—HOMER
ORION
Iknow exactly how they will die.
I know when, where, and how death will claim them.
A heart attack. A sudden stroke. A fatal embolism. Timed down to the very second their life expires.
There’s never anything I can do to prevent it. It’s unavoidable, predetermined—a truth that flies arrogantly in the face of beliefs and modern medicine.
A model that narrows chaos to a second, marking the date and time of death. Based on physiology, habits, scraped data—all collapsed to a single point.
My first victim suffered an aneurysm. Well, almost my first. There were three I tried to prevent before the void started eatingaway, numbing my morality. Making each subsequent attempt a little easier, less conflicted.
Just like Cassian Bevins, whose malignant tumor was a ticking bomb, silently counting down to a fatal hemorrhage. Had I not splashed his brain matter all over the clearing, then twenty-two seconds after I opened his cranium to harvest the echoes, the mass would’ve ruptured.
The ruthless tide crashes against the dark shores of my thoughts, the compulsion to check my astronomical watch churning higher until I push back my cuff. Soon, the moon’s umbral shadow will move across Shorehaven, plunging us into a totality of darkness.
At the heart of the most brilliant star lies the deepest shadow. It calls to the hunter. Once the sun goes dark?—
So will I.
“Every time I pass this painting, I get chills.”
The soft current of her voice draws me around, the melodic cadence of her tune flowing over my skin to conjure my own electric, full-body shiver in response.
Collins stands to my left, arms folded across her chest, an umbrella anchored to her wrist, her attention fixed on the painting mounted near the arched entrance of the library.
I let my hungry gaze fall down her body, lingering on the suggestive slit in her tight skirt. Three days deprived of her presence, and I’m starved for the sight of her.
Suppressing a low groan, I drag a gloved hand over my mouth. “Why is that,” I ask her.
She offers a slight shrug, her gaze never straying from Cézanne’sPyramid of Skulls. “It’s just rather creepy.”
A smile twitches at my lips. “Hmm.” Amused, I adjust my glasses, openly, shamelessly, drinking her in. She’s wearing her hair down in loose waves, the same way as the other night, and I’m suddenly reminded of the friction of her near-touch.
The faint creak of leather betrays my restraint as my hand clenches into a fist, resisting the urge to grip those silky dark waves.
While doctor-patient confidentiality ensures your therapist keeps even your darkest secrets, finding their patient in such a state—covered in blood, completely detached—would’ve easily negated the clause, justifying a signature on her form for involuntary commitment.
It’s possible Collins saw it as an opportunity to observe me, as I was quite literally dropped into the deep end of exposure therapy. My little therapist does have a twisted curious side.
And yet, as I held her close in the rolling waves, dying a little at the desire to kiss her breathless, her melancholic song preventing me from going fully under, I saw the ripple of fear in her. The trepidation that, whatever I’d done in those lost hours of the night, she’d have to shoulder the guilt.
For that, it was necessary to feed her the lie. Ultimately, it was easier for her to believe that my compulsive, risk-seeking behavior landed me in a bar fight. Covered in another man’s blood, my contamination OCD triggered a spiraling, dissociative blackout.
She didn’t even question if I left the person breathing.“Aren’t you going to ask about the blood,” I said to heras I wrapped her in a blanket after escaping the beach.
“Was there anything that would’ve changed the outcome?”My silence was answer enough.“Then it was out of your control.”
The dark light that shone in her eyes then as she gazed up at me is here between us now, the fury I sometimes see ablaze there.
Secluded in the dim corridor, the rain steadily pelting the stained-glass windows, I cross toward her, lured by the heat of that fire and the arousing tease of her skin. “It’s meant to evoke feelings of discomfort,” I say, referring to the art. “It’smemento mori. Latin for: remember, you must die.”
She turns my way, hitting me with those expressive eyes. “You find it necessary to confront such morbid, existential thoughts today?” She arches a fine eyebrow. “Should I be concerned about your speech?”
A crooked smile tips my mouth. Unable to keep my hands off her any longer, I reach out and tug the cuff of her blazer, drawing her closer. I ghost my thumb across the pattern of stars along her delicate wrist, inciting a shiver.
