Reborn in Blood

The beginning…​

A pair of eyes stared down at the woman who clawed at his back. He felt his cock grow thick and lengthen as her muscles contracted around him. The thin flesh of her sex tore, as small barbs broke her skin. She screamed and begged for mercy. He laughed. The barbs extended further, acting like the anchor of a ship embedded in the sand.

He bent down and licked the tears that fell in sheets down her cheeks. She twisted her head. Again the room was filled with his laughter. The head of his dick smashed against her cervix. He held himself there as his seed boiled from his testicles and jettisoned into her womb. It took several minutes for Apollyon to empty the hot cream and when he was done the barbs retracted and his cock slid out.

The young girl, Erin, rolled to her side, and curled herself into a ball. Apollyon smiled, slipped a hand between her clenched muscles and rested his palm against her pussy. A warm healing caress swept over her. It sank deep into her womb and cradled the seeds within. He closed his eyes and grinned.

Nine months later…​

Erin stared at the baby that was being handed to her. The infant was screaming and wailing. Her fingers were splayed out and her arms rose to the air, as if begging for someone to hold her and love her. Erin turned her head away. She felt another contraction and fought the scream trying to erupt from her lungs; the doctor ordered her to push.

“You have to do this Erin,” the doctor said. “I know it’s hard, but you have to.”

Erin bit down on her lip to stifle the scream. She would not yell for him. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he was once again causing her pain. The second infant broke through and greeted the world. There were no cries, or words of congratulations for this young child. The son would never breathe, for his sister had choked the life out of him while he slept in their mother’s womb.

The doctor left the room, taking the dead infant with him. The nurses stayed behind; one took care of Erin, while the other cared for the baby girl that Erin refused to hold or acknowledge.

When the baby was washed, a pair of pink socks, and pink knit cap were placed on her head. A blanket, thick and hand-crafted from one of the local church ladies was wrapped around the infant’s body. Instantly the child became frantic and uncontrollable.

The nurse rushed from Erin’s side and hurried to help with the baby. The blanket was removed; small burn marks marred the newborn’s flesh.

“What happened?” Nurse Sara asked.

“I don’t know. I just wrapped her in this blanket and she started screaming,” the other nurse, Renee, told her. She gave her co-worker the knitted covering, and wrapped the infant in another cloth, this one manufactured from a factory in China. Instantly the infant quieted.

“That’s strange, the marks are gone,” Sara told her. They both studied the infant, who was looking up at them with bright green eyes. “She’s beautiful,” Sara whispered and took the baby from Renee.

“What’s wrong?” Erin asked.

Sara walked over to the bed and took the hand-crafted blanket with her. “She’s okay now,” Sara told her, and again offered the child to Erin.

The young mother looked at her baby and felt tears fall from her eyes. The babe looked normal, small, pink, perfectly formed. A red curl peeked out from the knitted cap. Erin opened her arms and took her daughter; she nuzzled her cheek and kissed her brow. “Maybe the blanket was washed in something she’s allergic too,” Erin suggested.

The child sought her mother’s milk. Erin laughed and opened her hospital gown; instantly the babe began to suckle.

“The blanket came from one of the churches. They’re given to the hospital to be given to new moms and dads,” Renee said as she approached the new mother.

“We’ll have a new one brought up and wash this one. The blankets are beautifully crafted; I’d hate for you not to have one.”

“That sounds nice,” Erin told her. The two nurses smiled down at the mother and child, before leaving the room and allowing the two to bond.

Eighteen years later…​

Erin stared at the gold letter opener with the jeweled cross at the top. Her hands were pressed to her neck. Warm crimson fluid gurgled from the puncture wound and jagged slit that ran across her throat. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor. Her gaze drifted over the woman that stood in front of her.

The girl’s legs were bare. She had worn a short skirt that morning, a surprise to Erin. Normally she never left the house with her legs showing. The scars that marred her flesh were easy to see. Each one served as a reminder to her disobedience.

For a moment Erin felt guilt over punishing her daughter, but it had been the only way she knew to control her. Now though, as Margarite stared down on her, Erin knew that from the moment Apollyon’s seed filled her, her fate had been written.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to her daughter as their eyes locked and held.

Margarite lifted a brow as her mother’s blood pooled and began to ooze over the white linoleum floor of their kitchen. She sat down, dropped the letter opener and took off the leather glove that had protected her skin.

The soft tilt of her head made her look innocent and naïve. Margarite felt nothing as her mother’s eyes became lifeless orbs. She ran a finger through the rich blood, brought it to her lips and tasted it. Her brows rose in interest. She lowered her head and licked at the sticky fluid on the floor.

Her lips rose in a smile as she began to clean the floor.

Thorn Jameson had a fairly normal childhood. Mother, Father, two younger siblings. Never an outcast, never really popular. Just a quiet, average child. Til he hit puberty. Then no matter how much he ate, he was always hungry. He started losing weight, eventually to a point of near hospitalization. Til this point his family has lived a fairly staid, normal upper middle class life. This is strange and worrying. His parents got worried enough to eventually start bringing him to the hospital and various doctors. After a while he started to notice he wasn't so weak and hungry right after these visits. They bring him to every type of doctor they can. None can point out anything exactly that'll cause it. As the visits became more frequent, he seemed to ever so slowly put on a little weight.

Then one day he was nearby when two friends shared their first kiss. They radiated pure, unadulterated happiness, that sweetest love, the pure, chaste first love of a young couple. For him their was an unexplained, heavenly taste that moved through him like the first thick, gooey bite of a perfect brownie.For the first time in months he didn't feel like he was starving. He wasn't full either, but he was ok. Every time he saw the new couple after that he felt better and better. He started hanging out with them more and more. He isn't stupid. He soon figured out there is something there he is feeding on having since felt it again a few times as first infatuations, first pangs of unrequited desire were felt by others around. Getting your first boner and thinking something is wrong. First noticing the opposite sex. First time voices crack. Stress to do well. Made to try to be who you aren't cause of parents. It is a time of strong emotion.

He slowly, subtly, starts driving the couple apart to see what happens, as he is very curious by nature. As their ardor cools, so does his ...what appears to be at least, feeding. He wonders if it works with the opposite end too. So he works to find out. Soon he has them actively hating each other. He finally feels full. There is a constant good "taste" he might've called it. He certainly couldn't describe it well then.

At first he tries to explain to his Mom. Right when it's all loveydovey. She just tells him he has an overactive imagination. He never tries again. After his discovery he tries to generate these emotions, fabricate them so he's always full, feeling a lot better. He starts to interact with everyone he can. No one knows why but all agree. This is one polarizing kid. You love him or you hate him. He seems to say and do just the rights things. If he wanted to leave barbs under your skin, you'd be needled like a pin cushion in an old seamstresses shop but couldn't say much back. Or if you were someone he liked, or knew was useful to have trust him, he was just the right type of boy.

A year or two later he found out his other abilities. There were three of the notsobright thug types that were sick of him always getting saved at the last moment. They finally had him alone. He's furious, and scared. He refuses to just take it though. They might feast, but he was getting a sandwich at least. He thinks of himself as the biggest, meanest, nastiest creature he could imagine, trying to build his courage and pushed his belief into it as if believing in your power will make it so. like the cartoons on tv. The three boys suddenly stopped, pleasure and grins draining from their faces as terror replaces all other emotions. They screamed, and ran, a tsunami sweeping over Thorn, inundated by emotion that is nearly orgasmic. Nothing quite like getting your first taste of pure terror. He barely realized one choked out something about a Monster... Those teeth...
He thought about it that night, eventually coming to very close to the correct conclusion. The next day he tried it again. This time he tried something beautiful. A few girls about 6 years of age came up and started petting the unicorn that didn't exist. It disappears almost as soon as they tried to stroke it. Thorn suddenly felt like he'd run a mile or two, but as he sat there in the confusion, excitement, sadness, childish wonder and awe, he quickly began to recharge. This is how Thorn found out he could amplify his ability to feed, as well as protect himself. And later, more easily seduce women. The strait served him several years til one night...

The helicopter landed on the Burj Al Arab’s landing pad. Mitchell Helu, one of the world’s most eligible bachelors and heir to the Helu fortune, stepped out. He offered his hand to Margarite Ann Dean O’Shay. She smiled, and tucked herself against him, as the two darted off to a waiting hotel butler.

Mitchell assured Margarite that no one would see her entering the hotel, nor would their privacy be interrupted. Margarite had not been convinced, and before she and Mitchell landed, she had learned from the pilot, how best to contact him if she had need of his services.

The young man had been more than willing to give her the information she needed, and Mitchell confirmed it when he explained the helicopter and the pilot were employed by him. “If you ever have need of him, just let me know. I’ll arrange everything,” the billionaire had said.

After they left the roof of the building Margarite and Mitchell were quickly shown to the suite he had obtained for the weekend.

Behind closed doors, Mitchell pressed Margarite against the wall and began to quickly disrobe her. The black leather dress she wore was like a second skin. He peeled it away, allowing her breasts the freedom they craved. His hands went to the round firm globes. He lowered his mouth to her nipples and began to alternate his attention between each one.

Margarite played the part of an enamored woman. Her fingers pushed into his hair; her moans and whimpers sounded as if she were aroused and on the edge of release.

Mitchell reached between her legs and began to caress the soft lips of her sex.

She reached up and removed the scarf from her hair, as well as the gold spike that had accentuated her curls contained in a chignon bun. The cross at the top rested snugly in her palm like an old friend. The silk gloves she wore were snug and kept her ivory skin from touching the brilliant metal. Slim fingers wrapped around the jeweled hilt.

As Mitchell’s pointer finger entered her pussy, Margarite stared at the waters of Dubai. The antique letter opener had been altered since the first time she’d used it on her mother, two years ago. As it slid between his cervical and thoracic vertebrae, she felt her pussy tighten around his thick digit.

He fell into her, gagging as she slid the double-edge blade across the back of his neck; it exited his flesh with ease. The blood poured over her hand and splashed against the wall. Her head slammed back into the wall as she came on his twitching finger. Before the last spasms of pulsating nerves rolled through Mitchell’s body, Margarite pushed him away.

She licked her lips, and began to wash his blood from her hand.

An hour later, Margarite slipped out of the suite dressed in a red silk dress that hugged her and stopped mid-thigh. Mitchell had taken care of everything including the matching elbow length gloves.

When she passed the reception desk for that floor, she smiled at the attendant. The young woman smiled back, stood up from behind the desk and reached out to introduce herself. Margarite grinned back; her red curls began to tighten. She reached out and stroked the young woman’s cheek.

The girl sighed in pleasure and as if memorized by the beauty of Margarite, she leaned in and willingly closed the distance that separated them. Their lips met and tongues tangled. When Margarite pulled away, the gold letter opener was thick with the young woman’s blood.

Margarite entered the elevator, smiling warmly at the butler who stood just inside the door. When she left, stepping quietly into the lobby of the hotel, his uniform had done wonders in cleaning her blade. She tucked her hair back into the chignon and secured the weapon in the dark silk curls. The gloves were peeled off and tucked deep within her ruby encrusted clutch – another gift from the late Mitchell Helu.

Those that pass her noticed only a beautiful woman, alone in an extravagant hotel; the elevator was already on its way back up to the Helu suite. Outside the hotel, Margarite lifted her face to the sky and breathed deep the warm air, and promising wealth that stretched out before her.

Thorn grew up in an odd manner. Thorn is a classic Aspie. He doesn't get attached easy, is very, very smart, but socially inept. He likes people, wants to be friends but it usually doesn't go well. They just don't seem to see why there is only one way to play with the ball in this weather with this kind of ball. Blind dummies.

However, this is only til about 13 when he began to sense feelings, emotions, and starts to become able to manipulate them. The most crippling aspect is gone. He knew how they felt, and once he had that knowledge, mimicking it became easy. He didn't agree, and he was still blunt, didn't understand why they did such irrational things, but by knowing how they felt, he knew how he should respond and smart enough to realize pointing out they were wrong would just hurt him so decides to show them later, when it can't.

He always seemed to be a bit charmed as well. He doesn't go on a trip where a child ends up falling and drowning in a freak ice skating mishap on a lake people have skated on a hundred years because hes home with a minor cold. He is at a slumber party when the gas line at his home leaks, and ends up exploding when his mother lit up the range for a glass of cocoa before bed. Not quite getting in the good school, and the same room of the student who took his spot collapses when a windy night uproots a tree because of a freak, intense, quick hurricane.

He grew up care of the state. He had plenty money when his father's stocks rose drastically just before the tragic accident, he had no relatives, and was very smart. The state found it easiest on everyone to just have someone who made sure he ate, did work. A live in nanny. This suited Thorn just fine.


Six years later, now 19, Thorn is in Dubai, luxury capital of the world. It is the new place to be if you're growing quickly and have talent. The diamonds, platinum, silver and gold flow like honey. Cash to be made hand over fist around every corner. He didn't care about company, friends, or love; pretending just enough to get ahead, allowing himself the great pleasure of needling a moron just few enough times and in such a way he wouldn't get in trouble. He is now positioned near the top, owner of an empire built on gaming, and various technologies. The stock shares he owns, when all pulled at the same time could shift markets, economically destroy small nations and anyone he disliked. His first hostile takeover was completed by age 17. It is still recognized as being the biggest initial coup ever. Five billion pounds sterling return on investment.

It was all his too. No public stocks, no all powerful board. His and his alone. There were bullies. They died or their companies slowly decayed away, unless they were violently ripped apart by malfunction, scandal, research setback. There were cons. Some got employed, talents used and repaid. Others found themselves conned instead, penniless, at square one again. There were genuine offers politely declined. Thorn still stood alone, as he always has.

So of course he's here, in the largest building in the world in the fastest growing city in the world, shoving his hands into every profitable pie he sees, and enjoying the luxuries that come of success. He lives for the look of confusion when the opposition just lost the final case in court. They are dead certain they never agreed to that deal. They didn't sign those papers, but he had video that clearly showed them doing it. He devours the pain, the consternation, and he goes home even more rich. Rich but still alone. He trusts no one, lets no one near.

He remembers the hard years before he learned to be as the snow leopard. You blend in until it is time to attack. Then you use overwhelming force from concealment. Give them no chance, breaking their necks and shredding their bellies in the first seconds. He also understands you bait a bear with honey, cause it hurts it, and gets the bees away for you to steal the now freed honey free of pain, welts, or overpriced by beekeepers. He refuses to be made as the Bear, or the Bees. Or the hapless villager, unable to do five minutes work for many dollars worth of honey because they can't think to, or don't have the balls and courage to do so.

He raises the ornate glass, the three sips of Turkish coffee in it strong as five espressos, yet mild tasting, with chocolate and raspberry notes, waiting for this newest contact. She is supposed to be here already. His coffee is gone and he doesn't care about this enough to wait. So, bored, he decides to practice. The cup is set down and Thorn fades from everyone's view. The first step is completed. None see him leave, but the waiter says he paid and tipped well.

He drifts up to his room sliding by all with no one paying attention to him or noticing him. When he is close to his suite's private elevator to the rooftop floor from the penthouses level that was added to the plans at his request, last second. got in early. He had first say. He sees a door not quite quite latched and he hears a loud thump. He is shocked. At that same instant he swoons, cock hardening painfully, his breathing becoming panting. However his eyes become sharp, predatory. For a moment one might have seen him, but luckily none are about to be unfogged and see him appear. The excitement, building passion, then the sudden pain, fear, confusion, betrayal, heartbreak, and sudden emptiness of anything, like the end of a concerto.

He has to see more. He sees the woman with her deadly hairstick. It is a thing he shall remember. He always knew it wasn't just ancient ninjas. Totally still valid assassination in the modern world. He also greatly enjoys her pleasure in the act, multiple orgasms crashing over him, drowning him in the deluge of this oh so unique, fucked up pleasure she takes in the mans death.

She moves swiftly then. He follows, intrigued, keeping himself muted from her conscience so he does not exist. As he watches her kill again he realizes he has once again been blessed. If not for his oddity he'd have surely died without his unique needs and adaptations. He loves the cockiness and intelligence of the blood. Some patron sees it, screams, then they're all focused on him, the young man equally confused and unknowing. While here she is flitting away. His intrigue is piqued to a level no other has been able to rouse.

An attendant to the hotel spotted Margarite as she held her clutch and looked around. He immediately went to her and welcomed her to the exotic island. She smiled warmly and took the arm he offered. “I’m in need of a car and a driver,” she told him.

The gentleman lifted his hand, snapped his fingers and another butler hurried over. “Please bring one of the cars around, our guest needs service – and be quick,” he told the other man.

Margarite grinned and placed a kiss on the man’s cheek. “You are a sweet man,” she whispered. Quietly she waited and listened to the attendant tell her about the hotel’s most notable guests. When the car appeared, the butler opened the door and kissed her hand.

The driver pulled away as Margarite settled herself into the leather cushions of the Rolls Royce. She slipped her hand into her clutch, pulled out her cell phone and a slip of paper. The deep voice of the helicopter pilot came through crystal clear.

“Hello?”

“Mister Breguet?” His name fell from her lips in a soft caress.

“Miss O’Shay?”

She smiled. “Yes, Mitchell has taken ill and requested I find some entertainment. He suggested you, since you are the only face I know. Are you available this evening?” she asked.

“Certainly, should I pick you up at the hotel?” Breguet asked.

“No, I am on my way to you. A car will be pulling up in front of your hotel within the next twenty minutes. Can you be ready?”

“I’ll be out front,” he answered.

“Wonderful. I look forward to seeing you, oh and Mister Breguet, could you pick up some short red gloves from your hotel’s gift shop? Formal ones and if not red, black will work.”

“It would be my pleasure. I’ll grab a pair of each, just in case one pair becomes soiled.”

She grinned into the phone.

After the call was over, she slipped the phone back in the purse as well as the paper. The dark privacy glass was raised so she could not see the driver’s eyes, nor could he see hers. She pressed the button on the door and the glass slid down. “After picking up Mister Breguet, I need you to take us to Buccaneer’s Gambit. Remain there, until I have need of you again. Is this acceptable to you?”

The driver smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “Certainly Miss.”

Reflections of the lights of Dubai bounced on to the sleek metal of the Rolls Royce and danced across the glass. Only small flecks of light penetrated the darkened interior of the car. Margarite’s pulse began to hum as the driver pulled up to the hotel where Breguet was staying. She saw him approach the car, and felt her sex tighten in anticipation.

The car was parked, and the driver hurried to open the door for the gentleman. Margarite watched him slide into the backseat with her. She saw the hunger in his gaze as he feasted on her long legs and short skirt. There was no doubt that the man was looking forward to experiencing just a taste of what Mitchell Helu had sampled. The envious gaze was one Margarite was very familiar with. The partition went back up and the driver was left to imagine what was happening behind the dark screen.

“Miss O’Shay, you look amazing.”

“Margarite,” she whispered, turning so she faced him.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

She smirked. “And do I call you Mister Breguet for the remainder of our evening?” she asked, before reaching over and running her hand down his chest.

He pulled her fingers away and kissed the tips. Her eyes narrowed slightly. He opened his mouth and suckled the long, slim, middle digit. She moaned on cue. He grinned. “Margarite, you may call me Jon.”

She licked her lips and slid closer to him. “Jon.” His name rolled off her tongue like liquid silk.

“It’s a pity Helu fell ill,” Jon whispered, before reaching out to trace Margarite’s lips.

Her mouth opened; she pulled his thumb between her lips and suckled firmly. His breath caught in his chest. She grinned, released the pudgy muscle and sat back. The car came to a stop and the driver hurried to open the door. Jon adjusted his crotch, exited the vehicle, and took Margarite by the hand.

“My gloves?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. He pulled a small bag from inside his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “I took the liberty of removing the tags.”

“Thank you,” she told him. She slipped the silk over her fingers; the material flexed as she closed and opened her fists. “Perfect.”

They headed into the casino where Margarite could better breathe in the sins of her father. “Let’s play,” she whispered against his ear, leaving a soft kiss at the pulse point of his neck.

Thorn sits enthralled as she cleans up after her kill, erasing her presence, then getting dressed for her next move before leaving the room. He marvels at the perfect shape of her body when she pulls her panties up, pussy peeking at him as her panties slide up her hips, as the slinky red number slides down her body. Then the rush of another kill after the long provocation of her unknowing murderous strip tease. He recovers quickly, but finds himself extremely aroused. That doesn't impair his functions completely though. After all, he's Thorn.

He follows the woman, memorizing her features to give to his security detail. Yes he just stared at her for an hour, but the license plate might give him a clue, and if he can overhear anything. She does appear that damned cocky. Such brazen killing, and the rush of emotion she caused for his enjoyment must be explored and experienced again.

The complete destruction, betrayal, and horror Helu felt upon dying is exquisite, and Thorn feels full, sated for now. He thinks he finally gets foodies. It is with these thoughts he watches her be driven away. However, as he muses he hears a small beep. It is the alarm set for when he has to get back to his newest venture, the largest casino in Dubai, complete with topless waitresses, strippers, and a few back rooms for VIPs where just about anything, including discreetness are to be had.

He really doesn't mind the fact he was stood up. It is something he will note, but he didn't have long anyway. So he moves to the valet stand, unclouding himself from their vision so as to get one the young men's attention. "I need the Maserati. Please bring it around."

He waits patiently, but steps on it as he takes off. He is now running late but he can still be there on time. He is never late for anything. The woman is a very rare distraction. He is determined she shall not be the first reason he is ever late.He drifts into the casino's lot laying rubber for a hundred feet, the car still purring and settling with him already three feet away. The keys are tossed to another valet with a curt nod. "Usual spot Dick. I'm glad to see you have your shirt inside right and free of lipstick today. I really would've hated to see you fired." He almost was, instantly, until Thorn found out who the liaison was with, and how it'd benefit him. The valet is actually a millionaire's son, forced to earn his father's respect working his way up as he and his grandfather did before him. The female is the daughter of a senator who's up for reelection. Neither want it known. So Dave's half hour breaks every night at midnight remain seemingly unnoticed.

He strides through the building, his critical, analyzing eyes lasering in on everything as he surveys his domain. Everything must be right, must be perfect to cultivate the experience he has striven for. This is Nirvana, this is perfection. This is a temple to every base desire there is. Some might call it every sin. He learned young that the strongest wants, needs, hardest to resist are the most basic, feral ones, and has built his power accordingly. He knows exactly what people want. There is no clouding of right and wrong or thought. He knows with certainty what they truly want. Through careful observation, and knowledge of exactly how they feel Thorn knows what draws people in. So the costumes reveal just enough, but not too much unless you're a VIP. Thorn figures if you're paying one hundred grand an hour you can have anything.

The people giving it to you get paid so well they don't care. In fact women screened for any position back there are encouraged to have that exact attitude. No moms struggling with the idea allowed. Discrimination be damned. He's running a business. Everyone profits here. The guests pay for the experience. From the lowest offered, to the most exclusive are a great value, and respectable profit. You might only be playing five dollar hands, but you're loving it. You may have blown a million in one night, but that was a one in a million experience. The staff make more in a month than they would in a year elsewhere. That on top of the uncounted tips. He files his taxes scrupulously. He doubts the IRS will care about their tips that much. Neither does he. He doesn't penalize them for great service. At the Buccaneer's Gambit you keep what you kill...

Part of the appeal is the good press. He makes sure anyone of great service to the community gets a lifetime premium level membership for almost nothing. It is a great reward, cherished by every community protection and assistance force in Dubai. The young man whose brainstorming germinated Thorn's eventual decision began getting fast tracked for promotion. He would keep rising as long as he kept performing, stopping wherever he hit his plateau. After all he was a ballsy intern speaking up.

Thorn likes what he sees on his rounds. Things are going smoothly. It is the one year celebration. Everything must be perfect. Lavish but not pretentious. Jovial. Forbes put him in the Top 100 power players of the business world because of the runaway success of this place. Much of his empire building has been done through proxies and shell companies so that its all but undetected. His modest gaming success had him making a pretty penny. Think the Modern Warfare series. That was Thorn's first baby. It got him the Top entrepreneur award but it's gaming. No one notices them. They aren't important. This is luxury! Decadence! This is the world stage.

Thorn continues to walk, to feed on the energy surrounding him. Not only is the place a juggernaut, it feeds him the best tastes of his life. Until this night anyway. Lust, satiation, feral need, ecstatic happiness. Disappointment. Anticipation. Wonder. Amazement. His illusions are strongest here because he is like a cellphone on the charger, drawing and drawing to go almost indefinitely. As long as hes smart, the more he does the more he'll gain back, growing exponentially for each person moved to any extreme emotion.

He has created a bastion of order, of safety around himself. No one gets in. No one can hurt him. He has all he needs, and he made it all himself. The best part is no one knows the extent. He has them all lauding his very powerful move as a bauble in the media, but having the money worlds makers and shakers start doing a bit of digging.

The bonuses outweigh the risk of diggers, and they'll have to dig very very deep to get to the bunker of the truths. Besides he might just be a lucky small timer. The impressions he has made sure they've got of him is a laconical young man, who wants the most out of life, to indulge every hunger immediately and continuously. No one else does, but they do. Everyone else sees what he wants them too if he cares about their opinion, experience in any way.

Thorn's steps progress steadily, at the exact clip until reaching the VIP podium where he abruptly comes to a stop, taking the tablet that is offered at his exact last step. His gaze is intent, eyes scanning rapidly back and forth before this sole stops moving. It is now -exactly- ten o clock, the peak of the evening.

The guests of the casino laughed and drank the spirits of their choice. Margarite sipped her ginger ale and pressed her body closer to Jon’s. Her gaze fluttered back and forth across the room, not landing on any one particular person, or gaming table. She felt Jon’s hand resting on the inside of her right thigh. It had not taken him long to take advantage of his boss’s illness.

She had done nothing to discourage his attentions.

Once Margarite had slipped a small gem under the protective glass of the casino cage, she and Jon took her chips and gaming plaques: the former valuing in denominations of $5,000 and up, and the later - $25,000 and up. They made their way to one of the many poker tables. She knew there were “special rooms” and she knew once she spread enough coin she would be invited into one.

They played well together. She allowed him to lose her money and gain her some. All the while she kept her eyes open and her thoughts focused on the task at hand. Margarite made sure that though her new companion won several hands, she was the center of the table. All eyes were on her as he racked in chips after chips.

While the cards were dealt, Margarite felt a shuddering sensation roll along the edge of her spine. Her gaze narrowed, as she searched out the source. She saw nothing, but knew something or someone was watching her.

She looked up and spied the security camera. The glance was brief; this was not the caress of big brother looking out for his interests. This was something else; this – whatever it was – was why her father had created her. It – was here.

“Jon, could we play something else?” she asked. Her lips rested against the pulse of his neck.

He turned and captured her mouth. His tongue dipped hungrily between her parted lips.

“In a minute, doll,” Jon told her, while sliding the first $25,000 plaque across the table. His other hand slid higher up her leg.

She eyed him carefully. “Doll?”

He chuckled, pressed his palm against the promising edge of her panties. “You don’t want to go now, do you? Look how well we’re doing,” he told her.

Margarite glanced at the pile of coins. He had tripled their winnings and from the way it looked, he would most likely win the next hand to. She leaned in closer. The hand that rested on his chest slid down to press seductively against his crotch.

He was already hard. She knew it was not because of her, but the chips that were piling up into beautifully stacked metal. Her whisper was soft and seductive. “I thought you wanted everything your boss has had.” The firm pressure of her palm against his thick member made him groan in appreciation.

Jon looked down at her hand, and back to her face. His cock jerked as she caressed him through the fabric of his slacks.

“Looks like I’m done,” he told the dealer.

He took his winnings and went to cash out.

“Where to babe?” Jon asked, as his hand snaked around her waist and brought her closer to him.

She sneered inwardly at the endearment. He was so quick to change from the enamored sidearm to the greedy, envious lover.

A smirk rose on her lips as she looked around. “Over there,” she told him.

He saw the private alcove that had been built off to one corner of the room. Tall pillars and potted flora kept those within it hidden from prying eyes. Margarite and Jon crossed the lobby; as they did, she continued to feel the eyes of another on her. It was the first time since she had killed her mother that she had felt someone besides her father’s presence.

She quickened her steps.

When they reached the alcove, she noticed the black drapery that had been opened, giving access to a long bench that rested along the wall. Jon and Margarite stepped inside. She reached around and quickly released the cords that held the drapes open.

Behind the thick velvet curtains, marble pillars, and overgrown shrubbery, Margarite pushed Jon down onto the bench. He reached for her as she lifted her dress over her ass, and allowed it to rest on her hips.

Jon took her panties and tugged them down. He placed them in the inside pocket of his jacket. “We need to hurry,” he told her, “I bet we could still make it into one of the back rooms, if we play our cards right.”

As he spoke she watched his hands move to his pants and release the raging dick that leaked the first hint of seminal fluids. “Come here, slut.”

Margarite raised her brows at the newest name, he felt free in giving her.

She slid up to him to straddle his thick rod. Her knees rested on the fabric of the bench. She felt his hands on her hips and his mouth on her neck. His cock pressed against her cream-colored pussy. He lifted on hand from her hip and grabbed his dick. He put it toward the opening of her sex.

“Let me,” she whispered, and pushed his hand away.

He grinned, splayed his arms out and scooted down slightly so she could better lift herself up and slide back down on top of his swollen shaft.

Margarite stroked his tool with her gloved fingers; she rubbed the spongy tip against her clit and felt his nails digging into her soft flesh. He closed his eyes in appreciation and felt her slide his dick down the warm lips of her sex.

The helicopter pilot felt the hot opening to her pussy and groaned as the tip of his head was pushed into the slick hole. She whimpered and covered his mouth with her lips. He pushed his fingers into her hair.

His jaw grew slack in shock as his body reacted to the sudden pain of his vertebral artery being severed. She felt the initial spray land across her gloved hand. His cock slipped loose, now free of her grasp to rest against her labia.

It took Margarite only seconds, if even that long to pull the letter opener from his throat and cover the puncture wound with her mouth. She tasted the rusty liquid, while it shot heavily and thick along the back of her throat and coated her tongue, teeth and gums. He shook under her; she kept his mouth covered with her other hand, while slipping the opener down his jacket sleeve, cleaning away the thick fluid.

As his body convulsed, she humped his soft shaft until her own climax was upon her. She covered his dick, seconds before the last beat of his heart was felt and the opener slipped back into her hair.

After a few moments Margarite slid off Jon, pulled her dress down, and licked her lips in appreciation for his gift. Normally she did not drink such a large amount of the crimson fluid; it was not something she had to do in order to live, but it was the rush of life, accompanied with the climatic finish of sex, that made her vibrate with excitement.

She peeled off her gloves and tucked them into her clutch, took the case that held her winnings and left the alcove. The eyes still felt there, yet she knew she would not find the one behind them. It was alright though; he/she/it would seek her out. She had left a gift in Jon’s jacket pocket, a gift, which would carry her fragrance to him, until he wished to sample it himself.

Margarite walked through the lobby of the hotel, paused at a slot machine and placed the case on the floor. She then smoothed the small curls that were beginning to relax, as her sexual high slowly receded.

Leaving the case behind meant nothing to her; she went to the bar and ordered a drink. “Could you call and have my driver ready to pick me up at the front doors, in ten minutes,” she told the bartender. He nodded her head and placed the call.

Margarite sipped on her ginger ale and stared at the mirror. She focused on her eyes and wondered if they had ever held the look of an innocent or had her father’s influence truly been with her since the moment of conception?

Thorn finishes his inspection, and all is well except that only eleven of the suites are booked all night. One guest had to cancel, but there is always someone willing to pay to play. He moves on to security. He has heard no alarms go off, but he has this feeling. He doesn't hurry. If something is wrong his team will alert him. Everything seems to be ok, but there is something in the air. He will finish his rounds as per normal. If there is anything odd about, he'll find it eventually.

He steps into the nerve center of every eye, every guard, every sensor in the building. From here one can see every game, every private room and nook and cranny. He scans the feeds, trying to pinpoint what it is. He thinks it is probably just a reaction from the mystery woman later. His attention is brought to one table, where a man and woman have laid down a very large amount of money. The man shouldn't be able to afford it, but security can't place the woman. She could be slumming it, not appearing in any of the major databases. The man is fairly handsome.

He looks to see what they're talking about and there she is. It is the woman from earlier. He snaps at the men to be on alert, and keep watching the woman from the cameras. Follow her and report in his ear piece. Do not approach though. He wishes to handle it personally. This isn't necessarily odd. Thorn is a very hands on owner.

Thorn lopes to near her last position, a position she could not see him from easily. He is very careful to not let her see him, though he is staring at her with the narrow focus of a cat or wolf on the hunt. As she slips into the alcove he follows, slowly fading from the cognisance of those around him. He is very sure to make it so she'll neither hear nor see him. He watches as she mounts the man. The man starts calling her names as Thorn shakes his head. He sits two feet away watching her tease, then kill the man before cumming herself. He lets the emotional heaviness of the moment pass through him, electric jolts of pain and pleasure absorbed, savored, til there are no more. He lifts the panties from the now useless corpse for dna testing later, and just to take a look at, draw in the scent of her wet sex as he has drawn in her pleasure.

He follows the fiery redhead out, letting a bouncer know to keep everyone out of that corner unless he says otherwise. He picks up the case with several hundred thousand dollars on his way. It is house money after all. He stops several feet from her, projecting the image of one of his security staff, big but not too big, to tap her on the shoulder. Over the years he's grown stronger, able to control his illusions better. The man should seem to be solid to her. The illusion is made to have fancy clothes, a significant cut above security, tailor made.

His voice is deep, a growling bass. "Ma'am come with me please. We need to discuss a few things, and one of our most exclusive rooms appears to have opened up." He points the way, hoping she will not cause a scene. Her refuse will be hard enough to cover up and dispose of with no connection to the Profit. Two of the mechanics on his staff are assigned to it by the time they sit in the privacy of a back suite though. The case is waiting on the center table when "they" arrive.

"Let us lay our cards down on the table. Money clearly means nothing to you leaving this behind. I'm not sure I see any reason in killing a mere heli pilot, but that isn't my concern. Your complete inconsideration does. You seem to have norespect, or fear, rather brazenly killing a man in my casino on the biggest night it has had since opening. Don't try to act surprised. While anything may go in my casino, discretion is paramount, and all services are paid for. I have cameras everywhere. I don't know you, I have no connection to you, and will not tolerate such idiocy in my casino where it'll all fall in my lap. There'll be chalk, tape, cops for miles, and it'll ruin my feng shui."

The illusion takes a deep breath. "Now, I'll be taking the house money back, and your initial wagers as payment for my cleanup costs. In the interests of my business I shall not call the police, but if you pull a stunt like that again here, you will be dead. Understood?"

Thorn waits in the corner, studying her every reaction, and emotion avidly. She is like a Shark, or Tiger. Beautiful, but deadly. He doesn't let on about the others, or any interest in her, though he still plays with her panties. The scent is a bit intoxicating, her wetness like an aphrodisiacal perfume. It isn't enough to break his concentration, but it does have him hard, between the three kills and everything else she has done.

The bartender had smiled warmly at her when he told her that her car was ready. She’d left the rest of her ginger ale along with a substantial tip and made her way toward the lobby. Her peripheral vision picked out the sudden appearance of a large, smartly dressed man coming toward her. She prepared herself for his touch, and when his hand rapped smartly on her shoulder she waited for the telling signs of his character.

There was none.

Margarite went willingly with the imposing figure; her curiosity was piqued by the lack of all emotion though it was apparent that the being in front of her showed emotion. She however sensed the lack of morals – whether pure or impure. They simply were not there.

As he slapped the case of money on the table, she scanned the room. There was no one else with them. There was a feeling of another – this one with some sort of moral ground. It hovered in the air. She smirked as the gentleman in the suit bellowed at her and told her that he knew that she had been one to leave the helicopter pilot dead.

“Jon was nobody, I’m surprised you even knew that much about him,” she shrugged her shoulders and raised her hand before the man could speak, “I’m not done. You bellow at me like I am a child playing in your little house. Yet, I was discreet in what I had done – at least what you claim I had done. I already left the money and my initial wagers with you, so again, no harm.”

She chuckled softly. “Even the 'mere heli pilot' suffered little and neither have you. Though I will admit I'm curious as to how you knew him. It was obvious to me that he had never played in this house or others. He was too giddy with excitement at his wins and cocky," she waved off his words, "It doesn't matter - just remember your place and I'll remember mine."

Margarite rose to leave.

“I sense things in people and though you appear big and imposing there is emptiness about you, an emptiness that can only be explained by the lack of a soul. I never would have known if you hadn't touched me. It is a pity that you were brought to me and whomever your creator was did not find me worthy of an introduction; it is a mystery – one I will ponder.”

The door to the room had not been locked, so Margarite stepped up to it and placed her hand on the knob.

“If you’ll excuse me, there is no reason for me to remain under your roof. I will not kill in this house again and may I suggest that whomever created you, remember to give you a soul next time – for you see, it is only souls that I seek.”

She turned the knob, opened the door and walked out. Her gaze held no one in particular. She walked through the lobby, daring anyone and everyone within her path to try and stop her. Margarite was angry, hostile and unapproachable. She had never felt such hostility toward another.

Once nestled safely into the backseat of the hotel’s Rolls Royce, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself.

“Back to the hotel Miss?” the driver asked via the speaker.

“The airport,” she whispered.

Margarite knew the source of the soulless creature would seek her out. She welcomed it. Who or whatever it was, had met its match and she was not to be taken lightly.

Thorn grins hearing her response. She seems truly not to realize. This is Buccaneer's Gambit, any given night its hundred alcoves are filled with lovers, business men, people who just need a moment to recuperate. The money wasn't given to him or his staff, anyone could have taken it. Cameras are everywhere. His security uses top of the line voice, facial, and fingerprint recognition software. He built his fortune on technology.

On this, the biggest most important night she kills where any of twenty thousand people could step in at any time, and she calls it discreet? Even after spelling it out, she doesn't get the headache, the revenue lost, and the rest that come with the venture that would be plopped into his lap for what she did.

He continues to draw in her enticing scent, and the building anger she feels. Like the rest of her it is different from what he is used to. She does not seem to feel the same. Everyone is unique of course, but the base flavors are all the same. Hers is different. No one thinks of animals as having emotions, but they feel. Fear, pain, pleasure, its all there. ,It's not like that, but her emotions are different, like theirs.

The souls comment surprises him a bit. There is hunger there. He wonders what she means. Could she really be after souls. Each kill he has seen has seemed to draw the target. He thinks back, and thinks he might have an idea, but he really has no clue. What he does know is she has a penchant for killing, and can apparently read people's souls.

If he assumes that she tells the truth, the ability only works through touch. He also knows she didn't know where he was, unless she was baiting him. She didn't act irate, relatively polite in fact, but the simmering fury, hostility, was undeniable to his sixth sense. He doesn't follow, but has a few of his men discreetly follow her. He also makes two phone calls, ensuring he'll find out if she leaves by the most popular ways. He is still pondering the enigma of the woman fifteen minutes later. Heb gets up, keying his earpiece instructions are given. Using the utmost discretion, find out everything about the woman. He has a feeling she will be hard to track, so every scrap, every ghost mark is to be reported.

He will be ready if she does something so foolish again. He wouldn't have revealed a damn thing if he was her. She really doesn't seem to know him at all. This is a loose end he'll follow through the knotted ball to the other end. He probably won't do anything else, in case it really was coincidence, but on the other hand, she's intriguing.

As he thinks about it he realizes he feels better than he has in a long time, like a small hole has been filled, a hunger he didn't know he had sated. Almost like a virgin womb bred for the first time. He shrugs it off, thinking it might be that extra something. Kind like the first time he tasted butterscotch. At the thought of the candy the panties go into his pocket, a small goldish candy is pulled out, and goes into his mouth. He steps back out to continue directing his symphony, smiling when he hears the shiekh wishes to use the now open room, and has in fact started insisting. All is normal and well once again in his world. Like any intriguing puzzle, the woman is put to the back burner in the face of current, important matters.

The air was crisp and cool, welcoming to Margarite. She paid the young man who had given her a lift up to the cabin, where she and her mother had spent the last five years of their lives together.

Why she felt compelled to revisit the old stomping grounds of Bucks Harbor, Maine was beyond her. But it seemed that whenever something or someone puzzled her, this was where she came to seek peace. It was a rarity to find peace.

Her mind was chaotic and disconnected most of the time.

She placed a key in the front door's lock, and slipped inside. A security box, just inside the door blinked a brilliant beacon of red. She pressed the numbers into the keypad and dropped her keys on the table beside her.

Margarite had not showered since leaving Dubai, and each connecting flight only added to her exhausted state. She needed to rest, but she also needed to remove the pain of flying from her shoulders and small of her back.

She kicked off her shoes, and walked into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She looked down at the linoleum floor and saw the dark red stain. Mentally, she chastised herself for not having the stamina to wash all the blood away the day she killed her mother. Leaving the embarrassing mark behind was a reminder to herself to work harder and to always clean up after herself.

Margarite laughed at the mental reprimand as it came back to the forefront of her mind. That was just one of the many things her mother had constantly tried to beat into her.

“Clean up after yourself...Margarite Ann Dean”

The words were often followed by a backhand across the face, or the press of the letter opener's jeweled handle against the inside of her thigh. Margarite rubbed one of the scars, felt the ridged flesh under her stockings. She could almost see her mother looking at her. The whispered apology she'd uttered, had fallen on death ears.

Margarite tossed her clutch on the kitchen table, and watched with annoyance as the contents spilled out. She pushed her passport back inside and hissed at the fact that she had been forced to use her true identity to get her ass out of Dubai.

The only positive was that her passport had not yet expired and still showed the eagerness of a young teenager on her first trip abroad. Granted it had been to the Holy Land, a complete disaster for her mother and for Margarite.

She laughed at the memory of her mother screaming about her daughter being possessed, and demanding that the Priests perform an exorcism. Margarite had been dragged kicking and screaming into various sanctuaries of all religious beliefs, yet when she left Margarite was still the same willful and disobedient child.

Erin however came back changed, more determined to free her daughter from the hands of Satan, even going as far as to sprinkle her with Holy Water stolen from one of the churches.

Margarite still bore the scar on her chest, just over her heart. Absentmindedly she rubbed the mark that marred what should have been a beautiful body. Her mother was always careful when disciplining Margarite. Only once had social services been called and that was only after Margarite told a teacher at school.

The advocate for the rights of children had been a handsome young man, and had left with his pants unzipped. Soon after, Margarite was home schooled, and the young man was a constant companion to Erin.

“You are beautiful – and your mother suffers for her sins against you. Now go bathe and rest. You know I enjoy watching you bathe.”

The voice calm and welcoming pulled her from the past like a gentle caress. She'd never met the man who proclaimed to love her. He had always been there though, even in the womb of her mother, and when she took the life of her twin brother. He was the one constant in her life, the one joy that understood her need to feel the soul of another slide into her.

He was her strength and she was his. He told her so.

It has been a month. The soiree went off without a hitch. The body was disposed of quickly, quietly once it was over. He sits in his office, looking over the depressingly thin folder in his hands. He has already read it three times, and he has still found nothing useful. The only thing he has is her name, an old or fake address, and some very uninformative old reports.

Well, he did learn while younger it is far harder and more time consuming to prove a negative. Margarit O'Shay remains a beautiful, deadly enigma. He knows the initial kill was Michael Helu, but that is all. Theres no connection. It's like she showed up and disappeared. For the hotel's VIPs there are no cameras even. He wonders if he'll see her again. In the weeks since he has tried once or twice to replicate her kills, but it just isn't the same. There is something missing. Yes theres terror, pain, hopelessness, but there isn't the sexual pleasure she gained from it. He found a psychopathic sadist and that just wasn't right. Something unidentifiable. Could it have to do with her comment about wanting souls? He has no answers.

Of course everyone who had anything to do with it was disposed of. There are perks to supplying technology to some of the biggest mercenary and bounty hunting firms in the world. Through many many shell companies of course. Use criminals for your dirty work, and men who have no problems permanently shutting them up. A man without much in the way of scruples can go far.

Since he has done some research. Every religion, or myth dealing with the collection of souls. There are too many. He needs more information to narrow the search. He refuses to go all out to find her. She isn't that important. Sitting in his plush office here in times square he is still happy as he ever is, still full. However it niggles. She is a puzzle he really wants to solve. Besides, if he can replicate what she did it'd be pleasurable in the extreme and very useful. That night, afterwards, he seemed particularly alert, focused, sated. Almost like a particularly hard orgasm, but even better.

The rhythm of her hips moved in sync with the man who lay over her. His body pumped and ground against her sex, his cock shoved deep into her womb and released his seed.

Margarite awoke from the dream, her body covered in sweat. She’d not ventured from the cabin in weeks. The dreams became more insistent the more she denied herself the climatic release that her soul craved. She pushed the covers off her bed, and threw her legs over the side.

Her hands trembled as she pushed her fingers through her hair. She rolled her neck and heard the light popping sound of her vertebra. A long stretch followed a long yawn, before Margarite rose and headed toward the shower.

She stood under the water, closed her eyes and imagined the faceless man driving his cock into her. He had begun appearing months before her trip to Dubai, and every time she came close to climaxing, another face took his place, one that both comforted and terrified her. Then the voice would slide into her dreams and peace would fill her heart.

Today was no different. She was aroused and needy; her body craved release, and yet there was no one to give it to her, at least no one deserving.

Margarite finished her shower, dressed in a long skirt, a black bra, thin sheer top and a pair of pumps. She looked at the slip of paper on the kitchen table and dialed the number. A young voice picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Maggie, the woman you picked up and took home – the cabin…” she let the words die as she waited for the man to recall her.

“Oh, Maggie, I remember you. What can I do for you?”

“I’m glad you remembered,” she told him.

“Hard to forget a beautiful woman in stilettos and a short red dress walking down the side of the road,” he admitted.

She frowned. “Yes, I’m sure it is. You didn’t tell anyone about me, did you?” she asked.

“Nah, I could see you needed some help and wasn’t looking for a bunch of strangers pushing their nose into your business. So, how can I help you?”

“I need a ride into town. I need to pick up some supplies and have some business to attend to before heading out of state. Could I take you up on that offer to haul me around for a bit? I’ll throw in some cash and if you’re not too busy, maybe you can help me purchase a used vehicle, nothing showy, but it has to be trust-worthy.”

“I’d be honored. I’m almost done with the morning chores, and can swing down to your place in about an hour, if that works for you.”

Margarite smiled into the phone. “It’ll be perfect,” she told him.

They hung up and Margarite began to finish preparing herself for an extended trip. She packed her passport into her purse, this time a simple, boring handbag that resembled a patchwork quilt would keep necessary items hidden from prying eyes.

She dipped her hand inside and popped open the hidden compartment at the bottom. Her letter-opener, tucked in a velvet pouch, was placed inside, followed by various bundles of cash. The compartment was closed, and looked to be nothing more than the bottom of a purse. Three pairs of gloves, along with keys to her home, lipstick, aspirin, Vaseline, tissues, and a variety of pens were all tossed into the depth of the purse.

Margarite then braided her hair, and allowed it to rest against her spine. When the young man, Doug, arrived, she was waiting on her porch with sunglasses on, a jacket swung over her arm, and a smile.

He got out and opened the door for her. She slid in and smiled warmly, once again thanking him for escorting her around town.

Thorn wanders through the casino. Tonight he is looking for sport, for fun. He is well dressed in a grey Armani suit. His features appear to be that of a rugged, well built man in his late twenties, early thirties. The watch on his wrist is a one of a kind Rolex, timeless, classic, chic. The illusion surrounding him stands just a hair under six feet, broad chested, well toned. He looks like he hits the gym several times a week.

This is nothing like Thorn. In his natural state the young man is a bit gangly, like he has not finished fully growing into his body yet. His greygreen eyes are constantly moving, searching, until he finds something of interest. Then they zero in. If the interest is strong enough it can nearly block out the world around him. His hair is kept really short, a somewhat spiky shock of hair, much like Anne Burrell's, but shorter. His features are baby smooth like elves out of fantasies. He's yet to produce facial hair.

His face can be expressive when extremely angry, but its usually very very hard to tell what he thinks, how he feels. Aspy's just don't read the same way. On top of it he seems a bit wooden. He never goes looking for sport as himself. The only place hed fit in is at a rave or something, and being that jam packed in a place he doesn't control does not work out well.

So for now, he cruises, waiting til he feels the attraction of a beautiful woman for his currently chosen form. He is slightly burnt. His one predilection is, as a recreation, pot. He is always careful to still be in control though. Its just enough to be mellow, relax, pull his brain from the 5th gear its usually in a bit lower so he can just enjoy whats going on, not overanalyze everything.

The used Toyota Corolla looked to be abandoned, yet its "new" owner was quietly and calmly walking back to it after leaving the man, and true possessor of the boring vehicle, lay alone and dying in the West Bathhouse of Jones Beach State Park.

Margarite once again felt alive as she slipped in behind the wheel and started the car. The hour was late, and the New York State Park was abandoned, with the exception of the executive of a major corporation lying in his own blood. Her panties were slick with her juices, and once more she had come before his life was over, and once more she had yet to feel a cock slide deeply into her slick opening.

The voice always came to her, just as she was on the verge of taking a man’s penis into her pussy. It told her “no” – denying her the true feeling of release. She would climax and the passion would be sensuous, but she knew there was something else, something deeper and more rewarding. Her patience was wearing thin.

Margarite drove back into the city, and maneuvered her 2008 used automobile through the various streets. She had found a room, at a cheap hotel that would – under the right circumstances – overlook her presence. Back in her room, she sat down and stared at her surroundings, she lay back on the bed, and closed her eyes, allowing the rush of the kill’s memory to wash over her.

The man had made it painfully obvious he wanted to fuck her; the wedding ring on his finger proclaiming his status, was just a formality – his words. He flashed her a grin, and pressed a roll of hundreds into her palm, when she playfully feigned disinterest. He was much older than her, and extremely heavier than any of her previous kills.

His belly – his attitude – his soul – reeked of gluttonous behavior and it had been those scents that had placed her on his plane and buckled in the seat next to him. She ran her hands down her body and recalled his fingers mashing at her breasts, and squeezing her mound. Though he had been overweight, he had still showed promise of being a wonderful lover. She almost felt sorry for the man’s wife.

The morning would come, and with it Margarite would set out, looking for another weekend benefactor that deserved her special kind of Earthly exit.

It is the last night of Thorn's trip. He has scored another major deal, then fed well off the results. However there's something different. The faint buzz, the faint extra hint of something, that tiny pep that's pervaded since the second day away from her. The first couple hours he was amped. He attributed it to the big night, great dinner and exoticness of the female known as Margarite. Hes inexorable, he never stops til he gets what he wants. He is always very methodical. He's not always the fastest but always persistent.

He has piled even more power, accrued it more quickly. He has gotten a lot done in the last month. His fear is to be out of control. Things have to be his way, the right way. Nobody can be allowed to hurt him. How do you make this happen? How do you build this protection layer by layer? Young Thorn saw this, saw what having enough power can provide. Security, money, anything he wants how he wants. Buccaneer's Gambit is a perfect microcosm, one building where he has almost achieved that. It is the closest thing to home for him.

He strives for ever more. He does it quietly though. If other people don't do things well enough, they fall. If they fall anyone connected fall. He is very very careful to remain a very safe, silent, and controlling partner. Before there is any approaching a new.... shadowed... business interest, he builds shell after shell after shell. He gives the shells just enough to be credible. He leaves enough where they can truly grow, but any losses are expendable. When it is legal he is not quite so OCD. He still stays with at least four intermediary companies between he and the target purchases. He has it all spread out, like a spider at the center of it's web. He is a case study in what single mindedness with razor instincts, no qualms, no hesitations, can do.

Now, something has changed. Emotions feel a little flatter, a little more dull. He's gotten used to the difference. He can't quite figure out what it is. It puzzles him. So he thinks. He travels back day by day. Margarite O'Shay. That is when it began.

Killer, nutty, yet -methodical- beauty Margarite O'Shay. Miss can't find anything about her, soulwanting serial murderer Margarite O'Shay. Since then, from her actions he thinks he gets her, but there's not enough information. From what she's done he can make inferences. She is smart, ruthless, takes pleasure in her kills. A lot of it. A pleasure that tastes amazing...but...The souls...Then there's the amp he's just notice he felt since then. He was better. He had more power. He wants it back again.

School records stating she was at this school these years. State records showed she lived at this address. Cross referencing last names in those areas at those times he's determined her mother was with her til then. Then the mother and daughter just disappeared. She is highly skilled, aggressive and sadistic. He is thinking of these things, how to use it to gain the power back, control it as he briskly moves through the hotel lobby.

The Hunt has begun, the process has started. One way or another she will be found, be his, sooner or later. Especially when someone has taken a seemingly ironic interest in his life since a small child letting certain things happen just right to leave him how, where, and who he is , who he has become from it. Pain, loneliness, loss, but an ability, a singleminded focus that has gained him much as well.

Margarite stared at the car keys of the Toyota that she had phished from the dead man’s pocket along with the money she had left from her shopping spree. She had enough to pay for the room, as well as another week’s worth of food; she still however didn’t feel the rush or desire to head back to Maine, collect her new car and make her way back to the sanctuary of her cabin. There was something about New York that pulled at her; she knew in her heart it was the vast amount of sin that beckoned her. There were so many deserving souls that craved her and vice versa.

She dressed in her new outfit that would draw the eyes of hungry men and women. Her fingers looked well manicured and hair was secured with the gold letter-opener. A pair of silk gloves covered her hands and her reflection looked warm, inviting, and sexy. She smiled at herself and left the hotel room, headed to the lobby to return her key and gracefully exit the cheap dwelling.

The man behind the Plexiglas stared at Margarite as she passed him the key to her room and sauntered out of the hotel lobby. She felt his eyes drifting over her ass, and knew he was curious as to her profession. He had been there when she checked in; she’d worn a simple pair of jeans, a sweater, a tank top under that, along with a matching bra and panty set. Her sneakers had been comfortably worn and her hair secured in a pony-tail that swung back and forth when she walked. The woman that had passed him the key though, looked entirely different, yet he had known it was her. As she buttoned up the long wool coat, slid her gloves on and made her way to the car, she smiled knowing he thought her nothing more than a hired prostitute that had earned a big score.

Margarite slid behind the wheel of the Toyota and started the engine. As it came to life, her hand drifted down her throat, where she toyed with the ruby pendant, that the man from last night had given her. He had been more than willing to buy her the jewels that adorned her throat, ears and wrists. The dress she wore was once again red – her favorite color, and once again it hugged her like a second skin. A pair of black stockings with a seam up the back was secured with black garters, and her thong felt sensuous as it lay against her skin and smooth sex.

The car said nothing about the woman inside it, and as she passed various drivers, her eyes sought out no one in particular, eventually she reached the heart of the city and left the vehicle along a side street, then walked away, the keys in her right palm were dropped into a trash bin several blocks away. The Toyota would be stolen, and seemed like a waste to have even bought it, but for Margarite it was just another means to an end. She had spent the night before wiping the interior down, as well as what handles she’d touched on the outside, to the best of her knowledge and to the silent communication with her father, she knew no trace of her would be found.

“It’s not time,” he told her.

Margarite often wondered when would be the right time.

“Go inside,” the voice whispered.

The strikingly tall redhead – her stilettos adding the necessary inches to make her tower over some, but be eye level with others - turned and headed into a posh, upscale hotel and casino. She smiled at the doormen, allowed him to take her coat and asked for directions to the hotel desk. He escorted her there and felt his emotions wash over her. He was a kind old man, a good and devoted father and husband. He was pure and made her skin crawl. She kept her smile on her face, and wished him good night as she looked at the hotel receptionist.

“Good evening, Miss,” the woman greeted her with a soft pleasant smile. Her eyes however hovered on the ruby that rested against Margarite’s neck.

“Good evening,” Margarite whispered. Her gaze traveled over the woman and her hand reached out. “Pardon me,” she touched the corner of the girl’s mouth, “you have a little something right there,” she told her.

The woman licked her lips and lowered her lashes. “Thank-you,” she answered back.

“I need a room,” Margarite told her. “Do you have one available, not a suite, my pockets aren’t that deep, but I do wish to splurge just a little.”

The girl shifted nervously on her feet, as Margarite leaned onto the counter. Her breasts were pushed up and the rise and fall of her chest was hard to ignore. Lust and desire had washed over Margarite when she touched the girl, and now she hungered for the pleasure that would fill her belly.

“I’m sure we can work something out. My name is Debbie, and you are Miss?”

“Maggie.”

Margarite waited while Debbie made arrangements for her to be placed in one of the lower end rooms, it was still a hefty price to pay, but her father had told her to enter this place. He knew what was best for her and tonight it was this hotel and this woman.

Thorn is still deep in thought. He is analyzing and reanalyzing everything that has happened, everything he has heard, seen, and read about the woman over the last thirty one days. His slate grey eyes seem to stare off into nothing, his attention focused inwards. The area is full of people, moving about quietly. A few are excited, a few sad, a few horny. None seem to be feeling particularly strong emotions so he does not pay them much heed, moving on autopilot.

Anyone watching, or passing over him would see a tall man, broad of shoulder with long raven black hair, dark eyes and tanned complexion. His clothing is obviously tailor made, of the finest quality. His shoes match, spotless, gleaming. The man exudes confidence, charm, ease.

His illusion is easy to maintain, the signals slipping into their consciousnesses like water through a sieve. They expect nothing so can not guard against it. A few strong willed, strong perceptioned people have the ability, but it is very rare.

His strides are quick, purposeful, carrying him through the wide archway. It is one of the few times an outside force might actually have much of a chance of affecting him. So it is that he realizes the dismay of the bellboy too late to completely avoid the luggage cart rushing towards him.

He dodges to the side, but his ankle is caught by the edge, sending him out of control, careening towards a tall, well dressed redhead at the front desk. He has the control to keep the illusion up, but it is not quite as strong, not as steady. "Shit! Look out!" He can't stop his momentum, the illusion bumping into her as she begins her turn even before the words are fully out.

He almost keeps himself from hitting her, but the shock of Margarite turning around stuns him, confuses him. The shock of seeing her makes it so he brushes against her, hand touching the spot between glove and sleeve before he can completely stop his momentum with his usual quick agility.

The illusion almost falls apart for a split second, revealing him in his true form. Not many see it, if any, but those able to would see a young man, appearing in his late teens or very young twenties, baby faced. His skinny, lithe, not particularly muscled form is clad almost purely in black, baggy clothing, but of obviously high quality.

He is so pale as to almost be albino, his hair short, spiky, pure white. The slate grey of his eyes and the light dusting of freckles are the only things that give color to him not provided by his clothing. His shoes are likewise functional, comfortable. Like his hands, the rest of him, they seem to be a bit small, undersized for what he should be at his age.

The young receptionist was quite taken with Margarite and as she passed the key card to Margarite their fingers touched. Margarite’s sex tightened as she felt lust and desire pour from the girl’s soul. She was about to ask the young girl when she got off, when the hustle and bustle of another hotel guest caught her attention.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bellboy, a cart and a guest become somewhat entangled with each other; the man began to stumble. Before she heard his words, she was already beginning to move, but was caught off guard when he touched her and her gaze locked, for a moment on the form of a different person.

She stepped back, stunned by the rush of emotions that flooded her. Her face paled, and her eyes widened in shock. For a moment there was a double-layer blanket covering the young boy. She had felt nothing, a soul-less illusion, but just as quickly it was replaced with a soul so full of varying degrees of emotion it was hard for her to fathom the meaning.

Her gaze narrowed in on the man as he composed himself and became the older more refined illusion on earlier. Only one other time had she felt a soul-less figure. Her brows shot up as she looked long and hard at the stranger. A rise in her lip showed a sneer of contempt. She turned to look at the girl and thanked her for her time. Immediately she spun away, trying desperately to put several yards between her and the strange phenomenon that had to be nothing more than an aberration.

“Stop!” her father yelled at her and for a moment Margarite’s steps falter. She took another step and reached out to press the up arrow on the elevator.

“Stop!” the voice shouted again. Margarite felt terror in her chest as her head began to pound and ache. The elevator door opened and Margarite moved to step across the threshold.

“Stop! Now!” her father screamed and for the first time she saw him in his true image.

A demon appeared deep inside her mind, blood dripped from his teeth and talons reached out to grasp her head. She fell to the floor, clutching her head and screamed as he twisted and tore at her mind.

"You stupid cunt! He is whom I have been looking for!” Apollyon shouted as he continued to inflict pain on his daughter.

Only when Margarite’s mind could take no more did her father release her; her head lolled to one side as she fell back and hit the thick carpeted floor. Darkness became her friend as she passed out and lie still in the middle of the posh hotel’s hall.

Onlookers were stunned and shocked, the receptionist picked up a phone and began to dial 9-1-1.

Thorn immediately knows. She saw him, felt him. The shock is too strong, too real. No one else seems to have. There is the minor confusion that comes of a small accident, but that is all. The surprise pours from her though. It isn't just the illusion bumping her. There is more. She had to have seen him.

Then the contempt she feels washes over him. There it is. The reason he always hides himself from the world. He is not loved. He is not respected. All anyone ever seen is a gangly teen, about 5'10-11", really thin, not worth a damn. She stalks off, confusion and contempt still radiating from her. It pisses him off.

He assures the woman at the desk that all is alright. He shakes himself a bit, testing for damage. His ankle appears to be fine, not even a sprain or anything. He's kind of pissed now. Who the fuck is this reckless dumb bitch to judge him and find him lacking? He'll show her. He'll make her regret it.

Before he takes two steps he's using one of the burn phones he always keeps in his pockets. There are four numbers in it. He speed dials the second. There is one ring, then the crackle of the other end being picked up. His words are terse. "Black Rose. The Manhattan Hilton Montecito. Say Mr. Rodriguez needs you. Yes. For Bear." His very discreet, very loyal, private muscle is on its way. They will be several minutes, but he should be okay for a while.

His next reaction of course is to blanket the room with an illusion of tranquility. He doesn't know how she'll react to his pursuit. She is a killer though. She obviously is not normal. There could be a serious fight. If needed he can intensify it before something really crazy happens. He wants to keep it quiet if he can.

No one sees it, but his hands go into another oversized pocket, feeling for the small semiautomatic Sig Sauer always kept within. At the same time the cell phone is dropped into a waste bin. Of course he is licensed to carry a concealed weapon. It is very unlikely anyone would ever know he had one, but just in case, he has the permit.

The gun he's supposed to have, and the one he uses are similar, but not the same. More protection. Upon inspection, he'd make sure they see the right serial numbers. If trying to match ballistics though, they'd not be the same at all.

It is as he palms the weapon he feels a sudden change. She is suddenly radiation fear, pain. His steps quicken, turning the corner to the elevators quickly. Then terror and agony pour over him like a wave.

The pain she is in is excruciating. It is like the mythical ambrosia of the Greek gods or the mead in Valhalla are said to be. He bites his lip almost enough to draw blood, shaking his head. He doesn't have the time to savor it. He needs to be clear, sharp, for whatever is around the corner.

The Sig is raised, laser sighting making a red dot on the wall. Shes gone unconscious, all emotion disappearing. Combined with the fear and pain he fears he's too late. However, he sees her falling, hands falling from her head, no one around. He quickly slips under her, breaking her fall just as she'd hit the floor.

Her scream is too loud, piercing the perception of at least a few nearby though, including the receptionist. He hears the calls of what was that. He thinks quickly, cursing himself for not putting everything into it. He moves swiftly, altering the illusion so shes a brunette, not a redhead, thanking the stars he gets it done just before anyone turns the small corner leading to the bank of elevators. At the same time he checks her pulse, her breathing, which seem relatively normal.

He looks up, still appearing to be a man in his late twenties. He gives instructions to the first person nervy enough to see what the scream was, interestingly the same bellhop that tripped him up. He feels the emotions swirling. Most are still clueless, but some worried, including the receptionist.

The man is sent, and fetches her with a message all is alright. Its a man's wife who can over react. She just got some very bad news and fainted. The husband is watching over her and just needs help getting her to his penthouse. Hes a very wealthy, very private person who doesn't need it in the media. She nods, hanging up the phone.

The bellhop returns, assisting Thorn with getting her to his suite. Thorn is waiting for any sign of a reaction from her, so he can swamp her. The bellhop doesn't realize exactly where they go, thinking it is one floor lower, and on the other side of the hotel. By the time they get to the room Thorn is nearly drained. He tips the man very well with a thank you and lets the illusion drop.

He sighs. She's still passed out. The first thing he does is remove the spike from her hair, setting it in his pocket. He tries to not think how silky her long flowing hair is, or how much he has always had a thing for long haired redheads. His movements are fast, but thorough. He wants to make sure she isn't armed. His hands move over her entire body, slipping under the cloth he can, over it where he can't. He removes all her gems and jewelry, just in case.

He then moves away to wait, getting himself a whiskey on the rocks as he grabs his spare burn, noting he'll need more, dialing the last number, getting the doctor he also has retained, just in case there is something really wrong with the woman.

He sits on the settee fifteen feet from the bed, his Sig drawn, the laser sight squarely between her eyes. He doesn't know what the hell she is. He doesn't have the information. If she's human and tries anything, three rounds to the head will end it though. If not... it just might slow her down enough for him to get away... So all there is is to wait for his backup, and to watch her.

"You stupid cunt! He is whom I have been looking for!”

Margarite rolled over on the bed, unaware of her surroundings. Her father’s voice, full of venom and hate rolled over her. She recalled the scene before her. A demon with talons and fangs dripping of blood filled her mind.

Her fingers pushed through her hair as her stomach rolled and pitched violently. She twisted her body, caught the site of a crystal bowl full of something, didn’t care what was in it, and dumped the contents. The leftover undigested food from earlier in the day splashed to the bottom of the exquisitely cut crystal. It danced up and sprinkled her face.

In her peripheral vision she saw the figure of a man; it looked as if he made a movement toward her, but Margarite was not sure, she lifted her hand to still any possible movements that he may make toward her while she continued to expel what she could, until she had nothing left.

She fell back on the bed, still unaware of her surroundings. Her hand came up; she wiped at her face. Then took a moment to try and recall what had happened to her. There was the knowing touch of the receptionist and the hunger of lust and desire washing over her. She had felt the rush, the want, the heat of consuming a soul take possession of her mind, body, and spirit.

Then there was blankness, followed by something else – a boy – a man – confusion – fear – strength. There were faces too, many faces, some blending into others, a few standing strong and firm in the man’s memory.

As her thoughts became clearer, she sat up, tasted the bile in her throat and looked at the man in the room.

“Are you real?” she asked. “Or just another figment of his imagination?”

Margarite ran her fingers through her hair, noted the lack of her sacred weapon and sneered. “We’ve met once before,” she said to the stranger, “what do you want from me? I did no harm to you or your people.”

She felt fear mingled with curiosity, as well as the need to tread lightly. Her father had been angry at her disobedience, something she’d never done before. She did not want to feel that wrath again. Why had she feared the man? The stranger with a soul, but without one? And why did her father want him?

“Well, what do you want from me?” she hissed.

Thorn watches intensely, tightening his grip on the Sig Sauer as soon as he feels her confusion appear. His aim moves lower, the red dot centering roughly where her heart is. Or at least should be assuming she is human. He then waits, allowing her to get her bearings.

He's surprised when she suddenly lurches to the side dumping his bowl of peanut butter M and Ms. If it wasn't for the fact he feels no ill intent or anger, he'd have emptied three rounds into her right then. Same with the hand thrown up in a classic stop gesture. He scoots away from where her hand points. Until he has some idea what she is, she's a bomb ready to go off and he doesn't plan to be blasted.

She pukes. A lot. He idly thinks about offering assistance. He decides no. A, it could be a trick. B, she does have the bowl. He mourns the loss of the M&Ms, but they're easy enough to replace. C, there is really nothing he can do for her except hold her hair. D,a doctor is already on the way. She finally stops, so he cocks his head, about to ask if she thinks she'll be okay now.

She seems to be gathering herself. There is a faint hint of passion, desire, as she remembers the receptionist. He doesn't know what causes it, only that its there. She seems to still be disoriented though, confused and scared, looking inwards, so he just waits, his arm rested on the arm rest so lactic acid doesn't build up. His weapon barely wavers.

“Are you real?” she asked. “Or just another figment of his imagination?” Before he can answer she continues to speak, so he waits patiently, his eye brows raised. He wonders how much she actually knows. His illusions basically are exactly that. He sure as hell isn't revealing it though. Margarite ran her fingers through her hair, noting the lack of her weapon. “We’ve met once before,” she says to him “what do you want from me? I did no harm to you or your people.”

He does speak when she runs her hand through her hair and sneers at him. He really doesn't like seeing the look again, so his own voice shows only cold contempt in return. His eyes are ice, emotionless as he delivers his next statements, not showing the other things like anger, or that little twinge of pain. Everything radiates lack of feeling, compunction. He is like a tiger, or bear, utter ruthlessness."In case you plan to scream, no one will hear you. Within a few minutes two other men will be here as well. I have no problem shooting you dead. I have my own reasons not to, however, if you force my hand I'll have no qualms at all doing so. I may regret a potential, profitable merger, but that is all." He then answers her.

"Do you really think I'm that obtuse? I've seen you murder three people with that weapon now. The first thing I did is take it. You also have nothing else on you. Your gems and the spike are sitting in my pocket."

His arm rises so he can take another sip of his drink, savoring the slow burn as it slides down his throat, eyes never leaving her, watching over the rim. He figures she can wait a moment for the rest. "True I suppose. I did have to clean up your mess, but that was a small expense comparatively."

He shrugs. "I want many things. Safety. Security. Things you don't need to know. Information for now. Who and what are you? What did you see or feel that made you react when you and the man bumped downstairs?" He can not be sure she saw him. Perhaps she isn't sure what she saw. If he can use that, he will. "Why did you scream and collapse with no one around you? There is a Doctor on his way to check you out."

His head is still cocked, looking like a cat, or bird of prey with an interesting morsel in it's sights. He carefully considers his words."Him? Who is him? Why do you think I'm a figment of anyone's imagination? I could be many things. Considering the fact you apparently want souls, and at least "think" there was another in the room with you at Buccaneer's Gambit. Something invisible. Suffice it to say the person that is going to be very central to your survival is here. Somewhere. As to finding out if I'm real... Go ahead and try something. If hollow point bullets can kill you, you will not be worrying about anything and the good Dr. will have made a very easy payday."

Margarite sits on the bed, her legs pulled up to her chest and for a moment she looks her twenty years. She listens to him speak to her, at the same time she hears the voice of her father. He is comforting her, a foreign sentiment that was confusing and yet comforting. He’d always been there, but never had he truly played the role of father. He had simply shown her which way to go in regards of whom to seduce, whose soul to claim.

The stranger’s words floated back into her subconscious as she felt her father slip out of her thoughts. His land command was simply to listen and learn about the one before her. When he mentioned the fact he’d seen her murder three people, she looked up and stared intently at him. She did not recognize him, not one bit, and yet he claimed to have been there – where exactly. The only place she knew he had witnessed her murderous deeds had been in the casino in Dubai, and that had been one person.

“If you saw me kill others, than why have you not had me arrested? Surely such an evil needs to be contained, punished, and sentenced to death.” She glanced briefly at his pockets, shrugged her shoulders and told him the truth. “The gems are easily replaceable and the ‘spike’,” she laughed softly, “is a letter opener, purely sentimental properties, nothing more.” Margarite stared calmly at the figure, “it too is easily replaceable; the memories with it,” she lifted her skirt, released her garters from her stockings and rolled down the nylon, “those I forever carry.”

The markings varied in depth, and were sporadic in their spacing. Each held the center mark of the ruby and most were perfectly shaped to the head of the letter opener. “So you may keep the ‘spike’ as a memento.

She lowered her dress. “But, since you’ve supposedly had ample opportunities to view my activities, you’ve already seen them.” A part of her was glad to know someone knew of her other life, another part however was fearful, but again he had not yet turned her in, so it was apparent he wanted something from her.

“I am nothing special, simply a woman with a need, a craving, a desire. You also don’t need to know anything more about me, since you already know enough to damage me.”

“The ‘him’ I spoke of is the brief image of you as a man, then a boy, then a man again,” she smirked, as she took in the man-child before her. “You have a gift, an ability that you’ve managed to keep shielded from others. A secret that under the right man’s knife, you would make for an interesting study; maybe win some scientist a noble prize or something.”

She licked her lips. “You take things to literal. I “want souls” you say. You silly, boy –I’m not truly sucking in a soul, to do that I’d have to be a demon or a god, I’m neither. I enjoy the thrill of the life flowing out, just right before the rush of pleasure skating between my thighs.”

"Bullshit. You are not normal. Just as you know I am not normal. No one else sees us for who we are, but we do. We don't know what the other is but... We know." He snorts at the veiled threat, not quite laughing. "They'd never get me. I've spent years building layer after layer of safeguard, of protection, to keep anything like that from -EVER- happening." His eyes begin to burn with the last statement. There is a cold fire that has not appeared before. It makes him look far more alive, dangerous. She sees the real him. She has shown nothing but contempt when she saw him, something he can't stand.

The primal urge to defend oneself comes up even more strongly, viscerally. The finger on the trigger twitches, almost but not quite squeezing, ending the threat she has just made against him. No one has ever seen what he is, whatever that is, and been a potential problem for him. He quickly wrestles it under control, features smoothing again into a dispassionate look, making a quip. "These are not the droids you are looking for." His drink hand waves.

"There you are wrong. If I'm going to let you live I will know everything about you Margarite Ann Dean O'Shay of Buck's Harbor Maine who disappeared from all records two years ago, reappearing in Micheal Helu's suite the night he died, but there is still no record of." He calmly sips his drink, letting her absorb it, and absorbing her emotions in return, as he has since she regained consciousness.

"Let us just say as you sensed another in the room with you the first time we "met" I can sense things about you. Not to mention the two times I've looked at those scars, they aren't normal burn marks. If nothing else the multiple spots seem to be splatter. Cross burns that don't look quite like a heat burn with splatter marks pressed into your inner thighs where none should see... Comments about devouring souls... Now that I have had a closer look at both, it is suggestive, wouldn't you say?" His eye brows arch, while his eyes continue to bore into hers.

"You haven't been turned in because it was not my problem. You intrigued me. Then, it would have been problematic at my casino. Now it is because I have a use for you, a proposition, so long as we understand each other and the way things are."

The small rise in anger was what Margarite had been hoping to accomplish. She saw the hate and contempt and felt the returning presence of her father. He had felt what she saw and he hungered for it. He seemed to sit comfortably in her mind, while she listened to the stranger phenomenon before her.

He sprouted off the facts of her life, at least what he could come up with. The scars he mentioned did little to unnerve her, after all she’d seen them every day and they had helped make her the woman she was now – as had her father.

“Every man or child,” she let the word drip from her tongue, “who believes they are unstoppable, trips up eventually. It just isn’t your time, I guess. But you will fail at some point, your defenses will drop and your hold on whatever parlor tricks you possess will leave you open, ready for the tip of your enemy’s blade, whether it be a ‘spike’ or a needle.”

She lounged lazily on the bed, still tasting the bile in her throat and on her tongue. “After all my dear boy, you did it with me, and I’m just a woman, a woman with a little sick sadistic side.”

Her father laughed, and for a moment the appearance of the demonic face he’d used on her appeared. She flinched, felt a tremor of fear, but squelched it when she noticed the man’s interest. She took a deep breath and returned her thoughts to the one before her.

“You’ve managed to gather a little bit of intel on me; so make sure your lackeys are being paid well,” she told him. “And since you have some need of me, you might as well drop your weapon, seeing as you don’t want me dead, nor do I want you dead,” she smirked, “yet.”

His gaze drifted to her legs, and the comments of her scars came back to her. “For one so observant you lack commonsense. The burns are from the letter opener, the letter opener was dipped in holy water, my mother a religious fanatic used it against me,” she sat up and crawled across the bed. Her body moved like a slim, stealthy snake. “The water was far from holy, some of it yes, but I believe there was more to it than that. My mother often stole holy water from the churches, but I also saw her fill the cup with some sort of chemical – something containing acid, of course.”

She reached the edge of the bed, and licked her lips. “She was my first kill, and the first and only one I drank deeply of, relished the taste and enjoyed the stickiness that coated my throat. There’s never been another as sweet as my mother – not even my brother’s death was as rich and fulfilling.”

Margarite felt her father urging her forward. Her voice had dropped to low and raspy with a hint of seduction. Her eyes were narrowed and the need between her thighs ached. "Offer him," he told her.


"Since you have my weapon," she whispered, "perhaps we should play?" she suggested. The urge to deny her father pulled and clawed at her, but the promising sight of his demonic face and the wrenching pain in her gut told her to defy him would leave her in worse straights than just fucking the boy would.