Gifted: Obey Me

by Paige Cuccaro

  I flipped to the next victim. This girl had been left at a bus stop at Penn Avenue and Seventeenth Street. A block down from Primanti. The photo showed her as they’d found her, leaning against the lamppost, arms crossed over her belly. Rigor mortis held her in place, but it wouldn’t have lasted long. The discovery of the body was phoned in so the police would find her before she dropped. Just like the other two, the girl was pretty, albeit a little blue, with bleached blonde hair cut pixy style and wearing a sexy red dress that hugged her young body and showed off her long shapely legs.

  The third victim was found in the driver’s seat of her car, engine running, eyes open, hands on the wheel. She was attractive like the others, with short, ink-black hair and dark eyes, I think. They looked kind of dead-fish-gray in the photo. She was wearing a tight low-cut blouse and a frayed blue-jean miniskirt, with black six-inch fuck-me heels. Had she been on her way home and only made it as far as her car? I didn’t want to think about it. I checked the address of the crime scene—Smallman Street, near the corner of Seventeenth Street.

  Her car must’ve been parked only a few hundred yards down from the alley where they’d found the girl tonight. My mind did that slow motion freeze it does when something passed my notice that shouldn’t have. I glanced at the map of the city on the wall between the interrogation rooms and found the Strip District before I crossed the distance.

  I snagged some pushpins stuck at the bottom of the corkboard and plunged one at the address in White Oak where the first girl was found in the cab. The next pin went where the second girl had been propped up at the bus stop. The third I stuck roughly where the idling car would’ve been. And the last went in the alley next to the warehouse.

  I stepped back. There was a pattern. Maybe. Each death seemed to occur closer and closer to the Strip District, to that section of Smallman Street where the last, un-posed victim was found. But there was nothing there. Even the cops were double checking the area tonight, rattling chained doors big enough to fit a Mack truck through, and checking wire-reinforced windows and bolted human entrances. There wasn’t anything there. Unless there was.

  “Hey, lady, who let you in here?” I glanced over my shoulder at the uniformed officer lumbering my way.

  Time to go. “Hello, Officer,” I said, summoning my power. “Why don’t I just leave now, and there won’t be any need for questions.”

  The officer blinked, then followed my suggestion exactly.

  Chapter Two

  I couldn’t feel the mark on my neck, but every time I looked in the mirror my eyes went straight to it. It looked good. Exactly like the ones on all four of the victims. I grabbed my black eyeliner pencil and went over the closed “X” symbol one more time.

  “Good enough,” I said to my reflection. I’d hair-sprayed my short wavy hair to a solid mass, but that didn’t stop me from trying to turn a curl this way or that. It looked okay though, provided no one touched it, curling just past my ears and bangs brushing my eyebrows. The color, a black-cherry red, suited my fair skin tone, though as a kid I’d hated it. While the other teenage girls sunbathed for that perfect bronze glow, I had to slop on sunscreen to fend off third-degree burns and freckle infestation. The upside was my big green eyes always stood out against the washed-out skin and blaring red hair. Upside being a relative term.

  I checked the knot on my black halter-top for the gazillionth time and tugged the low “V” neckline trying—and failing—to cover more of my boobs. I wasn’t obscene or anything, but I had definite boob curve showing. I’m a comfortable C-cup so flashing cleavage is no small matter. I wasn’t so concerned with the flash of belly the top exposed. I’m in good shape, swim twenty laps at my fitness club every day. The mini skirt though, was wigging me out a bit.

  I’m a jeans and T-shirt, jeans and blouses, jeans and sweaters, jeans and… You get the idea. And don’t think I didn’t consider shoving on my favorite pair of faded blues under the tiny black leather skirt. Can’t even remember what possessed me to buy the tight leather tube in the first place. Whatever. It’s a good thing I had, otherwise I’d never look the part. If I wanted to figure out where those girls had been, why they were all down on Smallman Street, I had to put myself in their shoes—or clothes, that is.

  Half-past midnight I grabbed my tiny purse, big enough for my driver’s license, my black eyeliner—for touch-ups to the fake tattoo—and my change purse. No other makeup. I didn’t have much on to begin with and if it didn’t last the night…tough.

  Twelve forty on a Saturday night and Eighteenth Street was packed. It was nearly three when I’d stopped by last night, before they found the fourth body, and all the bars had already been closing. But now, tonight, they were just hitting their stride. I drove to the end of Eighteenth and turned left onto Smallman. I found a spot past the alley from last night, closer to Seventeenth Street. It worked for me. Smallman Street was where I wanted to be anyway.

  I locked the car and started walking along the dimly lit warehouse-lined road, toward the alley they’d found the dead girl in last night. The sound of my black cowboy boots, with the silver toe-tips and heel accents, clomping against the asphalt, echoed off the metal walls and made it hard to hear anything else. I passed a set of cement steps that went sideways up to a door on one of the warehouses. The door was closed. The bare light in the rusted metal shade above flickered as I walked by.

  My belly fluttered, the sensation of being watched tripping over my senses. I scanned behind me, to the sides and up ahead, keys laced between my fisted fingers, ready to gouge anyone who thought they could take me. Though truthfully, with my power, if I could talk, I could get out of any situation.

  No one was around, but my skin crawled like a million ants marched down my back. First lesson in self-defense, always trust your gut…or your creepy-crawly skin.

  Muscles along my shoulders tensed, my hands went clammy, dread twisting my stomach. Two more steps and I reached the alley where a girl was mysteriously drained of blood last night. I willed myself to stop—look.

  Nothing special. No dead body. No monster of the night. Just a plain old alley. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I still flinched when a tall leggy blonde in a body-shaping black mini rounded the corner from Eighteenth Street.

  “Hey,” she said as she walked by.

  “Hey.” I watched her sashay toward the steps I’d passed, swinging what the good Lord gave her all the way up to the heavy metal door. Light shifted, or the man who suddenly appeared in front of her moved. I’m not sure which. He wasn’t there a second ago, but my mind couldn’t help thinking he was and I just hadn’t seen him. Like he’d been standing there the whole time and when she’d neared, he’d shifted his weight and that’s what finally caught my eye. Weird.

  She handed him a small square paper, white with a splash of something red across it. A cocktail napkin. Was this the secret Il Piccolo Morso club I’d never heard of? My wicked-keen reporter senses tingled. I had to know.

  By the time I reached the steps, the door was closing behind her. The guy under the rusted metal light-shade blocking my way didn’t look in the best of moods. Oh well. Not like that would stop me. He was tall. Tall enough he could’ve looked on top of my refrigerator without pushing up to his toes. Six foot something. Tall. He was built too. Bodybuilder built. Though wearing the snazzy gray suit over a pale green shirt gave him an air of sophistication most muscle heads lack. No tie, the first three buttons of his shirt were open flashing a brush of dark hair that matched the long wavy strands on his head.

  The guy had better hair than me. It shone like silk in the bare bulb light overhead and brushed the tops of his shoulders. His eyes were dark, I’d say black but that’s not really possible. Right? He had a square face, not square-square, but square-ish, with a sharp jaw, defined cheekbones, and a wide full mouth. His nose was a narrow, straight line perfectly fitting the angular lines of his face, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a day or so.

  As I reached the top step, he b
acked up and leaned his backside against the round metal railing behind him, hands finding the pockets of his slacks. He didn’t say a word, only stared.

  “Hi,” I said, very chipper, very don’t mind lil’ ol’ me. “Uh…I guess I’ll get the door myself.” I glanced at the rusted metal and realized there was no handle. The door was one of those that could only be opened from the inside. That sucks.

  “Do you have an invitation?” His voice was smooth, relaxed, as though my presence didn’t even rise to the level of annoyance.

  I wanted to ask, an invitation to what, just to make sure I wasn’t stumbling into something totally weird, like a plushy fetish mixer or something, but thought better of it.

  “I, uh…lost it.” Nerves had me tucking curls behind my ear. Stupid habit. His gaze tracked the movement, latching onto the fake tattoo on my neck.

  “You’re Mr. Edmunston’s?” He pushed to his feet, reaching toward me as though he’d touch the mark or move my hair for a better view. I flinched away and he dropped his arm, his brow wrinkling tighter.

  “That’s pretty dark. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not cool for one of the owner’s girls to be showing like that. Go home. Get some rest and something to eat. Come back in a couple days.” He leaned back against the railing again as though there was nothing more to be said.

  Mr. Edmunston’s? The mark had a connection…and owner. I played a hunch. “But I, uh, really need to see him. He’s here, right?”

  “Of course.” Suspicion clouded his face.

  “I’ll be in and out before you know it,” I said quickly, hoping to forestall any loss of credibility the mark had won me.

  The guy shook his head then went eerily still. Seriously. I wasn’t sure he was even breathing.

  “Pleeeease.” I batted my eyes shamelessly, playing on my feminine wiles. Apparently, feminine wiles are one of those things if you don’t use, you lose. The guy didn’t even look in my direction. Nothing. He just leaned there staring.

  Right. Time to cheat.

  I sucked a deep breath, focusing, calling my power until I felt the light buzzing at the back of my head, and the fine hairs on my neck tingled with energy. “Why don’t you just let me in for a quick peek?”

  The guy blinked, glanced my way his brow furrowing again. He shook his head then went completely still.

  Oh shit. It didn’t work. That’d never happened before. I’d never met anyone I couldn’t suggest into doing what I wanted. I tried harder, pulling enough power that a dull throb started behind my eyes. “You should open that door and let me inside—right—now.”

  This time the guy jerked to his feet like he’d been pulled by strings. He paused for a second, blinking at me, then stepped one foot toward the door and reached out to the seal where door meets wall.

  The nails on his hand were long and thick and pointed. Gross. I hadn’t noticed before. His nails hooked the edge of the door, and he pulled. My shoulders bunched, ready for a loud moaning creak, but the rusty metal door swung open, smooth and silent.

  I glanced at him before I slipped through. He still looked grumpy, but now there was a tinge of confused annoyance in the mix. His creepy black eyes stayed locked on me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was fighting the suggestion even as he obeyed me. I didn’t wait to find out. I turned my back to him and disappeared inside.

  Pay dirt. Il Piccolo Morso. How’d I know? A neon sign hung eight feet tall on the wall as soon as I entered—a glowing red tube that spelled out the words in beautiful scrawling letters. Just like the cocktail napkins.

  The sign stood out against the soft, blue-lit walls, like blood on white roses. Speaking of white roses, they were everywhere. Crystal vases with tall long-stemmed roses decorated every table. More filled sconces along the walls between endless spills of white silk cascading from ceiling to floor. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust well enough to see clearly, but the place was big. No surprise. It was a warehouse, though you’d never know it by the looks of things from the inside.

  My gaze gravitated to the largest source of light at the center of the cavernous space. An enormous oval bar centered overtop a glowing bluish-white floor, lit from beneath like the bar top itself and stretching ten feet around on all sides. Even the middle island inside the bar, where the sinks and electric mixers and such were kept, glowed soft blue light from between white flowers and green leafy accents that overflowed the sides and ends of a long planter running the length of the island.

  I took a step and my boots sank into plush carpet. It was too dark to see the color, and the round tables with their semicircle white-cushioned benches left only a walking path between them up to the glowing dance floor. Semicircles seemed the theme at Il Piccolo Morso, where in each corner huge half-circle couches softened the angles, and long curtains of silk canopied the sides, making the large gathering spots seem intimate.

  Music blared from six speakers twice as tall as me, hanging from the ceilings, and when I glanced up, I noticed the high windowed room at the top of the far wall. The two people inside were in silhouette. One bopped to the beat of the music, a hand to the headset over one ear, the other hand on a dimly flashing DJ control panel. The other figure, I assumed, was the mysterious Mr. Edmunston standing watch over his domain.

  I navigated my way to the bar, sidestepping tables of amorous couples and even more swaying together on the glowing dance floor. It wasn’t wall-to-wall people, but enough to make it difficult to pass without bumping shoulders. I snagged a freshly vacated stool, and my spine deflated, relieved I’d found a port to dock myself in the sea of nightclub goers. I am so not a club person, but I really wanted to talk with Mr. Edmunston to figure out his connection to the mark tattooed on the victims. And through him, make a connection between the victims themselves.

  With my forearms resting on the warm bar top, waiting for the bartender to make his way around to me, I couldn’t help my gaze from swinging up to the DJ booth. There was a light toward the back of the booth that looked like it could be a doorway or maybe a hall. I traced down the wall with my gaze until I noticed a door on the main floor next to the corner couch and canopy on the left. It must lead up to the booth, maybe his office too. No guards stood watch, not that one could stop me. I swung my legs around.

  “What’ll ya have?”

  Frozen mid-slide on the stool, I glanced back to see one hottie bartender waiting for my drink order. He was tall, though not as tall as Mr. Personality out front and not muscle bound the same way either, though he was clearly built. He was solid, like a baseball player, with hair to match. Light brown with sun-streaks, his hair had that tousled windblown look athletes get, longer on top, clipped close on the sides, over his ears and in back. He looked twenty-five or so and every bit the all-American boy, with bright blue eyes, dimpled cheeks and a knockout white-toothed smile. Yum.

  “Right. I’ll have a glass of wine. Red, please.” A quick glance to the booth to check Mr. Edmunston hadn’t snuck away on me and I swung my legs back around.

  “Lookin’ for someone?” the bartender asked, already filling my wine glass.

  That was scary fast. I debated my answer for about half a second before opting for the truth. With a nod toward the DJ booth I said, “Yeah. Actually, I was hoping to speak with Mr. Edmunston.”

  The bright-eyed bartender followed my gesture then looked back to me, his smile broadening. “You don’t say. Why’s that?”

  I shrugged. “Wanted to put in an application.” So much for the truth.

  “You wanna work here? As what, a waitress, a bartender, what?” His voice held a ripple of laughter, but I wasn’t sure why. What business doesn’t take applications?

  Whatever. “Why? Nervous about job security?”

  This time he did laugh. Loud and from deep in his belly, so hard and sudden he stumbled back a step.

  Wasn’t that funny. “What?”

  The too-cutesy guy collected himself, corking the wine bottle, shaking his head as though dismissing
his reaction. “Nothing.” He sat the bottle under the bar, still smiling and fighting his laughter. “How’d you get in here?”

  Busted. I knew that invitation thing would bite me in the ass. “Same as everyone.”

  “No you didn’t.” His good humor was waning. He gave me a nod. “Tell me your name.”

  “Tell me yours, first.” What am I, seven?

  “Alex.” He braced his hands wide on the edge of the bar. His white shirt gaped where he’d left the first three buttons undone and the rolled sleeves slipped down to just below his elbows. He was wearing black slacks, I think. There was a short black apron hiding them around his waist.

  “I’m Sophie. Sophie Merlo.” I glanced back to the DJ booth, seeing my chances of interviewing Mr. Edmunston slipping away.

  Like I’d slammed my arm in a car door, crushing pain ripped up through my shoulder so fast it stole my breath. The stab of sensation screamed through my brain. My body jerked halfway up and onto the bar against my will. I snapped my head around to see Alex’s all-American baby face twisted ugly with rage. He held my arm, and with one hand had pulled me up off my stool.

  “Who sent you?” His voice rumbled low through tightly clenched teeth.

  “Get off. That hurts.” I squirmed, tried to jerk my arm free but it was caught, like it’d been sealed in cement. Panicking, I called up my power fast and hard, my head swam with the rush of energy but fear and pain kept me focused. “You should really let me go. Now.”

  Alex’s pretty blue eyes narrowed to slits. The color had paled so dramatically the pupils looked like black pinpricks in a sea of white. He wasn’t blinking, wasn’t obeying my suggestion.

  There’s only a certain amount of power my mind can take before I simply can’t call it to the forefront again without resting first. After using so much on the guard out front, I was tapped out. My spine iced, instinct tingling down my back. Fear and pain triggered flight instincts, the need to run an almost debilitating urge.