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He begins to cry again. “I don’t know …”

I move my knife to one of his fingers. “Want me to jog your memory?”

“No—no!” He sucks in several thin breaths. “S-seven. Seven others.”

I consider castrating him there and then. Seven victims. This is no temporary slip of judgment. This man is a serial rapist. And all his victims, what about them? They have to carry the emotional scars for their entire lives, all so that this fuckface could get his sick jollies on.

Coldly, I break his femur. While he’s still screaming, I crush his kneecap.

His shrieks are the sweetest music.

I’m sure Whitechapel studied his victims, I’m sure he identified those individuals who didn’t have much family, whose reputations were tarnished, those who were social outcasts.

I’m sure he never imagined that one of his victims would have a nightmare like me to contend with.

“Names,” I demand.

He lists all seven of them to me. Seven women with dreams and interests. Seven women who were just trying to make it through the hellhole that mortal high school can be.

I circle him, wanting to take him back to the Otherworld with me. There are creatures there that can continue to make him pay. But a bigger part of me wants Callie to know what happened to him.

“You made a mistake going after Callypso Lillis. And you made a mistake going after those other girls, and you’re going to pay for it for the rest of your life, starting now.”

He whimpers.

“You’re going to sustain eight more injuries, one for each girl. I’m a gentleman, so for each one I’ll let you choose whether you’d rather have a bone broken or an appendage sawed off.”

The next hour is a blur of screams and injuries. By the time I’m done delivering the wounds, Whitechapel’s breathing is shallow and his eyelids are drooping. There’s only so much pain a human can endure, and he’s getting close to his upper limit for the day.

I wipe off my knife and sheath it.

“You do realize you’re at a fork in the road,” I tell him. “You have two options: I can either subject you to more of this, or you can turn yourself in—you can confess, repent, and live your life as the law deems fit, or you can live your life asIdeem it fit. I can already tell you which option is better for you.”

So can Whitechapel.

“I’ll turn myself in,” he whispers.

My eyes move over him. “I’m going to magically bind you to your word. If you break it—hell, if you do anything that displeases me—I’ll know.”

I don’t need to elaborate on that threat. The thickening smell of ammonia lets me know just what Whitechapel thinks of it.

I straighten.

“Who are you?” he whispers.

I stare down at him for a long moment, then I make a decision. My business card forms in my palm, and I flick it at him.

Might as well let the authorities know I was here, doing all their dirty work for them.

I step over Whitechapel’s toes, which decorate the floor like wedding rice.

And then I’m gone.

Chapter 18

Under a Peruvian Sky

March, 7 years ago