by K. C. Hamby
My feet pound on the gravel as I build up—hopefully—enough power to make the jump. The wind pushes at my back.
I launch myself forward and up off the edge of the building with all the power in my legs. I’m flying through the air again when realization hits me.
I’m not going to make it.
I reach up and stretch my body as far as I can, trying to make a miracle happen at my fingertips. My wolf pushes through my arms and to my fingers, extending my nails into claws. The edge of the building caresses my fingertips and I dig my claws into the cement with all my strength.
I hear the stone cracking under my grip. I hold on tight as the rest of my body catches up. And boy, does it ever. I slam into the brick of the building so hard, the breath is pushed out of my lungs. The scarred side of my face smacks into the building, cutting my already war-torn skin and nearly knocking me unconscious. I give myself a few seconds to get my shit together and then pull myself over the edge. I roll over on my back and suck air into my lungs while seeing stars and birds and whatever else I’m supposed to have fly around my head when I nearly get knocked out.
A few minutes pass and I can finally breathe without nausea. I lean up and look at the damage. My fingers are back to normal.
Well, if I can call ripped and bloodied normal. I grab my phone from my bag and turn on the camera to look at my face.
“Fuck.” A few lovely cuts slice into my skin graft and my lip is busted again. Wonderful.
I fix the damage as much as I can with rubbing alcohol I carry with me everywhere since I’m prone to slicing up my body. The cuts in my skin graft are going to take longer to heal than everything else. Still faster than human healing, but too slow for me.
After I do what I can to help my face, I lie my head on my bag and wait for my time to be the justice good ole Carrie deserves.
Chapter 28
I braid my hair down my back, ignoring the pit in my stomach and, instead, focus on winding my long, black hair together. I turn my attention to my battle ritual. I paint my face and relish the cool substance trailing across my scar. I slide my leather jacket over my black sport shirt and slip my knife snuggly into my boot. I tuck my dagger into its sheath on my belt along with five, shiny, black throwing knives. I twist the silencer onto my pistol and shove it into its holster on my right thigh. I’m on autopilot, going through the ritual I’ve done so many times I can do it in my sleep.
My thoughts are with Nina. I wonder what she is doing. I wonder if she is thinking about me and I want to slap myself for the thought. I think about Nathan, which lights a fire in my chest and makes me want to drive my knife into this Carrie bitch’s eye. How can someone be so terrible? I snarl at the thought.
I stand and back up to jump to the roof of the tutoring center again when I hear the front door of the center fly open. Angry heel clicks slap across the pavement and the frustration of this person curls around me like smoke.
“This better be good, Bill,” the voice of the angry heel clicker shouts and I think my heart skips a beat. And not the good kind of beat skipping, either. “I had to cancel all of my private sessions!”
It’s her. It’s Carrie.
I run to the edge of the building and glare down to see her twitching her way down the sidewalk in my direction. She’s almost to the alleyway.
I hurl myself over the edge of the building, landing quietly on the fire escape. I tear down its rusty ladders as fast as possible without making a sound and drop down to the dark alley as soon as the angry Carrie hangs up her phone. She’s almost out of my grabbing range.
Dropping my bag, I blend into the darkness as quietly as the darkness itself and run toward her. I position myself right on the corner of the building and wait until she’s walking right by me.
I reach out and cover her mouth with my right hand and restrain her with my left, pulling her into the darkness of the alley with me. She thrashes in my arms, trying to get away and manages to elbow me in the stomach. The fire inside roars to life and the monster takes over.
I slam her into the brick wall of the building and grip her throat with unforgivable force. Her eyes bulge as she struggles to breath. Her trachea quivers beneath my palm, aching for precious oxygen she won’t be needing for too much longer. My wolf likes her fear and the monster inside me feeds off it. I smile as my eyes dilate and canines lengthen.
All I can think about are those kids and ‘what if it were Nathan’ and how much I want to see her blood spill from her throat. I want it to flow over my gloved hands and trickle down my arms. I want to feel the life pour out of her. I snarl, and Carrie’s face turns ash white with fear and slightly blue from lack of oxygen. Sweat beads from her forehead and her fear drenches her scent, driving the monster insane with need. Need to kill.
I loosen my hold on her throat and let her take advantage of my generosity by allowing her to gulp in air. I don’t want her to die.
Yet.
There is something down deep, screaming at me, telling me I’ve lost all control. My humanity has disappeared, and the bloodthirsty monster has broken free. And I let her. I let her use me like a marionette.
“Why?!” flies out of my mouth toward Carrie before I have a chance to think about it. My voice is guttural and full of wrath.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Carrie shrieks in a voice made husky by my grip on her throat. I squeeze harder and push my body against hers, almost seductively as I play with my prey. I breath in the fear pulsing from her carotid artery, just begging to be opened by my knife. My lips brush her skin, my wolf needing to take in every bit of her fear.
I suddenly pull her off the wall and slam her back in place. I pull out my dagger and hold it to the soft skin covering her neck. She shrieks again, and I push the blade closer, cutting her enough to show her I’m in control here.
“The kids,” I spit. “Why!” I yell through gritted teeth.
“Oh, god!” she screams and sobs. “I’m sorry! Please! Give me a chance to make it right.” She coughs, spit falling out of the side of her mouth from my grip. “Please!” I smell the lies riding her breath like a carnival coaster. I snarl. “Please! Show mercy!”
Menacingly, I grin and revel in her terror. It’s dripping off her like her saliva. I want to say the wolf in me is in control, but the monster Fal part wants this just as badly.
“Justice doesn’t show mercy.” My voice snarls with finality. “You have been chosen.” I turn my dagger and place the point right into the base of her throat, right above her sternum. I push, slower than necessary, until the blade of my dagger is completely buried in her flesh and clicks against the brick wall behind her. She tries to yell, but it comes out in a gurgle of blood spewing everywhere, including in my face as the best kind of shower. I growl in contentment. Carrie drowns in her blood as I sit here, pinning her to the wall and watching her die. With the pathetic life leaves her eyes, making them go cloudy, a shiver crawls over my skin and I let her drop to the ground.
I stand back and try to pull in even a small perception of sanity by closing my eyes and tilting back my head. My canines recede, and the monster slowly disappears. And in its place, I find the severity of what just happened.
I’m…
I call Ash. It rings once, and he answers.
“It’s done.” I hang up the phone. He knows where I am.
My breathing becomes increasingly ragged.
I’m….
I’m a monster.
I have no other way to describe what just happened. I turned into a sociopathic maniac without any remorse for what I did.
Well, the wolf in me has no remorse. She enjoyed every bit of it. I guess I don’t either, but I’m horrified. I’m a complete monster.
I fall to the ground beside Carrie’s corpse and puke up everything I think I’ve ever eaten in my life. I’m covered in a cold sweat and continue to gag and retch even though I have nothing left.
I’m a murderous monster.
I’m a m
onster I’m a monster monster monster monster….
In the darkness, I lean back against the brick and pull in shallow breaths. I stay this way for a while, just breathing; just hoping this isn’t real and I’m not the person who killed the person who lived in the bloody corpse beside me.
I can’t be that monster.
Of course you are, it whispers. I live in you. I am you.
I breathe. I breathe. I breathe, wanting more than anything to push the monster out of me, but the longer I sit here and stare at Carrie’s cooling corpse, I know I’ll never be able to get it out. It’s not a separate thing I can part with. It is me.
Time isn’t important and it seems to pass slowly anyway, as if I’m sitting in a thick fog of endless time, suffocating any good I have left in me.
I catch my breath and stand, needing distance from the body. I stare down at her crumpled form one more time, accepting this is who I am because I shut out my wolf for too long; because I love the hunt and kill. This is natural when someone denies who they are forced to be a murderer. It will come roaring back out with a vengeance and become everything they know. I just have to deal with the mental consequences and loss of humanity.
I pull a Proof out of my pocket and dab her dark blood in the center. I close it up tight and shove it in my pocket.
Something slams into the back of my head. Hard.
I fall to my hands and knees in a daze, my vision swimming as I try to piece together what the fuck just hit me. The culprit stands behind me, looking at their handiwork.
“Reapeeeeer.” The hiss crawls down my spine.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Dazed or not, I’m not dying today. Especially not by the hands of a creepy Poacher dickhead.
I rock back on my toes and push my left leg off the ground while spinning in the direction of the asshat who had the nerve to hit me. My foot catches him in the stomach with a forceful blow and he flies back at the impact, landing hard on the ground a good eight feet away.
My vision rights itself and I watch as the Poacher jumps up and runs in my direction. I pull a gleaming throwing knife from my belt and fling it toward him, his shoulder as my target.
Bullseye. It digs into his flesh and his legs falter with a painful yell. He keeps heading toward me.
I walk forward and send another knife flying in his direction, making its mark in his other shoulder.
He keeps coming.
I fling another into the flesh of his thigh and he collapses. I smell the blood and indignation on him. I stand beside the bastard and look down into his smiling face in disgust.
“You picked the wrong night, pal.” His smirk makes my skin crawl.
“Damien sends his regards to you, Reaper, and….what’s her name?” he asks rhetorically with a pain-filled voice. “Ah, right. Nina.” I gasp as he laughs manically.
I yell incoherently and throw another knife. It finds its home in his forehead.
I yank out all the knives and shove them into my belt without even a pause to wipe off the blood. I fly to the opening of the alley and yank my bag off the ground as Ash pulls up. He throws himself out of the SUV looking dangerous and angry when he lays eyes on the Poacher.
“Ash, hurry!” I scream at him. He meets my wild gaze and has to see the panic embedded in them. “Nina!” I add with a shriek to make him understand. His eyes go a dark and cold amber and he runs to grab the corpses. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move so fast.
I throw my bag in the back of the SUV and jump in the front seat. Ash slams the trunk hatch closed, filling the cabin with the scent of freshly spilled blood. Within a minute, he’s done and we are flying down the road with the engine roaring the whole way.
We arrive in record time and I jump out with my bag in tow without thinking. There’s no time to think. I must get to her.
Mate. My wolf snarls.
My feet pound on the pavement in rhythm with my thundering heart and I take the stairs to her apartment three or four at a time. I bang on the door so hard, the hinges whine and I fear I may bust it open.
“Nina!” I yell at the door and it flies open soon after. I meet the blue gemmed eyes of a terrified Nina and push her back in the apartment, slamming the door behind us. I lock every lock and swing around to look at her. “Did he hurt you? I’ll kill him if he touched you!”
She’s gaping at me as she angles her body away, her eyes raking up and down my blood covered body. My mind finally registers she’s okay and unharmed. It hits me what I must look like to her. A raving lunatic. A murderer. A monster.
I am.
“Shit, Nina.” I look down at myself. Blood. Everywhere. “I’m sorry. Someone, a Poacher, threatened you and I didn’t have time to think. I just reacted..”
“What did you do?” She gawks at me and something lingers in her eyes hard enough, it makes me want to vomit all over again. Disgust.
“I…I did..my job?” I answer, not understanding the question.
“You mean you murdered someone.”
“Nina, I’ve told you this is who I am. This is normal for me..”
“Normal? Normal? This is not normal. You come busting in here, fresh from a…a kill and you’re covered in blood. Blood that can’t be yours because that’s too much,” she screams and I jerk back, hitting the door. She points her finger at me and steps closer. “This is not normal. This is not how human beings should live!”
I snap.
“Human beings? I am not human. I never was and I never will be,” I growl. “Why don’t you get that? I am A WOLF. I was made to kill. Yes, that may make me a monster, but I am not human! Why do you keep expecting me to act like one?” I scream back at her, all my frustrations at not being accepted by her coming out in waves I can’t stop; I’m drowning in anger and shame. I don’t want to hurt her. I want her to understand me, but goddamn she is so fucking stubborn. I step toward her, hands shaking and lip quivering. I hit my fist to my chest and snarl, “I know I’m a monster. No one believes that more than me. So, take your judgement and give it to someone who gives a fuck!” A tear slides down my cheek as I unlock the locks, fling the door open, and slam it behind me.
***
I sit on the steps leading to Nina’s apartment, watching the snowflakes pile together on the concrete. I’m not angry anymore. I’m hurt by her inability to accept me. Yet, here I am sitting on her steps, still protecting her from a demon I thought I was done fighting and twirling my dagger in my fingers. I still love her. Every part of me loves her even if she will never accept me; even if she never wants to see me again.
The door creaks open behind me, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want to see anymore disgust lingering on her face than I have to. Nina’s soft footsteps gradually make their way to me. She taps on my shoulder without hesitation. I peer up at her tear-stained face, asking what she wants without a word. She gestures for my hand and I furrow my brow as I place my blood covered, black gloved hand in her soft palm after sheathing my dagger. She pulls me to my feet and drags me back inside the apartment without a word. She turns to look at me and sighs. She reaches for my hands and removes my gloves, taking them to the sink where she finally drops them. I say nothing, not wanting to frighten her any more than I have; not wanting to make her look at me like she knows I’m a monster. I watch her walk back to me when the back of my head throbs. I touch the tender spot where the Poacher hit me with…whatever the hell it was.
I pull my hand away to find my fingers coated in blood. My blood.
Nina gasps and grabs my hand, pulling me in the direction of the bathroom. I stand in front of her silently as she begins removing all my knives from my belt and placing them one by one in the sink, their blades still dull with blood. I watch her face, only finding worry and determination in every wrinkle of her concentrating features. She reaches for my gun and stops, looking at me questioningly. I pull it out, unscrew the silencer, slide out the clip with a click, and pop out the bullet sitting in the chamber. I place it all
on the counter and face Nina.
She turns me around, sliding off my jacket, dropping it to the floor. She reaches at the hem of my shirt and helps me pull it over my head without hurting any wounds. She motions to my shoes and I remove them, pulling out my knife and placing it on the counter with my gun. Nina pulls at the buttons on my pants and, if my head weren’t throbbing, it would make my skin heat in places I want her to explore.
I do blush at that thought.
I pull off my pants and Nina attempts to give me a sly once over, but I catch it. I’m vulnerable in my sports bra and boxer briefs, wondering what the hell she’s doing.
“I need you to get in the tub,” she whispers. “I need to clean your wounds. Please.”
She wants to take care of me.
“Oh. Okay,” I whisper in return and brush past her. I step in the tub and sit on the cold porcelain, the cool material sending shivers up my spine.
“You have to turn around.” Nina giggles and I obey with a playful roll of my eyes. She may kick me out soon. I want to enjoy whatever happiness from her I can get. She gently unbraids my hair and runs her fingers through it, releasing the waves from their captivity. Parting my hair away from the wound I’m imagining as a giant hole in my head, she grabs the handheld shower nozzle and lets warm water flow over the tender spot on my scalp. She cleans my wound with such care, tears prickle the corner of my eyes. No one has ever fussed over me this way. Not even my mother.
In my peripherals, I see the bloodstained water seep down the drain. I close my eyes and relish in the feeling of Nina’s care, trying so hard to forget what happened between us.
She lets me know she’s done sometime later. I lost track of time, enjoying her soft fingers winding in and out of my wet hair. I pull myself out of the tub—my bra and boxer briefs completely soaked—and sit on the floor in front of the toilet while Nina dries my hair with a towel. She dabs antibacterial ointment on the wound and a sting surrounds the slash down the back of my skull. She taps my shoulder to make me turn around and she works on the vast amount of destruction I caused to my skin graft. You’d think I’d have more durable skin. Apparently, the more you shift, the tougher your skin becomes. So, mine is probably as thin as paper. It sure does act like it.
