Page 97 of An Unwilling Earl
“I know. I just wish I could do more for her.”
“She has to want to help herself.”
“I can’t help but think that she is exactly the type of person that this killer would go after. No one would know if she disappeared. No one would care.”
“And that’s why he picks those women.”
She shuddered and turned into his shoulder to breathe in the scent of him and bask in his warmth and strength. “I’m glad you found me,” she said.
He tightened his arms around her. “I’m glad I found you, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It always smelled the same. The blood.
Tangy.
Coppery.
He’d tasted it once. It didn’t taste nearly as good as it smelled. Not bad. Just different.
But he wasn’t into that. Drinking others’ blood.
The gasping was what got him every time, and this one was a gasper. Wheezing.
His fault.
He should have cut deeper. Severed the head all the way through. Was he getting sloppy?
He found that he didn’t care as much as he used to.
In the beginning it had been clandestine. Just him and the woman. But now it was different. Something had changed, and he didn’t know what. An indifference.
One would think that if a person killed as many times as he had that the indifference would be welcome, but it wasn’t. He was becoming accustomed to the chase, to the stabbing, to the beheading.
He looked down at his latest victim. Dark hair fanned out behind her, soaked in her own blood that was running from the neck wound. She was gasping for breath, looking at him with acceptance, and maybe frustration that he wouldn’t end it.
At first she’d been afraid, and it was the fear that had driven him. He loved to see the fear in their eyes, the knowledge seeping in that he was in control of their destiny. Only he would determine if and when they would die.
Acceptance always came. Always. He sensed it in their body, in the way they just let go. Sometimes their bowels even gave out. That disgusted him. It was dirty and offensive, and it stank. He never liked when that happened.
“P-please,” she whispered, her voice raw because he’d nicked the voice box.
He’d been surprised when his first victim had begged for him to end her life. He thought she’d fight to the very end, butshehad beggedhim. It was quite powerful, having someone beg you to end their life.
Sometimes he showed mercy and ended it soon. Sometimes he drew it out. It depended on his mood.
Tonight he didn’t know what he felt. He was more contemplative than usual.
He sat down beside her prone body, careful not to get close to the running blood. Tears ran from her eyes and into her hair, and the gasping continued.
Mother had arrived home this evening in a particularly foul mood. Fouler than when she’d discovered that Charlotte had run off. He hadn’t asked what had made her angry this time. He’d learned long ago to keep away from her no matter her mood. But she’d caught sight of him this evening and cornered him, berating him as she always did.
He’d learned to stop listening. They were just words. Horrible words, but just words. Besides, she said the same things over and over. He was no good. He was a sinner. He was just like his father. He was an idiot, disrespectful, bound for hell. It went on and on and on. You would think she would tire of the same tirade and think of something different to say, but she never did.
He glanced at the woman looking up at the stars. To these women he was none of the things his mother said he was. He was their savior, their executioner, their priest, and ultimately their killer. For the few moments that he was with them, he was their everything. The all-powerful.
He looked down at the knife in his hand, twisting it this way and that so the moon caught the glow of the blood on the blade. It was starting to harden, the blood. He knew it would be sticky to the touch, but he didn’t touch it.
