Silence.
Fuck this.
I get in the car and drive out the parking lot, driving slow, the road empty.
The cabin’s ready, same steel table bolted down, plastic sheeting everywhere, and the chains hang in place.
I strip him. The stench of his cologne makes my head spin, but I keep going, put the chains on his wrists, hands to the wall, and pulling a cord until his feet barely touch the ground.
“Argh… fuck.” He groans, and I run to lock his feet into place.
His eyes snap open, the whites bloodshot, pupils glassy. He jerks against the restraints, metal chains rattling against the wood wall, but the drugs still make him weak.
“Hi!” I chirp, spinning around.
“Candice? What the fuck?” His voice cracks, blinks hard, glares. “Do you know who I am?”
I snarl. “Why do you all ask that same dumb question?”
Leaning in, I pull the folded photo from my pocket. Its edges are worn soft from handling. “Of course I know who you are.”
I press it against his bare chest, right over his racing heart. “Remember her?”
He looks down, I see it happen, recognition hittinglike a blade to the gut. His eyes widen, horror bleeding into every line of his face.
“Daisy,” I sing it, slipping on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of latex echoes in the quiet.
“I—” He yanks at the chains again, panic surging when he sees the knife glint in my hand.
“Mercy! Please—have mercy on me! I didn’t kill her; we let her live!”
He’s sobbing now.
I smile slowly, feeling like a predator cornering prey. “Oh, honey. Mercy is for saints, and I’m definitely not one.”
The blade kisses his skin, right across his chest. I drag a long slow cut, just enough to open him up and let the blood bead before it slides down in thick, dark rivulets.
Henry was too quick. Camden? I’m going to take my time.
His voice shreds into a scream, high and grating.
“Dude, please!” I grab his face, dig my fingers into his jaw until he’s looking straight at me. “Why are you screaming? I thought you enjoyed watching. I know you’re not usually hands-on, but this?” I twirl the knife. “This is art.”
His pitch climbs higher, borderline hysterical.
I chuckle. Playing the unhinged psycho is too damn fun.
A sound cuts through, the faintest shift of air. My gaze flicks to the window above the sink. A shadow lingers there, tall and still, watching. Observing.
My pulse stutters. My hands tremble, not from fear but from the fury of not knowing who’s seeing me.
Eidolon.
If they didn’t turn me in last time, they won’t tonight.
Camden’s still crying. Praying. Promising to change.
Right.
