Page 6 of A Bloody Merry Christmas
Suddenly, Samael looked up and stared intensely at me. A smile danced across my lips and I waved. It was stupid, but he nodded back at me anyway before he grabbed Cal’s body, taking it to wherever he’d stashed the other two.
I went back to my shower.
2
SAMAEL “SAM” MORRIS
I dropped the guy I was carrying onto the floor of my basement and stared at the three bodies lying together. They deserved to be here, just like all the others I’d killed. People like this made the world a horrible place. They abused and tortured, both physically and emotionally, and I didn’t feel remorseful about taking their lives. I’d never felt guilty about murdering these people. I didn’t feel much in terms of emotions, really.
The first guy I’d hit hadn’t seen me coming, though I wish he had. I wanted to see the pain on his face—the terror—as I took his life. The other two did, though. One of them had died from the strength of the sedative, enough to stun a tiger, but the other had somehow survived. It was only when my bat slammed against his head that he’d met death. I’d never heard anything more satisfying than the shattering of bones.
After taking the bodies inside, I’d cleaned up the yard. I’d never expected to kill at my own home, but there’d been a reason I’d put up such high fences. There was no way for my neighbors to see anything that happened in my backyard. All I needed to do was wash away the top of the snow with a couple of bucketsof hot water and watch the blood melt away. By morning, it’d be covered with fresh snow. There was no reason for people to be suspicious of me anyway.
My next step was to cut up the bodies until they were nothing but small pieces I could throw into a sealed bag and put in my freezer. I’d taken my last kill to the pigs a few days ago, which meant I had plenty of free space to stack them in.
It was best to cut them up as soon as possible. The human body rotted fast, and when rigor mortis set in, it was harder to cut through the limbs. Paleness had already bleached the skin of the men, which meant I needed to work fast. It was the first stage of death, and next came the drop of the body temperature. They were fine while they were out in the snow, but not in the basement.
I grabbed my apron, face mask, and goggles, and began to work. Slicing through the meat was easy, but the bones were a little harder. Blood splattered my apron, but I was used to it by now. It wasn’t hard to wash off. The saw blade squealed through the bones, like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I’d cut enough bodies that it only took me two and a half hours to finish all three men and store them in the freezer. At least two of the bodies. Three was too much for the pigs and it’d take too long, which meant one of them was taking a special trip into a plastic barrel of chemicals. I voted Paul. He deserved to suffer, even in death. Once the two bodies were packed away and Paul was thrown into my secret barrel, I cleaned up my mess until the basement was spotless and reeked of bleach.
When I finished, I walked up the creaky old stairs and back into the living room. My new guest wasn’t there like I’d expected, but I didn’t search for him. I didn’t think Ezra would run to the authorities. One of these men had been beating on him while the others watched, marking his beautiful face with bruises and cuts from the bastard’s fists. The asshole got what he deserved.
I fell onto the beige couch, my trusty notepad and pen sitting beside me, and sighed, running my palms over my face. The living room didn’t have much furniture, but I hated clutter. I kept my possessions to the bare minimum. For this room, it was a couch, TV, and a short wooden coffee table made from oak. To the left of me was a fireplace, the flames flickering since early in the morning, when the snowflakes had begun to fall.
I sat there listening to the whisper of the wind outside, whistling against the windows. The noise of the bathtub draining made me smile. I hadn’t expected him to be in there that long, but I supposed if I was homeless, I’d enjoy my time having a bath, too. Ten minutes later, my guest found me. He wore the loose red T-shirt and gray sweatpants I’d left for him beside the bathroom door. His chest hair was visible above the collar of the shirt and I thought it was adorable, which was weird. What wasadorableabout chest hair? It suited him. His collarbones stuck out a little too much, though.
I nodded at his bare feet, and his gaze followed mine.
“Slippers?” He raised his eyebrows. His brown hair curled around the back of his neck and jaw, framing his soft but bruising face. His full, pale pink lips parted slightly.
I nodded again. It wasn’t worth it to write simple things like asking about slippers on the notepad, though when it came to incriminating information, it was the best form of communication with someone who didn’t sign. It was easier to get rid of physical notes than anything written on technology, because phones stored data that the cops could retrieve if they ever had suspicions about me.
I rose, then strode past him and toward my bedroom. I grabbed a pair of clean socks and a set of slippers I didn’t use anymore and handed them to him when I returned, pointing at his feet.
He sent me the widest, prettiest smile and sat down on the couch, rolling the socks onto his bony feet. I fell onto the cushions next to him, watching him carefully. When he had the slippers on, he turned to me.
“Thanks for the bath.”
I smiled and patted him on the arm, expecting him to jump away. He didn’t. He leaned into my hand instead.
He glanced at where I’d touched him, then looked at my face again. “What did you do with them?”
I cocked my head, making my frown obvious. I’d met many people in my life, people who’d tried to understand what I was saying without sign language, and they rarely did. Not until him. Unlike the others, Ezra looked like he wanted to listen.
“The guys who hurt me.”
I pressed my lips together, pondering what I could say or write to him. He seemed genuinely curious. I stroked the purple-and-green bruises that had started to ripen on his face. There was one on his cheekbone, the biggest of them, and it darkened the quickest, but the one on the inside of his right eye had only begun to bruise, and I had a feeling it would end up looking a lot worse. He also had one on his nose, and his face had cuts and scrapes, which I’d already cleaned.
He cringed under my touch. “It hurts.”
I grabbed the notepad.
Broken?
“My cheekbone?”
A nod.
