, her body slumped. Hunched over on herself, her hand pressed to her chest. She looked wrung out, hollow, and about to fall down.

  Cursing, I put aside the case and went to her.

  “Nick,” my mother said. Honestly, I’d forgotten she was here. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

  “I think I might have some new information about Grandmother’s murder.”

  She gasped, dropping into a dining chair. “How?”

  “No.” Zoey refused. “There’s no way.”

  “Angel,” I said gently, guiding her down into a chair, kneeling before her and taking her hands in mine. “This is too coincidental to be a coincidence. There’s too much to just explain it all away.”

  “Son,” Mom intoned. “You can’t just bring this up and then not explain. Your grandmother...”

  “I know, Mom. Please. Let me explain.”

  Searching Zoey’s eyes, I implored her to listen, to not shut down.

  Cautiously, she nodded, her fingers like vises around mine. I wanted to get up and pace, to work through all the jumbled thoughts and pieces I felt coming together, but it seemed the comfort of my presence was needed by the woman clutching my hand.

  Rotating, I sat on the floor between her legs, resting our joined hands on my shoulder.

  “Zoey is the sole survivor of the Bloo
dlust Killer,” I told my mother, who gasped and put a hand against her mouth. “She was there the day he died... She was the victim they managed to save from the fire.”

  “Oh my God,” Mom exclaimed. “That was you?”

  Behind me, Zoey nodded. “They never released my identity to the press because I was too traumatized to deal with the attention.”

  “Well, of course,” Mom murmured. “That man... he killed so many people.”

  “Eleven,” Zoey echoed. It was like the number was burned in her brain. As if she carried the weight of eleven deaths around with her every day of her life.

  She’d almost been the twelfth victim. How close I’d come to never meeting her.

  “Is it possible Grandmother wasn’t killed by an obsessive fan?” I asked.

  Mom frowned. “That’s what all the evidence points to. Someone who was obsessed with her and the huge success of Moth to a Flame. The notes prove it.” She gestured toward the note I showed Zoey.

  Zoey perked up. “There’s more than one?”

  I nodded. “She got three.”

  “Two are exactly the same,” Mom informed her, getting up to reach inside the box. “This one is the only different one.”

  Zoey reached over my shoulder to take it with trembling fingers. Brushing her aside, I took the letter and held it out for her to see.

  I’m coming for you in the sequel. Killers don’t die. Victims do.

  Zoey shuddered. “I don’t understand. If people knew she was being harassed, how could he get onto set to kill her?”

  Mom answered, regret and sorrow making her voice low. “No one knew. We found these letters after she was gone.”

  Zoey made a sound. “She didn’t tell anyone?”

  “Actors get letters and threats almost on a daily basis. She was a huge slasher film star. She got stuff like this a lot. She probably didn’t realize this was a real threat,” I explained.

  “But it was real. She died.”

  “The police concluded it was someone obsessed with the movie.” Mom continued. “But after he jumped out the window on set, he disappeared.”

  “What if he didn’t? What if he became the Bloodlust Killer and continued to kill?”

  “What makes you think they’re the same person?”

  I ticked off the reasons crowding around in my head:

  1. Grandmother was killed on the set of Moth to a Flame 2. He sent her letters using the movie title. I’m drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

  2. Zoey got the same letter.

  3. The killer was angry when he realized Zoey changed her appearance. She used to be blond and blue-eyed just like Grandmother. She looked like his original victim.

  “That could be a coincidence,” Mom refuted.

  “Actually, all the victims had the same physical features,” Zoey echoed.

  I shot a look over my shoulder. “Really?”

  Biting her lip, she nodded miserably.

  “He couldn’t get to you, so he took Callie instead,” I added.

  “Callie?” Mom burst out, standing from her chair.

  Quickly, I explained about my assistant, all the color leeching from Mom’s face.

  “Dear God.” Her voice quaked. “Will this never be over?”

  “He calls himself The Moth,” Zoey said. “All his victims are the flames...”

  “Just like in Grandmother’s movie.”

  “Then why is he known as the Bloodlust Killer? Why did the press never report about this?”

  “It was kept confidential to avoid copycat crimes. And because the police were afraid that it would incite statewide panic. They thought it was best to keep many details of the investigation private to not compromise the case. The press dubbed him the Bloodlust Killer because they said he killed eleven women because of his own personal bloodlust.”

  “But that man died!”

  “I think that’s what they wanted the public to believe. But obviously, he didn’t,” Zoey whispered as she rubbed at the brand on her arm. Her eyes widened. “She wasn’t branded!”

  “What?” Mom questioned.

  “The Bloodlust Killer branded all his victims. He burned a moth into their arms.”

  “Deborah definitely didn’t have that.” Mom agreed.

  I made a sound. “He didn’t have time to brand her. There were too many people around. That’s why I think she was his first victim... After that, he took on the role of The Moth and used fire on all his victims.”

  My mother put a hand to her throat. “You think killing your grandmother gave him a taste for murder?”

  “He said it in his note. Killers don’t die. Victims do.”

  “It’s too much,” Zoey said again. “It can’t possibly all be connected.”

  “When was the Bloodlust Killer’s first kill that the police know of?” I asked the room, lifting my phone to search for the information.

  Turns out I didn’t need to search. Zoey had all the answers... like every detail about that sick fuck was branded in her brain.

  On her skin. In her brain.

  I myself was experiencing bloodlust. I wanted to kill that son of a bitch ten times over.

  “The first body of a woman with a moth burned into the back of her arm was discovered in 1985. Two more were found, one in 1987 and then again in 1990. There were eight bodies discovered the night I was saved. All of them had moths burned into them. That makes a total of eleven, me being number twelve. He was presumed dead seven years ago... and no bodies with a brand have been found since.”

  “Deborah was killed in 1984, a year before the first victim was found with a moth,” Mom surmised. Her brow furrowed, and she went on. “So between 1990 and 2011, there were no branded bodies found?” she asked. “That’s a long gap for a serial killer.”

  “Several women who meet his profile went missing and were never found,” Zoey said quietly. “Well, one was, but her body was burned beyond recognition, which made seeing any kind of brand impossible.”

  “So he could have other victims out there that were never found.” Mom concluded.

  Zoey made a noise.

  “If everyone thought he was dead, why start killing again? Why not just stay in hiding...?” My mother continued to think out loud.

  “Because of me,” I confessed.

  Zoey’s eyes flashed to me, and Mom gasped. “What?”

  “Because of the accident on set. Because the press became obsessed with Zoey. She was exposed, and he must have seen.”

  “It all started up again after that picture was posted online.” Zoey reluctantly agreed. “He realized I’d been hiding and covering up my appearance. He destroyed all my makeup... I think he’s been watching me.” A distressed sound made me turn toward her. Her hands clasped the front of my shirt. “The sandbag on set... Could that have been him?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, thinking back to that day, recalling the way her scars were exposed. Could he have wanted to see if she was branded? Could he have set her up?

  I didn’t voice those thoughts out loud. It was speculation, and everyone was already scared enough.

  “And now Callie...” Zoey’s voice wavered.

  Reaching for her hand, I gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Callie is going to be fine.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  I couldn’t. In fact, I was worried as fuck about my assistant. She didn’t deserve this. No one did.

  Mom jumped up. “Do you think he knows who you are, Nick? That you are the grandson of Deborah Ascott?”

  Zoey also leapt from her chair, eyes wild with panic. “No! He can’t!”

  When I reaching for her, she shoved away, face crumpling.

  “First Callie and now you, Nick! I won’t let him do this!” Chin wobbling, voice breaking, she raced to the door with an uneven gait. “Call off your bodyguards!” she demanded. “I’m going back home. I’ll wait for him to get me, and once he does, the rest of you will be safe.”

  I ran after her, hugging he
r from behind. “Are you crazy?” I demanded.

  She fought and wiggled, trying to get out of my hold. I wouldn’t let her go. There was no way in hell I would allow her to sacrifice her own safety for mine.

  “Nick!” she cried, stomping down on my foot.

  Cursing, I refused release her. “I’m not letting you go.”

  “You have to!” she wailed. “Please! Let me go. Let me fix this!” A sound of pain dropped from her lips, and her body sagged against mine. “Ow,” she whimpered.

  “Angel?” I worried, looking down. “What happened? What hurts?”

  “It’s just my leg,” she answered, reaching around to the back of her thigh.

  Swinging her up, I pinpointed my mother, who was watching the scene with an astonished face. “I’m taking her up to one of the guest rooms.”

  She nodded. “I won’t disturb you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nick,” she called when I started out.

  “We’ll finish this talk soon.” I promised without stopping.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I went up to the wing of the house my parents used solely for guests. It was a quiet part of the house that the servants only ever went into clean or when there were people staying here.

  Throwing open the first door I came to, I strode inside, placing her on a giant, downy bed.

  Tears streaked her face, and dark circles bruised under her eyes. “Let me see,” I crooned, wrapping my hands around the contracting leg muscle, beginning to massage.

  “Don’t.” She fussed, pushing at my hands, but not very effectively.

  “Sit still,” I demanded, not letting go.

  She said my name, her voice unsteady. Tenderness filled me, and I lowered on the edge of the mattress close by, still working the muscles of her leg.

  “Feeling any better?”

  She nodded.

  I let go of her leg long enough to guide her shoulders down onto the mattress. “Lie down,” I urged. “You look like you’re ready to fall over.”

  Sighing, she sank into the blankets, and I went back to massaging her leg. “This bed is really soft,” she whispered.

  “You like it?”

  “Mmm.”

  The silence surrounding us felt like an indulgence because the noise of the past few days had been almost off the charts. I watched her lashes flutter against her cheeks before her eyes would reopen and stare up at the ceiling.