Page 12 of Antihero (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #3)

His head dips down. I feel heady. My target is probably watching, but the longing to feel his lips again is strong enough that I’m willing to explain it away. “Stop killing, and I’ll leave you alone,” he murmurs, an offering. A promise.

I step back, laughing. “Oh, love, you’ve got my desires alllll wrong.”

“You know what I do to killers. You’re no different.”

“Am I not?” I meet his black eyes. “Funny you should say that, because I’ve been wondering if you fuck all your victims. Did you give Strangler a taste, maybe? Or that old lady with the millionaire toy boy? You could’ve given them both a go. The detectives must’ve left that out of the news cycle.”

Now he looks angry. I hit a nerve. I smile wider.

“I don’t,” he snarls.

“Ah, so I’m not your next victim?”

“Oh, you are, Cutthroat.”

Cutthroat . A little thrill goes through me at the nickname.

Now all I need is for him to put the word my in front of it and we’ll be golden.

I’m under no illusions about what has been drawing us to each other all along.

He, clearly, is in a bit of denial. He thinks he wanted the nice blushing girl—that woman is me, too.

But she’d never have made it with him on her own. He needs both sides of the coin.

If anything, learning the truth has only made me want him more. “Mm, we’ll see.”

I see him about to reach and stop me from walking away, but the other thing I’ve been watching in my peripherals is here now, too.

The security guard from the booth. I swing a glance over my shoulder, and see my target—his name is Frank, though that won’t matter for long—staring like he’s watching a different man play with his toy.

In his mind, that is exactly what he’s watching.

“Is this man bothering you?” the security guard asks. He’s one of those guys who rolled the gene dice and ended up massively tall as well as massively broad, even managing to make Tristan look regular-sized.

“Only for now.” Glancing back at Tristan, I give a little wave. “Well, catch you around.” I flick my finger under his chin while the hulk looms beside me. “Don’t wait up.”

In the booth, I sit close by Frank, smiling and taking the red drink he offers me.

“Trouble?” he asks.

I’m about to be , I promise him in my mind, but smile. “Oh, just an ex.”

Tristan is still by the bar, though not being so obvious as to be looking this way. “Well, must be tough for a man to lose something so…” his eyes dart to my chest then back up. Jesus dude, I’m not even packing that much there. I pretend not to notice. “Beautiful.”

I giggle at the compliment. “Well, you know what journo’s can be like,” I say casually, knowing full well how a man like Frank, with a respectable wife back in Tregam’s fancy suburbs and aspirations of political power, might fear ending up in the news cycle. “He’s so dogged.”

A frown, a brief look of panic. “He’s the press?”

“Mm-hm. Anyway, enough about him. Tell me about you…”

***

Needler

The security guard, about five minutes after she enters the booth, decides I’m still not far enough away and comes to throw me out entirely. I’m guessing Paige had something to do with that.

I got a good look at the man she’s targeting—another older rich type, as expected. This one is half-bald, with liver spots on his head. Jesus Christ. How do these men see absolutely nothing suspicious about a beautiful woman being interested in them ?

It doesn’t matter. Once I’m kicked out back into the crisp, fresh air on the surface, and supposing she doesn’t find a way to strangle him inside the club, all I need to do is wait.

The entrance to the Bunker is an unassuming concrete building the size of an outhouse that leads directly to the stairs.

A wide space around it has been cut out of the stunted forest. A dozen or so others, shivering in heavy fashion coats over their club gear, smoke off at the edges, toeing their cigarette butts into the layer of snow.

Up the hill to the south, the ring road of the island passes by the clearing.

There’s a handful of cars parked off to the edge of the narrow strip of tar, most of them hired out to the rich types who came here by boat.

Bicycles have been ditched among the trees, most of them bent and rusted.

I take the time to consider. She’s not going to stop, though that’s hardly surprising.

As I’ve said myself, the Wraith is attacking people she feels have wronged her.

But until I know what those wrongs are, it’s going to be hard to figure out who her next target is.

I was already wrong tonight, expecting her interest to be in Nick Pastryachi, the from-a-distance owner of the asylum, since she’d been targeting his nephew—Declan—before I killed him first. Her other targets have been people in authoritative positions on the island, too.

But the man she was cosying up to wasn’t Nick, and I didn’t recognise him from any of the island’s historic photos, either.

Whatever he did, it’s my mission tonight to stop her from murdering him.

It’s likely he owns one of the cars parked up by the road, and I’ve already scoped out a nearby bicycle left without a lock, that I’ll steal to chase them.

The road won’t take them very far anyway, since the island can be crossed even on foot in a handful of hours.

It’ll be just far enough for Wraith to get him alone. That’s her plan.

Then she’ll strike. And I’ll be there.

An hour later, she emerges. She looks amazing, even in the huge fur coat that covers her up now.

I can picture the sight of her in the club, so much smooth skin exposed, her hair falling in soft ringlets.

So different to how I’ve seen her before, even if I preferred her those other ways, natural and rugged up, with cute beanies and frilly scarves. Maybe it’s weird, but I like to unwrap.

Of course, she’s not alone. Her victim follows her out, and that hulk of a man behind him. I stick to the shadow of the short trees and follow them up towards the road, trusting the old guy will dismiss his guard.

Which he does. The minute I see him waving away the big guy, I dart over, snatch up the bicycle and climb up through the trees to the road’s edge, just ahead of where the car pulled out.

The break lights are still close, heading east, the opposite direction to town. I jump onto the bicycle and follow in the dark.

I lose sight of them several times, around a bend, or mountain ridge, as they head further and further east, away from witnesses.

The land drops away on my right, the south edge of the island butting up against the road and turning to a sheer drop.

There’s a half-moon tonight, and I can see well enough by it.

The red brake-lights dwindle ahead, and I press more power into the pedals.

Only for one of them to snap off. I curse as the bike chain unloops and the whole bike subsequently falls apart underneath me. I hop free of it, casting it off the road into the wide dirt gutter. A glance ahead again—the car has disappeared.

“Shit,” I swear, and set off at a run along the road. There hasn’t been another car in sight this whole time. By the time I reach the next curve, I’m panting in the cold, thin air, cursing Paige’s name. I’m going to be too late.

I spot the car, dark and empty, pulled off onto the roadside gravel.

Without stopping, I follow my instincts and run for the cliffs.

The southern edge of the island has jutted away from the road here, and a scant path leads towards a viewpoint.

We’re near the eastern tip, the trees and brush falling away for stone and that hardy lichen that grows thick over rocky ground.

To my right, another half hour’s run in the distance, the moon reflects off the ocean to silhouette the hulking black ruin of the old orphanage.

The sound of crashing waves rises to meet me, the cliff edge coming close, higher and sheerer here than outside the asylum. Jutting stone monoliths that tower off the island’s edge break the whistle of the wind.

As I creep low around a rise, I spot them.

They’re precariously close to the bluff, and I’m under no delusion that she hasn’t lured him to the precipice for some purpose. He probably thinks she’s into the danger, not questioning anything while he thinks he’s about to benefit from it.

His hands are inside her heavy fur coat. He’s hunched, pathetic, practically eating her neck. I almost want to kill him myself.

Running again, knowing what she’s about to do, I spot her say something, her voice lost in the wind. He turns, taking off his jacket and laying it on the ground eagerly. Like he thinks he’s about to be ridden on it. The idiot.

That’s when, with his back to her, as he faces the east and the orphanage, her hand slips against his shoulder, the other one coming against his neck and catching the thin black line.

In their silhouettes, I see her brace against his back as he shoots bolt upright, like he’s being reined in.

His hands scrabble at his neck, but she keeps him locked.

Shit . She acted fast. Probably knew I’d be following.

I’m within close enough distance to hear his grunts, then he’s down.

The Wraith slips something shiny off his wrist—maybe a Rolex—and then, just as efficiently, rolls him off the edge, throwing his jacket after him.

I change my course slightly, and balance on the escarpment several metres from where he went over.

He didn’t fall all the way, but rather a ledge three metres down has caught him. Bloody and not moving, but maybe not dead. I curse. I could’ve stopped her back when I was certain who she was. Now, every murder she succeeds in is at least partially my doing.

How long did I think I could avoid being the one to pull the trigger on Cass? How many people died to Cocooner, for my delusion then? I can’t be making that kind of error again.

For now, Paige, having seen me, has bolted. I look back down at the man. Save him first, make her pay later.

I slip myself over the edge and climb down till I reach the ledge he’s on.

Here, against the exposed face, I’m fast becoming soaked through in the freezing night air, the violence of the crashing waves far below enough to send a constant fine mist upwards.

I crouch by him, just long enough to ascertain he’s dead before the ledge, perhaps brittle from the impact of his body, or just bad luck, jolts downwards, then falls away altogether, with both of us on it.

He tumbles, limp and lifeless, all the way into the sea, and I bounce off another ledge, feeling something in my shoulder give way as I catch it. My shoes scrabble on the sharp juttings as I pull myself up.

Now balanced on that narrow slice of rock, barely large enough to sit on, the pain comes in an ever-increasing wave.

I press back to the cliff-face and merely hope this slice of rock isn’t as brittle as the last one.

I can feel that something in my shoulder has torn.

An ache in my ankle, mingled with slick blood, all tells me my leg won’t be doing me any favours if I were to try to climb right now.

I look back up towards the top edge, wondering how the hell I’m going to drag myself up those several metres, with a screaming shoulder and an ankle that won’t work. It seems like every choice I make around Paige lands me in shit. All that, and I didn’t even save that disgusting guy.

Rain starts to drizzle. I’ve got to laugh. Maybe this is how I die—trying to do a single good thing. That’d be about right. Poetic, even.

Head tipping back, I take a breath, face exposed to the freezing raindrops. I open my eyes, and that’s when I see her. Her fair hang hangs down as she crouches on the edge, searching. I feel the moment she spots me, her shape stilling against the clouds now roiling across the night sky.

Then she’s gone.

Emergency services arrive fifteen minutes later, after I've huddled, shivering, into the dryest but most uncomfortable divot in the rock face that I can find, wondering if I can make it till morning. Though what I’d do were I to make it overnight is unclear. Signal to a boat, maybe?

A rope and firefighter come down in the rain, at which point I discover that I’m shivering too much to speak. Once I can, loaded into the back of an ambulance under a foil blanket, I ask how they found me.

Anonymous caller, I’m told. Someone saying they thought they saw a person fall over the edge.