Killer Crescent by Leigh Kelsey

7

Present Day

I allowedmyself to wallow for a minute—fine, three hours—before I grabbed a tissue from the ornate wooden box at my bedside¹ and blew my nose, banishing thoughts of that bastard witch Edison Bray.

The tears on my face took two more tissues to dry, but I didn’t feel any better or clearer-headed, or any other magical resolution crying was meant to bring me. I just felt nasally and pathetic. What I needed was a job, someone to sneak out of this hall to kill. But Dean was growly and pissed off enough, and the part of me that was still small and aching and desperate for affection didn’t want him to be angrier at me.

Besides, the bed was comfy. Why bother moving?

I stretched out on top of the dark green covers, gazing up at the whorls of plaster on the ceiling. This whole room looked like something out of a museum or a stately home. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Henry VIII hadn’t lived here with one of his wives. Although the thought of them rutting away on the bed beneath me made my nose wrinkle. Ick.

I narrowed my eyes at the tall wardrobe opposite, and the chest of drawers beside it, wondering if some ancient Tudor couple had fucked there, too. Maybe even on the desk in front of the window, knocking off all the pots and pens.

“Dammit,” I huffed, dragging a hand through my pink hair. “Now I’m just turning myself on. Stop thinking about Tudor people fucking. Or regular people fucking. Think about murder, a nice, gory, bloodsoaked murder.”

A dreamy smile crossed my face as I thought of my last fun kill. Not Dicky, that boring douche. No, the job before that had been much more difficult—and fun—because my target fought back, and he was damn good at it too. He’d called me so many mean, belittling things I’d had to make him pay for, and I’d carved him into a beautiful work of art. I’d left a big love heart on his chest with ‘Graves’ above it and ‘murder’ beneath. On his back, I drew a unicorn with a massive cock, the tip dangling right above my target’s buttcrack. It was both a hobby and a clever ploy to scare the shit out of people, and it worked. Even hitmen and hitladies—and hitfolks for the non-conforming rebels—kept their distance from me, as if crazy was a disease they could catch.

I’d been perfectly sane once, a regular, sweet, mind-mannered girl.² But then Kyle Ladislav happened.

My blood boiled and my insanity meter spiked at the thought of my sister’s boyfriend, but before I could plummet into a murderous rage and take it out on my new bedroom, something scratched at my bedroom door.

“Kitty?” I asked hopefully, but thumbed a knife free of its sheath at my waist and slid off the bed, shaking all the tension from my muscles until I was ready to stab a bitch. If it was Edison Bray coming to fight me, I’d cut his dick off before he could even blink. He didn’t deserve that dick after the way he’d fucked my brains out and then ripped out my heart.³

How many women had he been with since? The thought made my hands shake and my nostrils flare, even though I was a complete hypocrite who’d had super hot car sex that afternoon.

The scratching came again, followed by a thud against the door that made it rattle in its frame. I straightened, instantly on alert, but I tilted my head at the gravelly voice that crooned, “I can smell you in there, sugarplum. Your blood calls to me, and your soul sings to mine.”

I held my knife casually at my side as I approached the door, propping my hip against the wall beside it. “Who the hell are you?”

“Calvin Woods,” he rasped. “Everyone calls me Slasher.”

I perked up instantly. “Slasher? Why that name?”

“It suits me. I need to lick you, taste you.” He groaned, the sound muffled, and I blinked at the wet, slurping sounds.

“Are you … licking the door?”

“I need you,” he pleaded, his voice a rasp. “Please let me inside, cupcake.”

“I thought I was sugarplum?” I remarked, cleaning my fingernails with my knife as a smile played at my lips.

“You’re everything delicious and delectable that has ever existed,” he replied in a gravelly rush. “You’re a temptation and a lure. Why does your soul call to mine, bubblegum?”

I laughed at the name, thinking it fit my personality quite well. Slasher and Bubblegum. We could be a supervillain duo, murdering annoying doo-gooders and pretentious joggers.

Wait. I shook my head to clear the fantasy. My soul called to his? Like it did to Dean and that other fucker we wouldn’t mention. “Are you my mate?” I asked with a laugh. How many did I have? Four? Five? Fifteen? I winced, scratching my head with my knife. I hoped it wasn’t fifteen; three cocks I could manage, five if I got my hands involved, but where would I even put fifteen? Someone would feel left out, and that wasn’t fair.

“Mate,” Slasher breathed, the wet sounds stopping. He was quiet for so long that I thought he’d walked off, but then a rush of air moved down the hall outside like a whistle and a dark blur barraged into my new bedroom door, knocking the solid wood off its top hinge.

“Holy fuck,” I breathed appreciately at the destruction. And then gulped as Slasher blurred, instantly in front of me, his hands on my waist.

“Candyfloss,” he groaned, staring down at me.

I blinked, and then blinked again. I’d guessed as much from his need to taste me, but he was a vampire, and a damn old one judging by his insane speed and strength. His crimson eyes lit up as he met my gaze, and his pale face split in an unhinged, fangy grin. Fuckkk, those teeth looked pointy and sharp.⁴ His cheekbones were almost as sharp, cutting through his aquiline face and giving him a gaunt, aristocratic look that was only enhanced by his straight nose and severe jaw.

“You,” he breathed, sounding so desperate, “smell good enough to eat.”

“No eating,” I warned, tapping him on the nose like he was the cute kitty I’d hoped he’d be. A scary hot, danger kitty more like. Luckily for me, I didn’t run at the sight of danger. I threw myself at it, boobs first.

Slasher’s eyes went big and pleading, irises the colour of red wine. “Ever?”

I sighed, pondering as I fell into his hypnotic eyes. “Mmm, maybe sometime. But not now.” But I groaned when he ducked his head and an ice cold tongue lapped at my throat, a throb in my pussy answering every stroke over my neck. Should I have pushed him away? Probably. Was I going to? Hmmm, maybe in a minute, this felt fucking good.

And besides, I needed a distraction from wallowing in misery.

“How old are you?” I asked, gasping when his hands moved from my waist to cup my boobs through my shirt. It was the strangest sensation, like being caressed by a soft, pliant ice cube. My nipples hardened against his palms and I ground shamelessly against him, pouting when I didn’t feel an erection.

Wasn’t he turned on by this like I was?

Oh.

Wait.

He was a vampire … and erections needed blood … could he only get hard when he fed? Fuuck, that was sexy and I had no idea why.⁵

“Five hundred and two,” he replied, licking my throat and groaning deep in his throat. The low, rattling sound made me clench, and I sank my hands into his long black hair.

I arched up as he nipped my throat in a tantalising path. “Well, I’ve always liked older men.”

And I’d never been one to look a gift horse⁶ in the mouth. If this vampire wanted to make love to the erogenous zone on my throat, I wasn’t going to stop him. Coming to Blake Hall had to have perks, after all.

“Your skin tastes so good, lemondrop,” Slasher groaned, licking up to my jaw. “I want you.”

“Fuck,” I breathed, tightening my fingers in his hair and rubbing against him like a cat in heat. “Why does that make me so horny?”

“Let me bite you, pancake, and I’ll satisfy your need.”

I laughed, the names getting more ridiculous every time. Slasher pulled back, his expression tight with intensity and his red eyes gleaming with a sheen of madness I usually only saw in myself. I grinned suddenly, tightening my fingers in his hair until it had to hurt, and was rewarded by him twisting my nipples through my shirt.

“My mate,” he said in a low, raspy voice, as if testing out the word. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “My delicious mate.”

I reached inside myself and sought the new bond, beaming at the feel of it—like a live wire spitting electricity. “Do they call you Slasher because you like to cut people?” I asked, arching against him and licking his neck in a mirror of his earlier tasting.

“I’d never cut you, cinnamon bun,” he vowed, utterly serious. His arms wrapped around my waist like bands of iron, and I melted at the sudden feeling of safety.

“But other people?” I pressed, sucking on the extra-slow pulse throbbing in his neck. “Would you cut them?”

“I’ll try to be good,” he swore. “I’ll try to be good for you, my beautiful butternut, and I won’t kill anyone, forever and ever. Just a few small cuts if someone really annoys me.”

Aww, that was sweet. Totally unfounded, but sweet. “Don’t be good; good’s so dull.” I sucked on that slow thud in his throat, scraping my teeth to see what he’d do.⁷ He hissed, grabbing the backs of my thighs, and lifted me up in a blur. The lamp rattled on the table nearby as he slammed me against the wall, and I wrapped my legs around him, nestling my pussy over his cock. But I whined, wanting him hard and throbbing. “Can I tell you a secret, Slasher?”

“Oh fuck, please yes, cheesecake. Please tell me a secret.” He ducked his head and licked furiously at my pounding pulse, starting to tremble.

“I’m not good, either,” I whispered in his ear, carding my fingers through his long hair. “And I like slashing people, too.”

He froze, his tongue against my throat, and then let out a long, gravelly moan. “You’re the most perfect woman I’ve ever met, and I’ll—”

“What the hell happened here?” an unfamiliar male voice demanded, and I gasped, twisting my head to see a tall, sandy-haired man in his forties frown at the door hanging half off its hinges. A name badge on his brown shirt proclaimed him to be Paulson. “Who did this?”

His eyes landed on me and narrowed, his mouth pressing flat, and—I stumbled back against the wall, not sure why I was suddenly off balance, just grappling for something to hold onto so I didn’t fall onto my ass.

“Don’t—” Thud. “Look—” Thud. “At—” Squelch. “My—” Crush. “Creme Brulee.”

I laughed, my heart going all squishy and soft as Slasher caved Paulson’s head in against the floorboards, his face so severe and gaunt. Did I look that crazy when I killed people? Slasher’s eyes were narrowed and dark, his mouth tight and his nostrils flaring. But when he expelled a hard breath and lifted his hands, surveying his messy work, a smile kicked up the corners of his mouth and the tension left his eyes.

“I’ve been here less than a day, and already you men are killing for me,” I said with a dreamy sigh. “I love this place.”

“Men,” Slasher repeated, unfolding to his feet so fast I missed the movement.

“I have other mates,” I told him, and quelled his explosion of rage by adding, “but none are as bloodthirsty as you. Or as deranged as me.”

His red eyes went all soft and puppy-like. “I suppose I could share you sometimes. But I get to keep you to myself, too.”

“Deal,” I agreed. Things were definitely looking up at Blake Hall; I had a dominant alpha and a bloody vampire who were both obsessed with me.⁸

A huge, manic grin overtook Slasher’s sharp-planed face as he slid his fingers through the blood and brain matter splashed across my floor.⁹ I watched with confusion as he rose to his feet and approached the wall where he’d sucked my throat, and then wrote SLASHER HEARTS PUDDING.

“You do know my name’s Rebel?” I drawled to cover up the fact that my throat was thick and I was tearing up. He was so sweet, and cute, and covered in blood.

“The most delicious rebel pudding ever,” he replied, as if that made any sense.

I laughed as he cupped my face with his bloody hands and laid the softest kiss on my lips. After his intense throat licking, it was a surprise, and I smiled, wrapping my arms around his neck and shivering at his coldness pressed to my front.

“I’ll kill all your enemies,” he murmured against my lips, his red eyes flashing. “And that’s a promise, my beautiful panna cotta.”

“I like you,” I replied, kissing his cheek. “You’re nice.”

Yes, Blake Hall was definitely looking up, and I was excited to see what tomorrow would bring.

At least until tomorrow struck, and I realised everything wasn’t all romantic murders and hot kisses. But that was a problem for tomorrow.