I stab his hand, feeling the resistance of the tendon before it gives. His scream changes pitch, sharper now. I twist the blade once before yanking it free, but the presence at the window has burrowed into my skull. I grab Camden’s balls, drag the tip of the knife up his shaft, just a shallow cut, but his breath stutters, tears streak his face, snot glistens under his nose. Drool slips from the corner of his mouth.
“Please. I’m begging you!”
“How many?” My voice drops to a hiss.
“W-what?” He gags, his eyes wild, the whites huge and frantic. His legs tremble against the restraints, the metal biting deeper into his ankles.
“How many women did you rape or watch your friends rape?” The blade presses into his left testicle. He whimpers and shakes his head.
Wrong answer.
The slice is fast, the blood isn’t. It gushes hot across the plastic, and he vomits, whole body jerking, but he stays conscious.
Good boy.
“Seventeen!” he screams, and I slide a mask over my face. The stench of vomit, sweat, and iron almost makes me gag too.
“Seventeen women…” I pace in front of him, the knife traces his abdomen, a clean, shallow line. “Seventeen women who still wake up screaming your name.”
I glance at the window again. The shadow hasn’t moved, and it’s getting on my damn nerves!
Time to finish this before whoever is out there tries to come in.
The blade bites into Camden’s right side, deeper this time. His scream breaks into something raw, wet. I drop the knife, pick up the scalpel this time.
This one could cut bone. It glides through his right testicle with no effort, the piece hitting the plastic with a soft slap. His scream rips through the air and then, nothing. He’s out cold but still breathing so I go for the other one, my gloves slick now, but when I look up… He’s gone.
No breath, no pulse… unfortunately.
I sigh. “Oh well.”
I turn to his eyes and dig each one out. They're the same shade as Henry's. Ironic.
Slow and steady, I press the testicles into the sockets, one by one, and stitch them shut. I didn’t expect this much blood—he bleeds more than Henry did. It pools thick and slow around my boots, clinging warm to the leather. The air is heavy with copper and bile, metallic enough to coat my tongue.
I roll the plastic up tight around him, release the chains, and he falls onto the cart I brought, the kind for hauling lumber. I drag him into the woods, careful to avoid the spot where Henry rots.
This grave is deeper, and it takes me forever to cover him up with dirt, my arms ache, and my hands shake from exhaustion.
I head back to the cabin, and I strip it all—the plastic sheets, my clothes, the wig—and feed it to the fire pit. I’m down to shorts and a sports bra as I watch the flames licking higher, curling smoke into the night.
That’s when I feel it, hear the branches snapping behind me. The hairs on my arms rise, a cold line down my spine. My pulse kicks hard, but I don’t turn around.
“I’m guessing you’re Eidolon,” I whisper, keeping my voice steady even though my throat feels tight.
“Something like that.” The voice is gravel, deep, calm, dangerous.
“Did you enjoy the show?” My fingers brush the knife hidden at my front, needing the anchor of its weight.
“A little too clumsy for me.” His tone is cold enough to raise goosebumps, and a chill snakes down my spine. I take a breath, forcing myself to turn, finally facing the shadow that saw me kill.
He’s tall, easily above six-four, broad shoulders. He’s wearing cargo pants, combat boots, a hoodie, and gloves. All of it black as the night itself. The only piece of color is on the black balaclava—a jagged red crack painted on the side.
My pulse skips twice, and I’m sure I’m about to have a heart attack.
“Why didn’t you turn me in?” My voice shakes, and I hate it.
“They deserved it.” His boots crunch against burnt leaves as he takes another step.
