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  Copyright © 2017 by Abbie Roads

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Kris Keller

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from Race the Darkness

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To the lost and the lonely…

  Let love and laughter guide your way.

  Chapter 1

  It’s a sad testament to the state of humanity that we elevate serial killers to the level of mega-celebrity.

  —Ellsworth Garyington, MD, Journal of Human and Philosophical Studies

  The air reeked of dirty pennies and death. The bodies had been removed days ago, but Cain Killion could still feel the desperate energy of the dying and almost—almost—hear the echoes of their screams imprinted on the bones of the house. He abhorred the sight of blood, and yet here he was, standing in another murder house in front of another wall smeared, splattered, and sprayed with gore.

  His heart banged against the cage of his ribs, trying to bust out and make a break for it. A bead of sweat slid in agonizing slowness down the center of his spine.

  “You don’t look so good.” MacNeil Anderson stepped into Cain’s line of sight, diverting his attention from the blood. The furrows around Mac’s eyes cut deeper than normal, and three days’ worth of old-man stubble fuzzed his cheeks, giving him a haggard and homeless appearance. Not exactly the look the FBI was going for when they promoted Mac to senior special agent.

  Cain almost smiled at his own thoughts, but laughter no longer existed in this place. Only horror could thrive here now.

  “Do I ever look good when I’m about to…?” Yeah. There wasn’t a name for what he did. To the bureaucrats with their thumbs jammed up their asses, Mac called it profiling—had to call it something. But it wasn’t profiling. Not at all. What Cain had to do with the blood was something worse than profiling. So much worse.

  “This is different.” Mac reached up and put his dry palm on Cain’s forehead. “You sick? Have a fever?”

  Cain might be thirty years old and had lived on his own since he was eighteen, but Mac had never outgrown the role of his adopted dad.

  “You can always walk away.” Mac made this offer at every kill scene.

  And every time, Cain’s legs twitched with the urge to run. Only determination, masochism, and the promise of sick satisfaction kept him locked in place. “I’m staying. I always stay.”

  “I’d stop calling you out for these cases, but I know you’d just find someone else who would.” Mac’s words were slow and glossed with sadness.

  “No one else has the history I have. No one else can do what I do. No one else can give you the information I can.” Yeah. His profiles were more accurate, more detailed than anything a traditional profiler could come up with. In the majority of cases, his work guided law enforcement directly to their perpetrator. “It’d be stupid not to call me.” Not to mention he needed to be around that dynamic duo—blood and death. They stripped away his mask of normalcy, leaving him naked to the one truth about himself he could never forget.

  He was Killer Killion’s Kid—Triple K, the media called him. The spawn of a killer with the genetic predisposition to be a murdering machine. One of the only ways Cain had found to curb the ugly urges was to force himself to attend these murder scenes. Force himself to witness the destruction.

  His deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret—the thing he would never utter out loud because it terrified him: sometimes he enjoyed himself.

  “Son, you don’t have anything to prove. Not to me.” Mac used a caring tone, but that word—son—threatened to transport Cain back to his childhood. Back to his biological father using that word like a curse.

  Not going there.

  Cain stepped around Mac and moved to look out the window. The Victorian home sat on a miniature peninsula of land that jutted out into a large pond. Such an odd place for a house. A beautiful place—breathtaking and yet eerie in its loneliness and total isolation. Just the kind of place Cain loved.

  Had location been a consideration for the killer? Had he finished with his bloody work, then stood in this very spot staring out the window at the water?

  Cain sucked in a breath, held it for as long as his lungs would allow, then blew it out slowly. “I know I don’t have anything to prove to you. I do this for me.” He tried to make his tone firm, but it came out a little shaky. Mac the-FBI-guy would hear it, but Mac his-adopted-dad wouldn’t press. Time for a change of subject. “You notice anything odd about this place?”

  “It’s not the typical.” Mac’s words were spoken on a sigh. “Not that there is a typical. This just isn’t like any other location I’ve been called to investigate.”

  “Yeah. Victorian house. In the woods. On a pond. I get why our guy would like the isolation of this place. But there’s something more. It has to do with…” He had trouble finding the words to describe the gut-level truth inside him. “…all of it. The house. The woods. The pond. The family. It’s like this guy wanted the complete package.”

  Mac nodded, his expression serious as a gravedigger. “You get that from the blood?”

  “Just a feeling I have.” It was the kind of place he’d choose if he were going to plan a murder. Kind of like how salt and sweet tasted so good together, this was violence and peace in one location.

  Enough stalling. Cain turned away from the window and faced the room.

  Three w
alls were covered in Victorian-era wallpaper—rich gold background, red blossoms on a vine, and fancy peacocks. Ostentatious was the word that came to mind. One wall—the longest, largest wall—had been painted the same color as the paper’s background. Yeah. Four walls of peacocks and posies might’ve caused bleeding eyeballs.

  Finally, Cain forced himself to look at the blood on the wall. Rosettes of red seeped into the wallpaper, the fat watercolor splotches almost blending in with the flowers.

  Mac cleared his throat as if gearing up for a formal speech. “The techs released the scene this morning. They worked ’round the clock to get everything cataloged and bagged so we could get you on this ASAP. The blood is, of course, clean. I wouldn’t have called you in otherwise.” He pointed to the three distinct blood pools. “The family—Dad, Mom, girl—was found here. Killed here too. Forensics places their time of death at—”

  “Mac.” Cain spoke the name loud enough to smother whatever the guy had been about to say. “Quiet.” He needed the absence of sound to see what happened. And he needed to do it now before he pussied out.

  Mac clamped his lips closed, nodded, and moved across the room—out of the way.

  Just fucking get it over with.

  Cain knelt at the altar of blood. The sweet scent of rotting biological material was an abomination to his nose, and yet foul anticipation crawled underneath his skin. His mind slid sideways like it always did around the red stuff. Back to his childhood. Back to a time when he was very much his father’s son. Back to when blood covered his skin—the slick, silky warmness of it so wrong and yet so horribly soothing at the same time.

  He slapped his hands down into the congealed sludge. The coldness sent pleasant shock waves up his arms. He didn’t want to feel pleasure, didn’t want to enjoy this, but that other part of him had terrible intentions. Helpless to stop himself, he smeared his hands around in the red like a kid playing with finger paints. Only when his fingers and palms were coated with the family’s blood did he raise them to his face.

  A miniscule part of him rebelled against what he was about to do, but the rebellion was quashed before it began. He spread the blood over his forehead, his cheeks, coating his skin in the thick, sweet goo. He painted his neck, his bare arms, then lifted his T-shirt and wiped his hands on his chest.

  His head fell back on his shoulders. His breath came in shallow, hyperventilating gulps. From a distance, he heard himself moan—only it wasn’t a moan; it was more like the yowling of a feral cat fighting for its life. Or getting ready to mate.

  Blood did that to him, was a pleasure and a pain. A gift and a curse.

  He had a complicated relationship with blood. He hated it. He loved it. Blood was a conduit, a link, a connection between him and those who slayed souls. Blood opened a doorway, allowing him to step into the minds and bodies of those who found bliss in ending life. He became the killer. He saw what the killer saw. Did what the killer did. Felt what the killer felt.

  An incandescent light flashed behind his eyelids. Cain was gone. He was now the killer.

  He stood on a ladder, rolling simple white primer on the wall.

  A song had been locked inside his head for months, and only now was it time to give voice to the words.

  Lift your feet when you

  Dance around the old well,

  Be careful or you’ll tumble pell-mell.

  Look into the dark, dark, waters

  For the blood of your fathers.

  Show some courage, young man,

  Find your calling, young man.

  He loved the song. He hated the song. But that was life, wasn’t it? It was all one big paradox.

  A breathy sound intruded. He turned on the ladder to see the ones on the floor.

  They were laid out in a neat row in the middle of the room. Each of them on their stomachs, hands bound behind their backs and tied to the shackles on their feet, mouths obliterated by duct tape. The male’s wrists were hamburger, dripping blood from fighting against the metal cuffs. But none of them struggled now.

  Their faces were wet from tears, or maybe sweat—didn’t really matter—and splotchy red and pale. The child grunted.

  “Do you want to sing along?” He used a soft tone, the same as he would if he were cajoling a whipped dog. “I will let you, but you must sing it properly. No mistakes.”

  More tears slicked the girl’s face and dripped on the drop cloth underneath her. A bubble of snot blew from her nostril and hovered there waiting to pop. She shrank from him. The female seal-humped herself up and over the girl as if to hide the child beneath her body.

  Oh well. He wouldn’t allow them to destroy the pure freedom of this moment. He turned back to his task, losing himself in his song once more.

  Save pomegranate seeds

  as payment for the ferryman,

  Offer red, red wine

  as payment to the bar man.

  Carve some red, red meat

  as food for the hungry man.

  Show some courage, young man,

  Find your calling, young man.

  And then the wall was done, the completion of it sneaking up on him like a surprise party. He stepped off the ladder, moved it to the side to have an unobstructed view, and then unzipped his painter’s coveralls and let them slide down his body.

  The cool air whispered over his naked flesh like an endearment, the sensation wonderful after the confines of the material. His head fell back on his shoulders, and he stood there absorbing and savoring. Everything from this moment to his finish would be carefully recorded in his memory. No matter what happened, no one could erase his memories. They were his alone—safe and untouchable—to be lovingly replayed until his death.

  The female sobbed, deep throaty sounds similar to gagging. He faced the ones on the floor and used a gentle voice. “I do understand this is distressing for you, but I”—he dropped his tone a couple of octaves to show his seriousness—“Need. Complete. Silence.” He took his time, meeting and holding each one of their gazes before he continued. “I need to rest now.”

  Only when they all quieted did he sit on the couch he had moved to face the wall. The material he’d spread over the cushions—couldn’t risk leaving DNA when he left—scratched against his ass and testicles, but that couldn’t be helped. He lay back and stretched out, waiting for his body to relax.

  The blank canvas before him was a beautiful thing. All the potential in the world was right here. A picture waiting to be born.

  He emptied his mind of all thoughts and feelings and stared at the wall. He stared, unblinking, until his vision yellowed and then darkened into something that looked akin to an X-ray. He stared until tears watered his cheeks and his eyes burned like hot coals in their sockets. Only then did he catch a flash of what needed to be created—all he needed was a glimpse.

  Wings. He saw wings.

  He was about to create a masterpiece in blood.

  A sense of timelessness came over him as he killed and painted. Painted and killed. He lost himself in his work. Not thinking about anything, just letting his hands wield the brushes, mindless of the image he produced. When the blood in his paint container was nearly gone and an image had been born upon the wall, he came back to himself.

  He stepped away from the wall, taking more and more of it in with each footstep until he stood on the other side of the room, taking in the full magnitude.

  The color contrast of blood on white was as breathtaking and beautiful as a flock of cardinals against the brilliance of snow. Tears burned his eyes. His face stung, and a wild freedom he’d hadn’t experienced in years surged through him. He recognized the feeling. In this moment he was God. The author of destruction. And creation.

  The image he’d painted was so… No words existed to convey the gloriousness. Words were small and meaningless compared to this wall.

  On t
he wall—a man knelt, head bowed, hair falling forward, shielding his face from view. Even in that supplicant’s position, supremacy and authority radiated from him. He looked like the strongest of warriors after a great battle—exhausted, but not weak. No, never weak. There wasn’t an ounce of vulnerability in his sinew, muscle, and bone. Nor was there any delicacy to the lacework of scars marring the skin of his arms. And on his chest, directly over his heart, were two crisscrossed slashes that dripped blood down his torso.

  Surrounding him was a magnificent pair of wings. Not the kind you’d see on a sparrow or even on a chubby cupid, but the kind of wings that conveyed power and strength and utter indestructibility.

  He loved the picture as he loved himself.

  An incandescent flash and Cain returned to reality, to the stench of decomposing blood smeared over his face.

  His brain recategorized everything that he’d just seen and done into the it-wasn’t-really-me file. But that didn’t take the feelings away. The awe spreading through his chest at what he’d seen. The guilt sinking into his gut because he’d had no remorse.

  A dull thumping started behind his eyes. Usually when he did his blood work, he was there for only a few seconds before skipping on to the next images and the next. Those flashes gave him a migraine every time, but seeing entire scenes like this… The migraine was gonna be a badass bitch today. He had maybe ten minutes before the pain ratcheted up to the level of ax-buried-in-his-brain.

  Mac handed him a black towel—black disguised the blood better than any other color.

  “You back?” Mac knelt next to him, his face full of concern, but Cain could see the concealed disgust in the way Mac’s mouth turned down at the corners, like he was fighting an outright grimace.

  That look—especially when it was aimed at him—always took him back to the moment Mac had found him. Cain had been covered in snot and blood and shame. He had to give it to Mac. The guy had tried to hide his horror, tried to pretend Cain was just a kid, when he’d never been a kid. He’d been more monster than anything else.

  Cain scrubbed the material over his face, his arms, wiped his hands. The blood on his body—so thick and dry it smeared into his skin—would only come off after a good scouring down in a scalding shower.