Not with him, though.
I’ve pretty much accepted that Aven isn’t interested. Is it disappointing? Yes. But it’s not surprising. He’s on emotional lockdown, and I don’t have the energy to expend on breaking through those barriers. If I want to get my kicks, I’ll have to do it with someone else.
That shouldn’t be hard, considering the other little tidbit he offered me. As it turns out, I’m not only surrounded by serial killers; I’m serial killer royalty. Some murderous bigwig named Grantham Carter provided the other half of my DNA. I won’t be able to use that to my advantage, however. Aven said I can’t tell anyone until Jim says I can, and when Jim tells me himself, I’m supposed to act surprised.
No, my feminine wiles will have to do, so I scan the room in search of eligible men. I spot a few of them, but then those men join us at the table, and I realize they aren’t so eligible after all. All three of them appear to be attached to the women seated near us—aside from Eve, whom I’ve learned is a lesbian fashion model on top of being a serial killer. I feel like I’ve been living under a fucking rock.
The excitement of it all dazzles me more than it frightens me. I mean, it frightens me too, but the adrenaline rush errs more on the side of thrill than chill. Killers surround me—if Aven is to be believed—and yet I’m untouchable.
Even beyond my fabled heritage, my safety is assured. Granted, that’s only because Aven assures it, but still. It’s a fucking assurance.
“Aven, who’s the lovely lady on your arm tonight?” a beautiful blonde asks. She sits across from us beside a man in a pineapple-print shirt.
Aven introduces me to everyone, and I make a mental note of their names. Are these really their names, though? Seems kind of risky for them to trust me so fully when they don’t know if I’m with the cops.
But then I learn that one of the women is an agent with the fucking FBI. How deep does this rabbit hole run?
I’m just excited to have other people to talk to for once. These humans are capable of more than one-word responses, unlike Aven. They’re so friendly and outgoing and not at all what I’dexpect serial killers to be. It makes me wonder how many people in my day-to-day life are doing unimaginable things behind closed doors.
But before we have much chance to talk, the lights in the conference room begin to dim, and Jim steps onto the small stage at the head of the event space. Conversations still as waitstaff tiptoe through the tables and fill glasses of water.
“Hello, Sinners, and welcome to Slaughter Park!” he says, and the crowd offers a small round of applause. “For those of you who have been with us for a while, I’d like to say welcome back. You’ll notice a few changes this time around, such as our selections for Cattle, but we’ll get into that shortly. For our newcomers, I’d like to go over our rules for these retreats.”
I lean closer to Aven so that I can whisper into his ear. But as I get into his space, my thoughts leave my head. He smells sogood. It’s a mix of black leather and sea salt, and I just want to fall asleep with this scent in my lungs. It relaxes everything in my body.
My brain reminds me to ask the question before he notices me sniffing him. “The killers here follow rules?” I whisper.
He nods and points for me to listen to Jim.
“First and foremost, the only sanctioned targets on this island are the Cattle. They’re easy to recognize by their attire. Cattle who have committed crimes against children wear pink. The rapists are in red, and our new category this year will take up the yellow robes. That’s right, Sinners! We’re killing animal abusers this go round!”
A cheer erupts from the crowd, and I have to cover my mouth to hide the giggle trying to squeeze out of me. I feel like I’m on some prank show. Any minute now, someone is going to pop out and point to the cameras. This can’t be real life.
Jim grins and urges everyone to settle, and they do. He clears his throat and brings the mic to his mouth again. “I’m so gladto see the excitement for our new category at this retreat, but I must reiterate that only Cattle may be slain. If you take the life of a staff member or a Sinner, there will be...repercussions.”
I want to ask Aven where I fall in all of this. When he explained what this retreat really was, he didn’t say what part I’d need to play. Other than helping them lure Desmond into the open, I’m not sure what I’m expected to do. Will I have to kill someone?
God, I hope so.
It’s no secret that I have dark fantasies. Everyone in my chat knows about my obsession with dark romance. But that’s just what I’ve let them see. They don’t know just how dark my heart gets. If they did, I’d probably attract the wrong type of client. My feed would be flooded with Desmonds.
But these people are different. If they really are killers, they follow a code. They’re vigilantes, doing good in the world by ridding it of pedos, rapists, and animal abusers. I want to be part of this world.
And as the lights dim and Jim leads three hooded Cattle onto the stage, I might just get my grand entrance into the dark universe that is my birthright.
Chapter Nine
Aven
All things considered, the girl is taking this well. A little too well, maybe. I didn’t expect her to start screaming her wee head off or anything, but she seems more intrigued than put off about the whole serial killer thing. Jim said the simulation predicted this outcome. I don’t think his precious simulator could have predicted just how jolly she’d be, though.
Granted, we never ran a simulation where I told the lass her father was a prolific killer. That was probably a mistake on my part, but I figured it would help her adjust a little more. The last name comes with certain benefits, and I figured knowing those benefits would set her at ease. It certainly seems to have worked a trick. She doesn’t appear frightened at all.
When Jim opens the dinner with a game, Quinn’s hand is the first to shoot into the air when he asks for volunteers. We discussed what would likely happen in this moment. In most instances, the simulation predicted she would be interested in witnessing the killings, but that she wouldn’t go so far as toparticipate. I guess we need to stop relying so heavily on that machine’s predictions, because this woman is clearly the least possible outcome in any given situation.
Jim looks at me, silently asking what to do. I look back at him and offer no help. This is his monkey and his circus, and I’m just here to hold the tail.
“Well...come on up, Quinn,” Jim finally stammers. He introduces her to the group, but instead of smiling and listening, the performer inside her rears its massive head.
