Airel: The Discovering (Airel Saga Book Two)

Chapter IX

Boise, Idaho—Present Day

RAIN DRIZZLED FROM THE heavens in a light mist, landing on a black BMW 7, making little droplets on the windshield. There was a different kind of individual inside. His arm hairs stood up on end as he watched a house across and down the street a little way.

His mind trampled the same ground over and over, thinking about what he was going to do to the girl, if indeed she turned out to be who he thought she was. Kill her now before it’s too late. “Try to control yourself. We don’t even know if it’s her.”

It was just past midnight, and the street had settled down. He ducked down as the high beams of a Ford Explorer filled his car and then drove on past and turned into a driveway, slinking into an opening garage door.

He thought back to a few nights ago, when he had seen her so close and vulnerable in the moonlight as she ran like a spooked rabbit. He wanted to drag her kicking and screaming back to his deep dark hiding place; the cage, his toy. He would let the caged beast out to play. “You want to come out to play? I know you do.”

Patience. There is no need to hurry; we can enjoy it soon enough. He couldn't wait to feel the thrill of the kill again. He shivered as he gripped the steering wheel. His hands turned white with desire, and he started hacking deep within his lungs. He spit out thick black snot and wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. He cursed under his breath, washing it all back down with cold coffee.

His chest heaved and bulged as if something inside wanted to get out, like the only way out was through his sternum. He clutched at his ribs, groaning, and then his skin began to crawl. He ripped his shirt open, watching the spectacle, disconnectedly wondering if he would die this time.

Around his neck was a steel chain. Suspended from the chain was a stone that glowed blood red. It pulsed darkly with the killer’s heartbeat, speaking to him. The evil that flowed through the killer’s veins surged and pulsed with a low hum that no man could hear.

He had a splitting headache. He dug his fingers into his skull, hoping the pain would stop. He tipped a bottle of Advil up like a drink and poured some into his mouth, chewing them up and consuming them, waiting greedily for the calm that would come—if only for a little while. He closed his eyes and felt them burn in their sockets.

The next thing he knew, he woke. The sunrise was beginning to warm the black leather of the interior. He hoped he had not been discovered while he was passed out. The headache had been replaced with a cool dizziness that wafted over him in waves. He pulsed with that rhythm, feeling like he was underwater, moving like an anemone.

Two police cars were now parked in front of the girl’s house. His body filled with alarm and dread, but not because of the presence of the authorities. There was a more potent authority he feared. A word now formed in the air before him, draped with cobweb and corrosion, and he read it aloud: FAILURE. He repeated it in several languages, even some he did not know. He felt sickened far beyond what he had become accustomed to. He knew there had been a change in the game. He didn’t know what, but it was not advantageous to him. Then he reverted to pathetic curses.

His thoughts tortured him with images from long-ago battles that he himself had never fought, of bloody kills he had never administered. He clutched his skull and pressed his fingers into his temples in an attempt to stop the gruesome images from filling his mind.

He could see the girl, her dark brown hair and stupid smile. Oh, how he hated her. Especially now that she was so obviously in love—he could feel it, and it nauseated him.

He remembered he had a job, but he had not been in to work for over a week now. He even had a family, but at the moment couldn’t remember who they were. He laughed in spite of himself and damned all of it, all of them, to hell. He didn’t even remember his own name, until he wracked his brain over all the "S" names he could drum up: “Sam, Steve, Saul, Stan ... Stan, that’s it. Stan’s the man…”

Stan nodded and touched the red stone, marveling at how much power he could feel coming through its cold sides. He returned his attention to the house, where the two squad cars were now joined by a news van with CHANNEL 12 printed on the side in big block letters.

He had a feeling that some ill had befallen his prey. Maybe she was dead. Perhaps her blond stalker friend had done the job for him, saving him a lot of dirty work. But he resented someone else working his job.

Indeed, the demon in the back of his mind told him otherwise, and he watched from the comfort of his BMW as a new wave of hate filled his veins. He wanted to kill Airel, wanted to take hold of her neck and choke the life out of her and feel the crunch of her bones breaking under his hand.

Smiling with bright white teeth, he gripped the steering wheel harder. Happiness filled him and bubbled over with the thought of finding her and the blond man from the theater. He would kill them both.