The Need
1.
The hunger awoke her. Sharp
pangs of need washed through her, gnawing at her insides, boiling in her blood,
and raging a fever in her brain. Her eyes snapped open in the darkness of her
room. The pitch was absolute and pervasive, permeating all it touched,
penetrating everything, yet in less than a minute she could see. Her familiar
settings seemed to fade in--like a camera recording black and white, the entire
spectrum blossomed before her, in various light-and-darkness, and in enough detail
for her to maneuver with ease.
The warmth next to her had
grown cold in a mess of tangled sheets, yet his impression was still quite
visible to her, as were his torrid dreams and visions of violence, the same
stream that had awakened her in a fire of fury. She could feel him; his muscles
bound tight, his nerves sprung, the same hunger burning his insides. She knew
exactly where he was, could see him in her mind as clearly as the cigarette she
lit. She winced at the electric blue flame and the discomfort it lent her
strange eyes; squinting, she blinked back a potential migraine. She hated
light, flame, sun, they were all so vile and bright, she was a night creature,
a daughter of the Void. A vacuum of shadows seemed to settle upon the varying
layers of gray and black, but in her eyes a queer light sparked, a shine, a
gleam, much like night-vision coming from within, a beacon in the darkness. Her
teeth unclenched as the beautiful gray filaments of smoke ghosts floated and
snaked through the air as just another layer in her semi-illuminated vision of
the dark. She sneered--her version of a smile--and puffed heavily on the smoke.
Getting out of bed was a black silk rustle, and she stretched languorously, her
sinuous body uncoiling like a snake.
She stood up, a full six feet,
muscular and fit, yet lanky, soft, and white. Her black hair fell flawlessly
down her creamy back, an obscene contrast. Surely more feline than human, her
hazel eyes--strangely lit from the inside--glowed with a secret glimmer,
viewing the dark gray and black shadows as most would see in morning light, and
she shifted silently, stalking out of the room, pausing only once to glance
back. It was 3 a.m., she knew this without looking, knew it with every fiber of
her being, but she looked anyway, smirking. She licked her full lips as she
padded down the hall and she tasted blood. She knew it was just in her head, a
craving, an itch she needed scratched, but that copper scent exploded into her
nose and her eyes rolled back for just a moment, quickening her pulse, making
the need even worse, her stomach roiled, her guts rumbled and her whole body
ached. She glided into their office, filled with monstrocities.
Stark and severe, their modern
utilitarian necessities stood plain--black and wood, brushed chrome--against
all the atrocities they had clipped and taped or glued or affixed in some way
to the walls and work area. Starving people somehow still standing among
ditches of their emaciated brethren, gassed, shot, burnt, and thrown carelessly
away. Here the cops were wheeling out bins of acid and human remains from
Jeffrey Dahmer's abattoir; there the FBI stood around in shock as the victims
of Koresh were counted. The People's Temple and BTK, Gary Ridgway, better known
as the Green River Killer here, and a hospital emergency room overflowing in
Afghanistan. Anything with blood, any violence or chaos she could get her hands
on, she did, but she especially liked the serial killers...they were a dying
breed thanks to the burgeoning fields having to do with forensics. They would
have to reinvent themselves as science demanded; it was evolution, after all.
She liked it, it kept her on her "A" game.
Their overpriced gadgets
blinked and twinkled in the dark room, some of the only sources of light were
the streams of information that seemed to fly up the screen as he did his
research; they were hooked into a global network of potential victims, and she
had known she better get tech savvy to beat the cops, that she could not go it
alone, she'd been right, and there he was: all her's. She was fluid as she
entered the room, without sound, and made her way to the other piece of
furniture in their industrial/modern space, taking in the black and white and
colored photographs most people would never be able to stomach and grinning
almost lasciviously. Her bookshelf was also black and it displayed hundreds of
tomes stuffed to capacity, some sitting on the spines of the others; the crazy
fiction she'd read could only guess at real terror, it lined her walls. She knew
she'd find him here, and indeed, she found everything as she imagined. He
swiveled in the office chair, looking as she quietly sat on the leather chaise
lounge, nude and in control.
The computer spit more images
of prey, and newer headlines describing more recent attacks the police could
not yet understand. She almost laughed when she saw the damage they had just
done mentioned. They had torn into a young couple residing near the Tate place,
and she had achieved her aim: they wondered if a new Manson family was out
there. Good. She wanted them to wonder.
If she closed her eyes and
concentrated hard, she could feel the bitch's blood against her knife, could
feel the fetus as it slipped from the woman's uterus--so easy, that had been,
so easy and yet so fulfilling.
But she needed fresh blood.
This was the time, this craving and need, this is the phase in which Bundy had
lost control, where Dahmer had begun to shower with three of his victims--all
in various states of decomposition and butchering. The Need could drive even
the staunchest control freaks to total stupidity, and it did something
different to everyone, it seemed...or everyone reacted to it differently.
Either way, she knew this was the time she could not leave anything to chance.
She'd been active far too long, and with the internet easier than ever to not
only access but breach, she had become even more proficient. She was not going
to fuck up. She knew enough of forensics, she understood the basic sciences;
she really comprehended that wherever they had been, their DNA would stay--not
that it would do any good in her case, she was not on record, but her pet, she
was sure that at some time he'd probably been caught doing something stupid. It
was so simple, it was brilliant: leave NO traces, DNA or fingerprints. The
second rule was also pretty simple: if someone else was framed and blamed, the
scientific evidence was for naught anyway. There were always dumb killers and
criminals, and cops always wanted the easy guy, so, she delivered them, and damn
if it didn't work!
It had worked for so many
years, now. Nobody even knew she existed, or that they were hunters, killers,
predators...no one would ever know, either, she'd kill him first, and he knew
it.
They were now looking at the
East Coast, in Jersey and New York; the Long Island Ripper and the Eastcoast
Strangler had yet to be caught. She knew something the cops didn't, recognized
what they apparently didn't want to realize, that he either had a boat, or he
was one of them. Hell, maybe it was both. If she had cared, she could have
become a Forensic Psychiatrist years ago, but she didn't, she only cared if
they served her purposes, and this one certainly did. Oh, average male
psycho-sexual killer, I can rape call girls and throw them in a marsh area to
rot, too...silly rabbit.
Some people might think there
was a bond or some shit between killers but Raven didn't give a shit. Yes, she
was a poacher, and if the dumbfucks didn't realize that they were prey, too,
well, too bad. The electric light played on her alabaster frame as she thought
about the blood and the Need, the drug that would fill that hole and make it
bigger, the soothing balm for that cramp that raged inside.
He watched her intently,
waiting for her plan and he salivated; succulent to any man, she laid draped
over the lounger naked, her face the picture of both rapture and cruelty. She
only ever wanted to fuck after a nice, big kill, until then, he would wait,
because it was worth it, she was worth it, and the thrill that they both got
was undeniable. He could feel the heat radiating off of her body as she
squinted at the screen, another caption under a picture, cops confused and
unsettled as they found more bodies in Long Island.
"I see it..." He
almost whispered, wanting carnage almost as much as her.
"Yes." She hissed,
completely enthralled at the newly found bodies.
Her eyes fell on him then, like
two orbs of light stuck in this pale thing's face--it was unnerving, to say the
least, but she smirked, her mouth not accustom to a true smile and he felt
weak. He could hear her jaws work, like a fucking python readying itself for a
kill. Her body shook almost imperceptibly, as she thought of the blood and the
satisfaction to come. Oh, yes, she felt it; she knew where they would go, could
see what she wanted to do, she could taste the little bitch's throat, where
that fucking open scab of Need would be fed.
"And?" She asked,
knowing every move, but wanting him to lay it out, wanting to know they were
oh-so-close to the violence and power.
In the dark her hazel eyes
turned an almost golden light, as though she were supernatural; he looked on,
thrilled when she got like this.
But it must be imagination,
surely it was his imagination. She waited expectantly, and finally he replied.
"I've got us aboard five
different airlines, different names. All taken care of, hon, all
arranged." They could always catch another credit card, an extra bit of
blood and money for the taking, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
Her eyes dimmed just a bit as
she absorbed the information for herself on the computer. "Hmmm. That's
good." He simply stared at her almost otherworldly presence, like the way
she sucked in her cigarette in this darkened room only strung with purple/black
Halloween lights, the orange and red tip brightening and dimming, her green to
orange shiny eyes that made him wonder what she truly was...he wondered if she
knew that he still saw like a human, still had feelings, and could still recall
most of his previous life. He didn't think she did, or if she did, she
certainly didn't mention it; he thought she'd probably kill him if she knew
just how human he still was. He watched her, but if he paid attention too long,
she would notice, he knew. Just as he'd thought he'd better look away, like she
read his mind, she hissed. "What?" It was the voice of the great
white shark you feared in the pool.
"Yeah? What?" He
asked sincerely.
"Are you still
doubting?" She asked, not a true question but a test of faith.
"No. No, not at
all....it's been so easy--" She cut him off
"Oh yes, I would. But why?
I want you to tell me."
Oh fuck, he thought, she had
caught him, had somehow with those x-ray eyes caught his mind wandering, maybe
he had been doubting.
"Because we are
Destiny..." He says, hoping to appease the fearsome goddess. But she spat
it right back at him like poison, her voice like the venom of a million snakes
coiled together, the Serpent in the Garden, the Dragon within us all.
"I don't think you
understand." Her voice no less toxic, it was the sac of poison in the
biggest, baddest spider of Venezuela. Her's was the voice of all the predators
in the world. It was the whisper of the Dark-Night Scorpion as it quietly stung
after having waited in your pant leg; It was the underlying spit of the black
mamba as it bared its white mouth, it's venom already circulating through your
body. She hissed like the Madagascar cockroach, bit like the Cobra, and stung
like the Scorpion...she smelled blood and drew near like a shark, of this he
was positive. She was a predator, pure and simple. And his life was in her
hands at all times; if he stared the wrong way, took too long to answer,
pondered, wondered, or any other trait deemed far too human for her needs, it
would be the end of him. She glided to him--not human at all, but serpentine,
spiderlike, a scorpion or shark drawing near warm living blood--and he knew
that at any moment she could crush out his life-force completely (and enjoy it,
bathing in his blood, possibly eating parts of him), or she might still keep
him alive. The thrill was more than anyone could take, he could conceivably
have a heart attack as he felt it pounding through his chest--but she kept
coming, gliding, floating towards him. She had been quizzing him this whole
time and he had stuttered answers he felt would please her or at least appease
her. But no, she kept coming.
"Chosen? Destiny? What is
destiny? Who controls the chosen?" She murmured/spit/hissed, coiled and
ready. She sat upon his lap, her burning naked sex burning into him, his
erection was rigid and absolute.
"What is chosen?" She
whispered in a thousand poisonous tongues.
He had no answer, none that
would do, anyhow, and all he could suddenly feel and know and think about was
his boxer briefs and the thin material separating him from her.
All he wanted in the world
concentrated on that small patch of fabric, if only he could move his fly and
become one with her fire, if they could just leave all this behind for a
little bit of ecstasy....but no, he had to think, dammit, had to answer or he'd
be dispatched just as easily as any other person she deemed worthless. As her
disciple, he should know the litany, he should comprehend her order, her vague
explanations (she was so far removed from any human she once was she claimed to
have no memory). He motioned toward the lights flickering on the computers as
they brightened and dimmed and changed shapes; she rubbed herself against his
oversensitive briefs, causing him to make a sound in his throat.
"We are the chosen. KILLERS. We are the ultimate Apex Predators. This is
our mission. The blood, it calls, and we must answer, don't you agree?"
She said, one of the largest sentences he'd ever heard her use outside of her
frenzied murders. "Of course I agree," he replied, and as he
did, he moved his shorts just a tad, just to feel her heat, her wetness, her
power and her proposal (which of course was merely control by tease). In one
merciful second, his head found her folds, warm, wet, soft, and filled with
life in this otherwise death-wielding predator. Then it was gone. Like an
illusionist, that ecstasy was there one minute and gone the next and his blood
boiled. She removed her heat as though it mattered not one iota. It enraged him
even further and of course, that was probably her aim.
He didn't deflate, however, but
hardened; now he wanted her and the blood and he could have both. Lights
flickered on the computer and it made that unmistakable 'ding' sound that
always indicated it was finished with whatever task.
"Yes?" She hissed, expecting
a follow through.
"We're on the next flight
to New York, babe. Now, please, come here, we're so close to the blood, I
swear." She seemed to take him in completely, inside and out, with
her seemingly supernatural irises.
2.
Cruising through Manhattan in a
stolen and untraceable car (Poe had changed license plates three times in
various locations and counties) and Raven paced, checking her laptop, smoking
like a chimney, and frenetically fidgeting, unable to stay still. He could feel
her impatience next to him now, as in the passenger seat she sat coiled and at
the ready. He did not even have to look to know that her eys had taken on that
queer shine.
Whizzing by windows, the
buildings were like mountains and their windows twinkled with life--business as
usual. The darkly shine warped the car as it sped past, making it look
distorted as if suddenly they were in a world made of funhouse mirrors.
Darkness had descended a while
ago, of course, as they conducted their entire lives by night. Cloaked in
darkness for Raven and her sensitivity--no, scratch that, her absolute
repellance of light. Tonight seemed darker than usual, despite the huge city's
light pollution, the halo that always seemed to surround it. He missed New
York, but he dare not dwell on that or any other part of his previous life, he
was her's now, her disciple, her servant, her student, and her sometimes lover.
He snaked the car through
alleys and less-traveled back ways, avoiding main drags. She puffed her
cigarette next to him, her impatience leaking from her pores in droves.
Poe knew that basically she
could be considered a vampire and he was her ghoul; he was her lifeline to
modern society, his jobs always the mundane daily tasks and preparations, he
was her secretarial hunter while she was the ruthless hunter. He didn't really
care, he needed her, too, she had freed him, had shown him all the violence he
had always craved but had never had the means or impetus to make reality. She
had made him.
She looked out the window, messed
with their bag, their kit, and continuously smoked. Poe would love to tell her
to take a Valium or something, but he did not dare. He didn't think she'd ever
really done drugs, she certainly did not now; maybe she'd tried once upon a
time in her own previous life "when she was human" as she might say,
but no longer. She craved the the rubbed raw sensation of pure sobriety, her
only addiction was blood and violence--these were the only things that got her
off, like sex and drugs and every high only better, she craved and Needed blood
and pain, violence, degradation, and of course, ultimate control... After all,
what mere chemical could compare to the high of being a god/goddess, of being
the ulitmate Satan or God?
And that was what had her
fidgeting with an impatience like a child; the blood so near, her hunger felt
as though it would swallow her whole. She could barely contain herself. Her
excitement was so palpable it hung thick and cloying in the sedan, like a cloud
ready to burst; she was sweating and he could smell the musky animal odor
coming off of her and knew he must get there soon.
"Long Island?" She
asked in that hiss.
"Not yet, babe, just a
little longer..." He replied, his eyes fixed forward, his total
concentration on driving, getting there.
"Oh yes, it will be
better..." She said in that whisper only predators had perfected. What a
strange thing to say... It's like she was talking to herself, and maybe she
was, for he certainly had no idea to what she was referring. Her voice, that
coiled hiss, was like a crazed serpent, a King Cobra or Black Mamba about to
strike, a scorpion awaiting your leg, the black widow hiding in wait for fresh
skin and blood in which to push its poison....whatever analogy, she was one of
these predatory creatures one should never turn their back on, that was for
sure. She was never to be trusted.
3.
Back to the hotel to solidify
plans, to double- and triple-check his reservations, the car, their equipment
and Raven was at the point of no return. She vacillated between pacing and
chain smoking to nagging like some impetuous teenager. He had to remind her
over and over that they must be sure they'd done their homework. She retorted
half-cocked assurances and finally managed to get herself under control. He
double-checked his appointment with the cute little call girl online and
everything was ready to go on Long Island. He sighed; they were almost there.
He twisted himself round in the uncomfortabe motel chair at the desk and looked
at Raven, who was draped nude--as always--across the bed, very feline, very
sexy, and still very dangerous. She was puffing away and so tense with Need and
anticipation, she visibly vibrated.
"It's done. Everything is
in line, we're on our way." He said, hoping for a reaction like a drooling
dog. He didn't get one. She merely nodded, barely, stubbed out her cig and lit
another. He could see her eyes shone almost an emerald green from across the
room and as usual, a slight chill went up his spine. He could swear he
actually felt her energy, like some dark mass swirling around the cheap room.
The thought that they would spend yet another night and day like this did not
bode well with him; frankly, he was scared of her when she was like this, when
the Need had become so strong and had taken over every shred of her usual
control... What if she simply couldn't contain it? What if she could not stop
it and decided to kill him as they tried to sleep the coming day away? He lit
his own cigarette and began to pace, thankful that dawn was right around the
corner. His impatience began to match her own, and he reminded himself that
this was the price he paid for worshipping and following the predator, and if
he were truly honest, it was part of the excitement he was addicted to, of
course.
They slept the day away, the
cracks in the windows covered with a black material they had brought. Then,
finally, the night came, they were awakened and he was still alive. They arose
early, around dusk, to ensure preparedness. They finalized their plans and
finally, he said, "Okay, we're off. Let's go."
"About fucking time,"
she spat back. They tore out of the lot in their old sedan and headed for JFK,
parking the beast in Long Term with yet another tag. Cleaning it out and making
their way around, they find a perfect SUV with unregistered tags--most likely a
rental--and Poe proceeded to change it for a New Jersey tag. Finally, they were
in the tunnel and on their way to Long Island.
4.
Poe drove up to the gir's house
while Raven waited in the back of the vehicle, totally unseen.
"Hi! So, you're Jack,
right?" The girl locked her door behind her and Poe noticed the cell phone
set to dial in her pocket book. She waited for him to answer, he realized.
"Oh, yeah...yep, Jack, that's me..." He said dumbly, hoping to appear
at least stupid and inexperienced.
"Well, hi, Jack. Don't
worry, I'll take care of you. You already know my name, huh?" She smiled
and Poe realized how young and still innocent she was, how clean...she could
not have been at this job long.
A pang hit him but he swallowed
hard and said, "Yeah, I, uh, I ain't ever done this kind of thing
before."
They walked arm-in-arm (like a
proper date, which was quite uncomfortable for Poe, he wanted to forget his
life before, when he was human). The girl chattered away, obviously high on
something with fixed pupils and a frenetic energy, and obviously either trying
to make him or herself more comfortable; it didn't matter, it further convinced
Poe that yes, she was still fairly new at this game. She seemed to have
no worries in sight, and Poe again had a pang of guilt but now it was mixed
with a feeling of God-like power as he realized this girl--just like so many of
the others--had no idea what was coming. He felt huge and invincible and
omnipotent, hard with power and the violence to come...The violence the
blathering chick next to him had no clue of, just like all the many others. He
could see just a swish in the corner of his eye, which he knew to be Raven
readying herself. And the girl talked, never knowing a predator as yet
undiscovered by scientists lay in wait, smelling and craving her pain, torment,
and blood. She never sensed Poe to be anything but an average john, out for the
night, pocket of cash, just wanting a fresh young thing to satisfy his carnal
desires, every one of them. No, she didn't even stop talking until Poe made his
move...
To avoid any more of her DNA
mixing with their's than necessary, which could be dealt with, Poe first opened
the door as though being chivalrous. He did not worry much about a vehicle that
would be found burnt out or left in a neighborhood to be stripped.
Raven's hunger was palpable,
the SUV seemed filled with a churning mass, making her even harder to spot but
Poe saw her, saw those fucking eyes of her's, anyway, and there was no doubt
now that they did, indeed, glow like an animal's. Poe covered the girl's mouth,
his strong arm pulling her against his lean frame, snaking his other arm round
her waist and right on cue, in another barely perceptible swoosh of fabric,
plastic and movement (and those demonic green and orange lit eyes) Raven was
there, her Glock in hand. She raised it above her head, as giddy as she ever
was, and brought it down hard in a sickening thud! and
a crack! in the girl's skull, blood dripping down her face,
her body suddenly quiet and slumped against Poe. They had her. No turning back,
yes, it was that easy. Poe lifted the girl and then realized she was only
stunned and her instincts were kicking in, she bit, kicked, scratched, but Poe
held tight as Raven pistol whipped her and he smothered her with his big hand,
his other arm around her neck until finally, finally, she was gone, for the
moment, anyway. He lifted the body like the sack of potatoes she felt
like, so much heavier than she was awake, she was absolute dead weight,
straining his muscles so much they quivered as he carried her to the back of
the black SUV. Raven had already opened the automatic door and a tarp was laid
out in the roomy back, on top of plastic, which covered everything.
It was a scene you might see in
some show like Dexter, but never expected in real life. Raven (and Poe by
default, of course), believed in precaution.
Unlike the pop theory that all
killers wanted to be known and thereby be caught and even more notorious
was ludicrous to Raven. She wanted to kill, and that was it, let the cops chase
their tails, let the masses worry, let the psychologists fucking speculate.
This was what she was born to do, not write petty letters or poems or steal
souvenirs or trophies and certainly not leave any telling signatures. She had
figured out a long time ago that seemed to be a male thing, and so to ensure
her anonymity she would piggyback their track records and in the interim, they
could either claim more victims or act like they knew nothing, which would
never be believed. It was so simple to her, and yet why no one else had seemed
to think of it, she couldn't fathom. She chalked it up to them being far too
human, still.
Whatever the case, Poe dropped
the girl in the tarp and Raven watched excited as he rolled her up like a
burrito after duct taping her mouth and cuffing her hands. They pulled the
little curtain across the back cargo, covering her totally, and off they went,
Raven almost panting with desire, her face twisted into a grimace of glee in
the moonlight.
5.
THUNK!
THUMP!
The car almost shook and
rattled as they drove toward the beach and the dunes.
"HELP!! Oh, God, please
help me, please! HEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLPPPPPP!" The girl screamed, her voice
quickly breaking and going raw.
Poe cursed himself for not
putting the duct tape on tighter and for not binding her damn feet. Now they
had to hear this racket the whole time they were driving. At least it wasn't
very far, he thought. Raven, however, almost laughed, her disgusting grin
spread across her face in impossible proportions, like digital animation, or
maybe he was just tired, right?
"Please! I'll do ANYTHING!
Please, God, just let me go!" The girl vacillated between screaming and
negotiating. More noises from the trunk as she kicked and fishtailed, fighting
the duct tape that held her.
Raven never minded when their
duct tape came off, it was only vital in residential neighborhoods, anyway. She
loved hearing their cries for mercy, their begging that fell on deaf ears, it
turned her on and tuned her up for the kill. So close, she was so close to
being sated...
THUNK-THUNK! "Hey, listen, please, nothing
happened, it's okay, I won't tell anybody....PLEEEEEASE! HELP ME!" The
poor girl was hoarse now.
Raven next to him was manic: she
chain smoked and fidgeted, her legs hung out the window one second, the next
sitting in lotus position. Her eyes glowed brighter and he could no longer tell
himself it was his fucking imagination. It was a dark and foggy, cloudy night
though there was a nice round moon by which they would do their work. He
focused intently on his driving, trying to ignore the banging and crying in the
hold, trying not to see Raven, in some think tank with herself, her constant
movement distracting but she seemed like she simply could not help it. She
shifted this way and that, her frantic vibrations seeming to send another cloud
of Need and excitement to spin, churn, and amass throughout the vehicle.
It was time, oh yes, finally,
finally, it was time... Time for her needs to be met, time for her true nature
to be revealed and revel in its feral natural glory, time for blood and pain,
and finally, the ultimate reality, death. Raven's face was pale green,
illuminated by the lights of the dashboard, and more animated than ever, images
of bloodletting and torture as long as it could last danced behind those
glowing bright green eyes.
6.
They arrived at the beach and
Poe went to work while Raven still seemed to be in a meeting with herself, full
of plans malicious, cruel, vicious, bloody, and brutal, of course. Poe had
ceased long ago trying to guess what made her tick (other than pain, blood,
death) and what she would experiment with next. Raven had spent time studying
Anatomy, she was as adept as most doctors, to his observations. He almost felt
sorry for the girl, for no one could guess what kind of pain and torture Raven
had come up with now... Poe could just as easily be dispatched, he'd been
tortured when she "initiated" him (for lack of a better word), so he
had more than a good idea of what exactly she was capable.
Throwing down the kicking
wrinkled mess of tarp in the dunes, he heard the breath knocked out of the
girl, stunned. Good. He unwrapped her and saw the dried blood on her face from
the multiple bruises and cuts from their guns. She looked at him with such a
pleading that Poe almost forgot himself, he felt more human than he had in a
year, at least. She was so young, so confused, and so certain of God and
fairness, hope and mercy. She no longer screamed for help, though her lips
moved. It took a minute, but he finally understood she was praying. So quiet,
like the breath of a baby he could barely hear, so he dropped to his knees in
the sand and could hear just a tiny bit:"Holy Mary, pray for us
sinners...." It was like magic, she knew the time had come, and yet still
she had hope.
Poe shook his head and of
course, out of nowhere Raven jumped on the girl, immediately recognizing the
litany from her lips, Raven sneered and backhanded her so hard blood went
flying.
"Who do you think you're
fucking praying to, you worthless little bitch? Do you really think God is up
there, that he's going to magically fucking save you? Jesus you people are so
weak!" That was the largest string of words he'd heard out of Raven, though
she detested weakness, and she considered any type of religion nothing but
weakness. These people were prey. Prey for her beast. "Here, let's give
him a chance." And with that she slapped her again and said, "Where
the fuck is your little god now? IF he's there, he doesn't want you, you don't
matter, don't you get it? I'm your motherfucking god and you will worship me
and indulge me, appease me, and honey, you WILL fear me." With that, out
of nowhere, he saw the glint of metal and the girl was sobbing so hard you
could barely make out her voice, it was like she swallowed rusted nails and
glass and she shook her head violently, bucking feverishly at the naked thing
sitting on her, slapping and torturing her. Raven leaned back as the clouds
moved from the moon and light shone down on the grisly scene.
"Undo her. Show her who
god is." Poe cut the ties around her wrists, gently removed the dangling
duct tape off her mouth.
"See? No lightning. Just me." Some hoarse
and horrid chuckle came out of Raven, who despite being thin was as strong as
she was lethal.
The girl's body began to go stiff, she was tense and her eyes
looked black from the huge amounts of adrenaline flooding her system.
"Let's see what she does...." Raven mocked.
She was giving the girl
the chance to run free, Poe could say that for Raven: she really was a hunter,
and a sport. She shifted her naked body from the girl as the girl came back
from an almost rapturous acceptance (that would never do, everyone would be
unsatisfied). Raven put her face up to the girl's and hissed at her, "Go.
You think you can escape, huh? Go on, then, let's see what you can do."
Raven's grin was horrific, but a glimmer of hope came back to the girl's eyes
and she was on her knees, slipping in the sand immediately. The girl wavered on her feet, the injuries to her head, the loss of blood, and of course, despite the adrenaline surging her forward, the awful realization that there was nowhere to run, nor could she run fast enough to get away from the demon who even now pounced. Raven had given her a few feet head start, sitting on her haunches, her face shiny with beads of sweat, her eyes a glimmer with that horrific and hypnotizing green.
The poor girl slid, fell to her knees, and slipped again through the sand, her hands grasping for holds that simply did not exist. Raven's smirking, sneering grimace was reminiscent of every psychopathic killer or succubus or vampire or monster in any horror movie; she was a cat, her one claw upon the poor mouse's tail. There was no way out; this had only one inevitable end and Poe could feel her excitement reaching that fever pitch from which there was no return.
Raven somehow, in a preternatural flash was beside him one second, and then upon the girl the next. She dragged her back to the dunes, where she again sat upon her.
"Fix that," Raven demanded, tilting her head toward the tracks in the sand. Poe did as he was told, shuffling his feet this way and that, destroying any footprints, tracks, or drags that could be identified.
7.
"Now, you see that I'm your God, don't you? What are you going to do, now that you're face to face with your Goddess?" Raven spat in the girl's face.
The girl, amazingly, continued to pray beneath her breath, "Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who trespass against us...oh God, I was led into temptation...please forgive me, oh Lord, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee and ask for absolution in this, my hour of death...Amen." Then the girl did the most amazing thing. She looked directly into Raven and said, "You can do what you want to my body, but you will never have my soul, it belongs to God. Do what you will." Her entire body loosened and Raven's face was so red you could see it in the moonlight. She reached back and slapped the girl once, twice, three times, forward and back like a pimp, the girl's blood flew, splatters hit Raven in the face and her eyes gleamed, her mouth twisted in that horrific grin.
"Oh no you don't!" The gleam in the moonlight was now silver, shiny, mirroring the night and Poe knew instantly she had her scalpel and she was about to make the girl pay. Poe shook his head, very subtly, wondering how someone face-to-face with Death Incarnate could be so strong; she did not know Raven like he did. Raven was out for more than blood, now, she was enraged and engorged (he would bet her silken pussy was wet from the craving for pain and blood, she was a sexual sadist of the worst kind).
"You are an abomination against ME, your God. You are a dirty fucking slut, and you know what happens to them, don't you? Don't you? Yeah, you know what's coming, you dirty fucking whore..."
That glint, that gleam, as she raised the scalpel, seemed to drive the final point home to the girl (if there was a final point, to Poe she looked pretty resigned, yet she was still aware.) Poe was riveted at the sight before him, the girl's inner strength, her faith in some alien God, and of course, Raven's lithe, sinewy frame, whiter than the beach sand or bleached shells, her hair like pitch, and her face, dear mother, her fucking face of fury, of cruelty and viciousness; she would be beautiful had it none been for that despicable monster behind the thin veneer of her pretty mask...and still, all= he could think of his hot cock inside her juicy, slick hole, that place that should be heaven, that should be sacred, but to her was merely an act of celebration as she was covered in blood, perspiration, and stank of vicious adrenaline; her predatory pussy, and yet she felt so good, the blood between them, red drops and spurts like black tar in the night, the blood he pumped inside her as she arched her back....but that was later, that was to come.
Now, the girl tried one last time to scream, and did the unthinkable, she looked right at him, her eyes pleading, some part of her could see the human left in him and he both hated and loved her for this display.
"You aren't like her," the girl whimpered, hoarse voice creaking, "you could help, please, I beg of you, have mercy!" Her tears were black, clotted with too much mascara, they ran down the length of her now swollen, bruised cheeks, her lips dripped blood, and Poe could do nothing. He had decided long ago that for one, Raven would do him in an instant--he still didn't know how he slept next to her, knowing well that at any time, she could, and would without hesitation, off his ass for whatever reason. But besides that, and maybe mostly, he realized that the whole "Nature vs. Nurture" debate be damned--oh yes, he'd love to see Raven go head to head with a Forensic Psychologist/Psychiatrist, she'd have their head twisted in one interview, he would bet on that; she was no poor abused child finally had enough like Aileen Wuornos, nor was she the perfect example of the successful Republican next door like Bundy, and though she did not hold a job, she certainly didn't fall into the category of Dahmer, making barely enough money to buy her [alcohol] drug of choice, her head down as she raped, sodomized, then dismembered, and ate her victims. She fell into none of the categories of psychopathic Ritualized Serial Killers, and yet she was one, but she was more. She had her rituals--though sometimes they changed, she did drink blood, but not always, and it was most certainly an addiction like no other, but she had no desire for the attention, no taunting of the cops, other than the fact that she'd gotten away with it for so long and planned to do it until she died; also, she committed no other crimes that he was aware of, which led him to believe that she was a force of fucking nature, some kind of mutation, a freak of nature, an abomination or an evolution, he still wasn't quite sure. He'd been hunting evil all his life, he'd been flirting with the darkest areas of the human psyche when she had sniffed him out, literally. She had known him for what he was long before he even got close to her trail. She was a predator, pure and simple and that reminded him suddenly of something he'd heard once: "The banality of evil". Her evil was banal in the face of our society, after all; it was always amazing how the death of one or two or even twenty in a shoot-out spree was so very tragic when one considered we'd been in the longest wars in our modern history (Afghanistan, Iraq, the Global War on Terror, these had gone on for about thirteen years now, almost the equivalent of WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam all added together, which equaled about sixteen years). This made him think, in this fucked up world, overpopulated with unwanted, neglected, and abused children born to Meth heads and abusers with vicious tempers to rival even Raven's, could she possibly be doing her part? It would cause such a rage--and he'd be her target--if he ever suggested such a thing, but could it be? Could it be that somehow, in the big picture, in the scheme of things, she was actually serving a fucking purpose?
These thoughts always ran rampant and he could never come to a conclusive answer; of course, Raven was Raven, and had been since he'd known her, whatever had occurred in her "previous life as a human" was off limits--she claimed she didn't even recall being born, who her mother was, what childhood was like, she only ever recalled her bloodlust and hatred, her vitriol toward all mankind, and knowing that, he supposed he was under some spell like "Stockholm Syndrome," he was her's, and she knew it, and she milked it for all she was worth.
So, now, his eyes glued to this thing that looked like a woman and felt like a woman, whose insides were soft and wet and cramped on his dick, who could bring him to climax like he'd never had before, whom he would do anything for, he wondered if she was, indeed, supernatural, a succubus, maybe. The look in her eyes was absolutely horrifying: she mocked the girl, taunted, and teased, drawing out the torture, and loving every cry, whimper, beg, she could yield from her. She was the darkness he had sought all his life, all bound inside this simultaneously gorgeous and disgusting demonic creature.
The flash again, in the moonlight, the surgeon's scalpel, of which Raven had a collection, all 316L Surgical Steel, the kind the doctors used, in all gauges, sizes. She wielded it expertly, her aim was to inflict as much pain as possible before the victim's final exhalation of death. While she was a sadist, she genuinely enjoyed every second, from the search to the troll, to the capture, to the tears and pleading, the psychological games and mockery, to the blood and guts, and the final power of death. She did not seem to enjoy the remnants, though, like a child who has broken his toy.
What made her so prolific and such a productive sadistic killer, besides her superior intelligence, was her extensive anatomical knowledge, which she showed off now.
Slicing the girl's thighs open, revealing bumpy yellow fat, she leaned in, careful to avoid the femoral artery, which she never even nicked. She exposed a larger cut, spreading carefully the thick, buttery, clumpy yellow fat until revealing the red and pink meat and gore, the shiny bone inside, and yet it was still a fine straight incision. Now she looked closer, moving the cutaneous fat and gore, the blood pouring forth, until she found what Poe could never have identified in a thousand years. Vessels and veins, arteries, and capillaries, and these tiny bundles of yellowish-tubes that were nerves, coated in their protective myelin.
Those beautiful thighs, barely twenty--if that--now looked like some horrific science experiment, and to Poe's dismay, the girl's eyes still sought him out, were still aware and he wanted to tell her to die, just die, it would be so much better that way, but he didn't dare.
"What do you think of your god, now?" Raven taunted, her grin plastered like a monstrous tell.
Her eyes looked from the girl to Poe and she chuckled, a sound like she'd swallowed rusty nails and glass. "You think he'll help you? He's weaker than you are!" She leaned over the girl, right in her face and said, "But I'll tell you something, he knows how to treat his god. He'll never go against me, he knows better, a true believer, he has faith...in ME." She looked at Poe, and purposely licked her lips lusciously, looked at him up and down, telling him to remove his clothes, making those unspoken promises females were so good at, and amazingly, he did exactly as he was told. He removed his boxer briefs, his hard cock at full attention, all eight throbbing inches that felt like fire and iron, and she smile lasciviouly, again licking her lips, implying she would wrap them around him and set him on fire. Even more unbelievable, he began rubbing himself, the girls pleas faded and all he saw was Raven, all he could think about was that wetness, that hot spot where he could feel her insides, her thick lips around his cock...
She set back to work, a chortle under her breath, her attention on her "surgery".
As she spread, ever so delicately, the meat away, exposing gore-encrusted bone and nerve bundles, she took another tool and scraped the nerves, a pain that simply had no name, that was beyond all torture, and the girl cried and screamed as loud as she had since the trunk. Raven slapped her across the face again, and this time, Poe sauntered over, his cock leading him, red and hard, and he punched her, and as he did, Raven made good on her unspoken promise, taking him in her mouth, licking his head and sucking as she pulled away, making his eyes roll into the back of his head, her warm mouth, so big he could fuck her throat, her lips so thick they suckled like her pussy when he had to squeeze into that tightness...
"Not yet...oh no, not yet..." Raven said, and it was unclear whether she was talking about him or the girl, who finally, blissfully, seemed at the edge of death--part of Poe could only hope there was no more pain, at least not the kind with which she'd already sustained.
She was probably referring to both of them as she dipped her hands in more blood, rubbing it on his cock, her body, in addition to the splatters all over her, the gore pouring between her legs from the girl's thighs.
In one last effort, the girl tried to speak. She mustered, "Wh--wait, wha'r you doin'
to m-?"
And that was it, her body began to spasm, she urinated and Raven again"
"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT! Too soon, motherfucker! You useless cunt!" And with that, Raven took the scalpel, stuck it inside the poor girl's vagina and cut upwards in a "Jack the Ripper" example of mutilation. She now ceased to be human, she was meat, spread and bloody, pink and red muscle and yellow nasty bumpy, buttery fat spilling everywhere. Her vagina was truly a slash, now, and one with the open cavity that Raven had rendered... Poe thought about how much strength it would take a person to do such a thing with a fine scalpel, cutting through the pelvic bone, but he did not dare dwell on that fact.
Raven, now covered in blood, sucked the scalpel, and moved quickly off of the girl as her bowels finally emptied on the sand below.
Raven made a sound of utter disgust, and spat in the girl's dead face.
"You nasty fucking whore!" She screamed, leaning down to cut the girl's face, too. She was in her revelry, unsatisfied, wanting more, which was always a bad sign. The stench of blood and feces, urine and dead meat pervaded the air, which was not breezy enough to clean this kind of odor.
Poe knew better than to grab her or initiate in any way, though his cock was still like iron, and now cold from the air, from the saliva and blood still on it, he wanted her warmth, and as she leaned over, he could see her heavenly gash from the back; the crack of her ass to her little lips, her vertical smile, and he wanted nothing more than to ram himself into her, but he didn't dare.
"Come on, babe, don't you wanna--?" He left off on purpose, because obviously, whatever she wanted was what was going to happen.
She turned on him like a snake, her eyes gleaming like a feral animal, the scalpel dripping blood was held out in front of her for him to see.
"Want to what?" She hissed.
His response was to shrug and touch himself, not that he could ever seduce her. She smiled, knowing that he had no power and glad he knew it, too.
"Right now, I want her fucking eyes. And look at that meat. What do you think?" This last question was rhetorical, of course. He went over and held the girl's head still as Raven proceeded to cut the girl's eyes out. Then her heart, which she bit into, sucking the blood like some ravenous starved prisoner getting a delicacy; blood poured down her chin and onto her chest, where she rubbed her nipples, again looking at him suggestively as she did so.
"You want this, huh? You want to love your god?" She snarled this, but he couldn't help but nod like a stupid puppy.
"No. You want this." She said, as she licked her fingers and traced her way down to her perfect little triangle, a blood trail marking the way. "Mmmmm." She moaned derisively, simultaneously making fun of him and turning herself on more than she was.
Before he knew it, she pushed him to the ground. Hard. He thumped his back so hard, his breath knocked out and she was on top of him, her pussy every bit as wet as he knew it would be. A faint thought that they could catch a disease from the call girl rattled in his mind but he just did not care. She wiggled herself down on his iron hard-on, his tip inside, it seemed to sprout bigger at her tight wet and silky smooth hole. Any normal girl would say it hurt, but not Raven, no, she liked the pain, she rammed down, probably tearing and bruising herself, and suddenly he was inside and nothing else mattered... The dead stinky girl was laying maybe a foot away, and the sand and dunes had bugs eating him up, but Raven's rapturous cunt was all there was at the moment. She rode him as she sucked more blood from the heart, then smearing his face with blood. She never kissed, this was as close to intimacy as she got, so maybe something had, indeed happened to her in her formative years, but none of that mattered.
He couldn't help it, he wanted to explode inside her, but she stopped.
"No. No, no, not yet, you worthless bastard!" She spat in his face and punched him, dropping the heart in the sand and he thought about grannies and baseball and men in skinny jeans and felt the burn back down.
"Good boy," she purred, riding him again, now making throaty but quiet noises, her breathing sped up, and he could feel her little twat constricting against his throb and he wanted to grab her and impale her on himself. Finally, as she breathed and her face contorted for the third or fourth time, he grabbed her hips and dug his cock deep, wanting to pierce her insides, and he rode her, turning her over, their sweat moisturizing the blood that had dried on their bodies. He rammed into her, over and over, and she just laughed, as though he were inadequate, which made his thrusts even harder. He wanted to hurt her, he wanted to show her, he was the fucking man, not this demonic bitch. It was angry, brutal sex that anyone would find disgusting. They were animals rutting, brutish predators humping rage, death, mutilation, all twisted into one dark and depraved act that no one could possibly understand, save another serial killer. When she rolled him over and arched her back, leeching all the seed left in his body, he could feel a warmth like heroin spread from his toes to his brain, but they looked like a horror film, blood everywhere and sweat dripping, eyelids half-massed in that afterglow of sexual chemicals, and when Raven stood up, blood dripped from her and down her leg, fresh blood, now all over his pelvis, as well. So he had hurt her, good, but she had liked it, nay, she wanted it that way, right?
Now to clean their mess; they had broken so many goddamn rules, their DNA every-fucking-where, but thankfully, the sea would take care of that. Raven gathered some meat in a plastic tub for leftovers that she got from the car, along with a jar of formalin for the girl's beautiful blue-green eyes. Now, none of this activity went along with the Long Island Ripper, or not the most recent ones, anyway, but his dumping grounds had gone back years, and again, the salt water would take care of it, cops were stupid. For instance, there'd be a lazy detective or Examiner who would conclude in his "expert opinion" that the eyes were predated by fish or wildlife. As for the rest of the mutilation, they may chalk that up to the killer upping his game and evolving, or if they were careful (Poe hesitated to say lucky), she would not be found until skeletal, of course even then, one can tell when a fucking heart is removed. He didn't dare bitch at Raven, though. More sand shuffling, he also wrapped the girl back up in the tarp and waded into the water where he dumped her far out, removing the tarp with their DNA and fiber evidence.
8.
Car, tarp, and other implements all dumped in various places around the city, including landfills, they had changed into street clothes, Raven's hair now down and luxurious to her butt, yet still dressed in black. Daylight was coming and she had to get to the hotel.
CCTV only saw a tall, skinny man accompanying a thin but tall waif-looking woman with extraordinary hair, both in black, with backpacks like so many New Yorkers, boarding the train downtown.
At the back of the train, no indication of anything wrong, Raven looked at Poe with something like intense like, as close as she got to love; he was her slave, her disciple, and she was glad she'd found him and tortured him. He was the first man she'd ever let inside her as often as she did, and she found she did like it, with him. They looked at one another and knew it would begin all over again, they'd go West, back "home" (for now), and they would plan meticulously. But in the meantime, the backpacks at their feet contained a number of items no one would even want to know. She had her jar of eyeballs, a food container of some luscious meat, some blood in a spill-proof thermal bottle, and he had ropes, guns, knives, and of course, his favorite, some brains in his little plastic tub. They sat there, riding the subway, bags at foot and no one looked twice. Life went on.
