Page 1 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)

Kiera

T he thrill of the hunt courses through my veins, a familiar, intoxicating sensation. I move silently, my footsteps undetectable even on the wet pavement of the deserted backstreet. A chilly wind howls through the narrow, damp alleyways bathed in the eerie glow of cold, pale moonlight.

My target, a woman in her mid-fifties, chats animatedly with friends standing in front of the hottest restaurant in town.

a restaurant it takes most people months to get into.

Pressing my back to the wall, I blend into the shadows, my camera ready.

I need the perfect shot, one that captures her alive and happy.

Give me a smile, honey.

When she steps back and laughs, I seize the moment, snapping a photo of her oblivious joy. The flash is quick, unnoticed, and I smile. The first part of my ritual is complete.

Clueless tonight is her last; Amanda Wingham saunters through the door a friend holds open as she and her entourage pass through.

Wind whipping around me, I wave the photo a few times as it develops.

Her fake, toothpaste commercial smile appears—perfect for my needs.

Satisfied, I slide it into my purse, currently contained in my backpack, on my way to the back employee entrance.

The heat from the commercial ovens washes over me as I slip through the kitchen on the way to the employee changing room.

I stop at the locker belonging to my alter ego, Lana Markham, one of the two new employees hired last week.

The orientation was as dull as driver’s education class, but thankfully this will be my only night using the locker, Lana isn’t even on duty, and since my trainer called off sick for a couple of days, the manager won’t be expecting me.

Pulling off my black leather trench coat, I hang it on the hook in the locker and give one of the hostesses a contrite look as she hurries past, hissing about being late for the manager’s shift meeting.

Thankfully, I’m not forced to work in the seventh realm of hell that is customer service. Nobody would survive it.

Once all the staff that care about their paychecks rush out for evening announcements, I quickly strip out of my dull as shit regulation black dress slacks and button-down shirt, and into a black silk slip dress that hugs every curve of my body—instantly transforming from non-descript employee to non-descript customer.

Annoyed at being jostled about while I shimmy into the dress, the best ferret ever, Boo, peeks out from behind a curtain of my long, straight brunette wig.

He sniffs the air cautiously, then he scampers down my arm and bounds onto the long bench between two rows of lockers, a momentary pit-stop on his way to explore the floor.

Small claws click against the concrete floor as he searches for the manager’s office. No doubt to raid the stash of pistachios the chef is using in his aromatic chicken dish and pilfer the manager’s desk of ill-gotten gains from skimming the profits off the books.

I shut the locker after retrieving my purse with the camera and slip out into the dining room.

The soft sounds of jazz filter through the room as I zig-zag through the familiar space I’ve scouted, dodging employees and customers alike to reach my destination—the women’s bathroom that some designer furnished for an exorbitant amount of money.

His encouraging chuckle fades as the restroom door closes behind me.

A display of vibrant flowers and brightly lit mirrors dazzle with the contrast to the aura lighting in the dining room.

I claim my spot at the automatic sink next to the first one, and set my purse on the counter, knowing Amanda will likely do the same.

As I apply my red lipstick, aptly named ‘written in blood’, I can’t help but smirk at the irony.

It won’t be long before the germaphobe comes in to wash her hands. Only three minutes pass before I smirk at the mirror when she proves me right and steps into the room, making a beeline for the sink next to me. She looks up and smiles, not knowing she’s sharing a moment with her grim reaper.

This night is just like any other—routine, precise, evocatively deadly. One more kill going toward paying off the debt my dickwad husband left me with.

Amanda dries her hands slowly, the subtle sound of paper towel against skin the only noise in the dimly lit bathroom. I turn to her, my motion pulling her from admiring her own reflection. Amanda’s gaze settles on my lips, slick and crimson, and makes the first move.

“I like your lipstick. Too bad that shade of red doesn’t look good on me,” she says, her voice is low, a soft purr.

“Mm, thanks,” I say, feigning uncertainty as I flick my hair back behind my ear.

My gaze traces the curve of her slender neck, then moves back to her face.

My tongue traces my bottom lip teasingly as I study her from under my long lashes.

I’ve uncovered her secret affair—one woman’s curiosity, another woman’s temptation.

She thinks she’s in control. I reinforce her belief when I murmur hesitantly, “I think this shade would look sexy on you.”

Wrinkles gather between her dark, perfectly sculpted brows as she cocks her head. The gleam in her eyes falters, just for a second, but she licks her lips too.

“I don’t know,” her tone, softer now, is almost breathless.

“Well,” I say, my voice drenched in sultry darkness, “I can think of one way to find out.”

The air between us hums with anticipation as shock lights up her eyes.

She turns away, tossing the paper towel in the trash cut into the marble countertop with deliberate care, like she’s trying to regain some measure of control.

But the corner of her mouth curves into a wicked little smile.

Permission. Invitation. When she faces me again, I offer her a slow, coy smile, and sink my teeth into my lower lip.

Her breath catches, hips swaying as she closes the space between us, her hand sliding over mine.

“My name’s Am?—”

I silence her with a single finger pressed to her lips.

“No names,” I whisper, leaning in close, so close her breath caresses my cheek, her sweet scent enveloping us in our own sensual bubble. “You can make my fantasy come true… the thrill of kissing a beautiful stranger so perfectly I slay her.”

Her eyes widen, then darken with something primal as she gives a quick, eager nod. Her fingers slide between mine, a deliberate movement that says she’s not as innocent as she pretends. But that’s fine. Neither am I.

We linger in the tension, savoring it. She falls into the role I’ve set for her, softening as she steps closer.

I release one of her hands, the back of her fingers dragging down my cheek, sending a shiver through me as I close my eyes.

She leans in, her lips grazing mine, the barest touch.

It’s light, tentative, alluring enough to trap my breath in my throat.

But when I open my eyes, the real game begins.

My arms slide around her, pulling her close until her full curves melt against mine, as I press my lips back against hers, more insistent now.

She moans softly, surrendering. But beneath the passion, there’s a deadly edge—my carefully disguised urgency a cover for transferring the deadly poison from my lipstick.

Her sighs are deliciously soft against me, but I feel her weakening, her body going slack in my arms.

The door clicks and I glance up to find a woman entering and I continue the kiss as she heads over to the mirror and checks her make-up.

Our eyes lock and a wistfulness enters hers even as she struggles to busy herself in the mirror and give us privacy.

I’d already taken out the security cameras.

They don’t have anyone watching them, so I didn’t have to worry about running a loop.

Another few patrons come into the bathroom, one giving me a knowing look as I literally kiss Amanda to death.

A moment later, I pull away, just enough to watch her eyes flutter as they roll back.

She’s sinking fast now, becoming heavier as her light fades.

I smile, slow and dark, as she collapses against me, her body limp and lifeless.

Dragging her into the stall behind us, I shut the tall wooden door, closing us in the small space. I let her down gently, like a lover would, her lips smeared in a vivid crimson.

Positioning her on the toilet cover, I retrieve my Polaroid from my purse and settle in close to her, ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ style.

Tilting my chin, I press my cheek to hers, giving the camera a huge smile and a wink as the click of the shutter echoes in the room.

The film slides out still gray, not yet revealing the ultimate image of my work.

Out of habit, I wave it as it develops, our images appearing like ghosts, showing two besties, one deadly and one dead.

My stomach cramps as the picture shakes a gut-wrenching memory free from its chains.

But I keep it moving and shove away the reminder of the sick and twisted things my stepfather did to me.

I grab a metallic pen out of my clutch and sign the bottom of the first picture.

A giggle escapes me as I drop the polaroid of Amanda, happy and full of life, onto her lap.

The thought of CSI running fingerprints, only to match them to a notorious serial killer thanks to the latex overlays Zephyr, my handler, gifted me, is truly amusing.

I stand, looking down at my latest masterpiece. The sharp, sickening tang of my lipstick—a familiar taste after years of developing an immunity to the neurotoxin lipstick—contrasts with the perfume scented air.

“Toodles,” I say wiggling my fingers in a last goodbye.

Pulling my phone out, I text Z, letting him know the job’s done.