“Katherine,” he whispered into her skin right before he bit down, pointed teeth sinking easily through flesh and muscle. Blood spilled over his tongue, surging with power, with life, and the scream died in the girl’s throat. Some part of her was still trying to fight, but every blow was weaker, her limbs growing sluggish as her body slowly, haltingly surrendered.
She shuddered beneath him, and Sloan savored the perfect seconds when her limbs stopped but her heart struggled on, the blissful stillness when it finally gave up.
His jaw unclenched, teeth releasing with a wet slick. He drew his fingers from her hair. Gold strands clung like cobwebs until he shook them free. They settled over her face, as thin and fine as old scars.
“What will you do,” said a dry voice in the doorway, “when you run out of blonds?”
Sloan’s teeth clicked together. The intruder’s shape hovered at the edge of his vision, a ghost of the girl beneath him, a shadow, familiar but distorted.
Alice.
He dragged his gaze toward her.
She was dressed in Katherine’s old clothes, scraps Katherine had left behind, black jeans and a fraying shirt. Her hair was more white than blond, chopped at a violent angle along her jaw, and blood—dark arterial sprays—coated her arms from elbows to pointed nails. From those bloody fingers hung a handful of patches, each printed with three letters: FTF.
“We each have our tastes,” said Sloan, rising from his crouch.
Alice tilted her head, the motion slow, deliberate. Her eyes were ember red, like Sloan’s, like all Malchais’, but every time he looked at her, he expected to find them blue, like her—he almost thought father, but that wasn’t right. Callum Harker was Katherine’s father, not Alice’s. No, if Alice was born of anyone, it was of Katherine herself, of her crimes, just as Sloan was born of Callum’s.
“Did you succeed?” he asked. “Or simply make a mess?”
Alice drew something from her pocket and tossed it toward him. Sloan plucked the object from the air.
“Four caches down,” she said. “Three to go.”
Sloan considered the soft cube in his palm. A small quantity of plastic explosive. A very small quantity.
“Where is the rest?”
Alice shot him a mischievous grin. “Somewhere safe.”
Sloan sighed and straightened, the blood settling in his stomach, the high of the kill so woefully brief. In death, the girl at his feet looked nothing like Katherine, which was terribly unsatisfying. As for the body itself, he’d have someone throw it to the Corsai. They weren’t picky when it came to a pulse.
Alice followed his gaze down to the corpse, its appearance a vague echo of her own. Her eyes shone, not with anger or disgust, but with fascination.
“Why do you hate her?”
Sloan ran his tongue thoughtfully over his teeth. He didn’t hate Katherine, he simply loved the thought of killing her. And he resented her for taking the one life that should have been his: her father’s. He’d never know what Callum’s blood tasted like. But as long as Katherine was out there, somewhere, he could imagine hers.
“Does a predator hate its prey?” he asked, dabbing a stray drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Or is it simply hungry?”
Alice’s attention remained fixed on the girl. “She’s out there, somewhere.” Her red eyes flicked up. “I can feel it, in my bones.”
Sloan understood. Every day of their shared existence, he had felt the threads of Callum’s life, thin, invisible, impossible to be rid of. And he’d felt his maker’s death like a sharp pair of scissors cutting him free.
Alice flexed her fingers, and the last clinging beads of blood dripped to the floor.
“One day, I’m going to find her and—”
“Clean yourself up,” he cut in, flicking the pocket square toward her. “You’re making a mess.” What he didn’t say was that Katherine was his prey, and when she returned home—and she would return home, was always drawn home—her death would be his.
But Alice made no motion to grab the swatch of fabric, and it fluttered to the floor, landing like a sheet over the dead girl’s face. Alice held Sloan’s gaze, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Sure thing, Dad.”
Sloan’s teeth clicked together in disgust.
The first time she had called him that, Sloan had hit her so hard that her body cracked the wall. Alice for her part had only straightened and given a little goading laugh and walked out, out of the penthouse, out of the building, and into the night.
When she returned just after dawn, her limbs were slick with blood, but there were no FTF patches in her hands. She’d said hello and gone to her room. It wasn’t until he left the penthouse that he discovered what she’d done: Alice had gone out and killed every blond-haired, blue-eyed girl she could find. Left the bodies in a row on the steps of Harker Hall.
He’d thought of killing her, then, had thought of it a hundred times since, but some urges were made sweeter by the waiting. Perhaps when he ran out of Katherines . . . yes, thought Sloan, returning the smile
He would save her for last.
Back at her third boarding school, Kate had read a book about serial killers.
According to the first chapter, most isolated acts were crimes of passion, but those who killed repeatedly did it because they were addicted to the high. Kate had always wondered if there was more to it than that—if those people were also trying to escape the low, some hollow, unfulfilling aspect of their lives.
It made her wonder what kind of job those people must have had, to need such violent hobbies.
Now she knew.
“Welcome to the Coffee Bean,” she said with all the false cheer she could muster. “What can I get started for you?”
The woman on the other side of the counter didn’t smile. “Do you have coffee?”
Kate looked from the wall of grinders and machines, to the patrons clutching cups, to the sign above the door. “Yes.”
“Well?” said the woman impatiently. “What kind of coffee do you have?”
“There’s a board on the wall over there—”
“Isn’t it your job? To know?”
Kate took a steadying breath and looked down at her nails, studying the faint stains of black from the blood of the monster she’d slayed the night before, as she reminded herself that this was just a job.
Her fifth job in six months.
“Tell you what,” she said with a smile. “Why don’t I get you our best-selling blend.”
It wasn’t a question. Deep down, most people didn’t want to make decisions. They liked the illusion of control, without the consequences. She’d learned that from her father.
The woman nodded brusquely and trudged over to stand with the huddled mass waiting for their orders. Kate wondered who was more addicted to their high, serial killers or coffee addicts.
“Next!” she called.
Teo appeared, his blue hair spiked like a flame above his head. “You’ve got to see this,” he said, pushing his tablet across the counter. And where there was Teo . . . her gaze flicked past him to the corner booth and saw Bea’s curly brown hair, Liam’s purple beanie.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Do you want to place an order? Since I’m at work,” she added, as if the apron and the spot behind the counter and the line of customers didn’t make it obvious.
Teo flashed a mischievous grin. “Triple half-sweet, nonfat caramel macchiato—”