Page 4 of Ho Ho Homicidal Mania
I switch off the lights and head to my apartment first, to prepare enough hot chocolate to fill a large thermos. I then make a sandwich with turkey and all the trimmings and put both into a basket along with some other treats. My guest must be starving after a whole day on his own. The poor thing had a terrible night, and while I can’t let him go, since he saw my face, we did get off on the wrong foot. I’m not his enemy, even though it might seem like that to him right now.
And a part of me wants to earn his smile, despite the unfortunate way we met. What can I say? He’s exactly my type with that boyish face dusted with more frecklesthan there are stars in the sky, and the lean body of a runner. His dark locks are cut into short layers, giving him a youthful appearance, and while I was tempted to touch his pouty lips and lean closer to smell his minty cologne, I didn’t touch him in any way that wasn’t strictly necessary in order to move him from Tooley’s murder basement. I’ve been the perfect gentleman.
I might be a serial killer, but I have standards.
On the topic of standards, I am frustrated by what he must have woken up to by now, as it’s in no way the kind of space I would like him to experience. I grab a fresh blanket on the way down to Santa’s little secret, as my granddad liked to call it. The sprawling hidden lair under the regular basement of the shop is where therealChristmas magic happens.
I stop in my tracks in the stock room and leave everything I’ve been carrying to go back and change. While I might enjoy Blake’s sexy elf costume, I want to make the best impression possible after last night’s fiasco, so a dark burgundy shirt it is.
As I open the secret passage behind the old wardrobe at the back of the stockroom, I remember how he looked yesterday when he pointed that gun at me. Terrified, yes, but also determined, beautifully flushed. I bet that deep down, he realized I was his savior and appreciated my presence. He was just too frightened to understand the situation.
I descend the stairs with my heart beating faster.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve had a date.
Chapter 3
Blake
I’m in hell.
Cold walls of raw brick surround me from all sides, and I can’t help the shivers running down my spine from the overwhelming cold. Despite it not being freezing, the chill seems to be reaching all the way to my bones. Is this place damp, or are the sensations I’m feeling caused by all the souls who’ve perished here over the years?
I’ve never believed in ghosts, but now that I’m in the hands of the Christmas Killer, all the crazy paranormal documentaries I’ve watched as a teen are coming back to shatter my composure.
This place appearsancient. The floor looks like it’s been carved out of stone, there are no windows, and the bars making up my cell are iron, like this is a historical sheriff’s department, not the second murder-basement I’ve woken up in within the past twenty-four hours.
At least this time, there’s no torture equipment in sight, so maybe he intends to get rid of me fast, without making me suffer for his enjoyment? But if that was the case, I’d already be dead.
I pull the red-and-green blanket I’ve been covered with more tightly around me and sit cross-legged on the narrow cot taking up a third of my prison.
How on Earth has it come to this? I’ve always seen myself as careful, I read so many books about serial killers, I even feature the Christmas Killer each year on my podcast. What are the odds of my head ending up wrapped with his signature vintage bow?
I chuckle, but it soon turns into a dry sob as I slide off the bed and once again attempt to get the ancient lock of my cell to open, but to no avail.
Even if I did have mad lockpicking skills, which I don’t, I would need some kind of tool to get myself out of this mess, but the only things I’ve been provided are the bedding, and a meal of milk and cookies. It’s as though the murderer is fucking with me.
He probably wants to interrogate me, find out who I am, to work out how many people will be looking for me. Or, another grim option, hedoesknow who I am, hates what I say about him on the podcast, and will carve a pound of flesh out of me for every perceived lie.
I’ve not touched the food, in case it contains drugs, or even poison. If he wants to stage my suicide, he’ll need to try harder than that. On the other hand, Iamstarving. I was so nervous about my first outing to a gay club I didn’t eat since breakfast, and now it’s been who-knows-how-long since my last croissant.
Oh, what I’d give for Franklin’s omelet with goat’s cheese and a sprinkle of fried garlic… Right now, the sheltered life I’ve complained aboutin my mind so many times feels like a distant dream. A golden cage doesn’t seem so bad when you’re stuck in one made of iron.
I stiffen and back into the corner when I hear footsteps on creaky wood, but my blood goes cold when I hear the Christmas Killer’s voice.
“Ho ho ho!” he says cheerfully like the deranged maniac that he is.
I stand straight, wrapped in the ugly Christmas blanket and try to keep calm as the door opens and the tall, handsome guy strolls in holding a neat little basket, and yet another blanket, even more garishly festive than the one I’m using. I would have dreamed about flirting with a man like him at the club. If I didn’t know he has blood on his hands.
I open my eyes, but the stress eating me from the inside is so overwhelming I can’t push out a single syllable, and stare at him, wordlessly begging,Please, don’t kill me.
Yesterday (or is this still the same night?), he wore a soft long-sleeve that wouldn’t restrict his movements, but now he’s in a well-fitting burgundy shirt with one button open at the collar to reveal his neck tattoo. Several snowflakes. How appropriate.
His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow as if he were trying to distract me with his sexy forearms instead of cutting me up like he did my earlier abductor. Am I catnip for kidnappers? What the fuck?
He puts down the blanket, the basket, and cocks his head at me. “This is quite the pickle, isn’t it?”
For a moment, I see myself marinating in a huge pickle jar, like one of those deformed fetuses preserved for prosperity, but I shake it off and clear my throat, because this is my chance to gain this man’s sympathy, and even serial killers aren’t immune to others stroking their ego. “T—thank you for saving me,” I tell him just before mystomach makes a low gurgle that goes on and on, filling the silence between us.
