What a prick.
“So I’m looking for photos probably,” my mind whirs. “I can’t imagine they keep digital copies. Too easy to hack into.”
“Right,” he agrees. “If thereareany digitals, I’ll be able to find them from outside on my computer. But most of them keep paper copies. Easier to shred paper than wipe a computer. Plus,” he gags, “They tend to make a mess of them, literally getting off on the photos of their victims.”
Nausea pricks at the back of my throat.
“Wear gloves,” Sky adds. “That’s a lesson you only needed to learn once.”
I’m going to be fucking sick.
Not only am I looking for photographs of the worst things mankind can do to each other, but they’re probably going to be coated in a layer of jizz.
When we pull up to a quiet neighborhood, Sky kills the headlights, parking between some of the giant oak trees lining an extravagant property, hiding the pitch-black car in the deep shadows astwilight disappears, leaving nothing but the stars and moon to guide us.
Turning off the engine, he leans back between the front seats, grabbing a computer and a black bag.
“Next week onWelcome Back To Your Fucked Up Life, we’re going over the prep work we do for these jobs so I don’t have to fucking do it by myself again,” he mutters, tossing the bag into my lap.
I let loose a small laugh, the adrenaline from what I’m about to do flooding into my veins.
I may not remember loving this heinous shit, but once again, my body is just waiting for my mind to catch up.
The only time I’ve felt more alive than I do right now since waking up is when I’ve been chasing any of Brigit’s attention, or better, driving myself inside her until she combusts.
Fuck.
Do not get hard right now.
I will the blood attempting to fill my dick to subside, reminding it that we’re not about to fuck our sweet little bunny, we’re about to break into someone’s house and find proof that they deserve to rot in prison.
Or worse.
“If it’s bad enough,” I tap my fingers nervously on the bag. “I mean if… what if I…”
“What if the Bat Man comes out to play?” Skyler smirks. Well, I think he is. Sure fucking sounds like it, even though I can’t see it.
“That’s the stupidest nickname I’ve ever heard,” I mutter.
“Better than Bás Dorcha,” he scoffs. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It’s a reference to Irish folklore,” I explain. “Bats are seen as an omen of death or a connection to the spirit world.”
It’s far more complicated than that, but it’s not a stretch to assume they chose to give me a nickname that’s closely related to the reason for the names of many things in my life.
I am the harbinger of death. A reckoning that comes in the dead of night.
And I don’t believe in subtlety, getting the fucking omen itself inked into my skin.
“To answer your question,” Skyler says when he can stop laughing about the silliness of my serial killer name, “If it just so happens that you decide to slice them up and put them on display, I have everything we need for that, too. Leo on Tate are on call down the road.”
“How long do we sit here?” I ask, thinking about how it’s not just us waiting around, but presumably an entire team that works behind the scenes to make me a far more terrifying entity than I could be on my own.
He leans his head back, “Until everyone in the neighborhood is asleep.”
“Then why are we here so early?”
After a beat, he laughs, “It’s like fucking take your kid to work day. We’re here now because no one notices the rumble of a car at the time of day everyone is getting home from work, but one appearing at midnight is unmistakable in a neighborhood this quiet.”
