Chapter 1

It’s been one hundred and seventy-four days since my last kill.

One hundred and seventy-four days since I last felt the thrill of the hunt.

My heart beats faster in my chest as the images flash in my brain. The sight and smell of blood fill my senses until I’m almost drunk on it. But memories are a paltry substitute for the real thing.

I tap my foot uncontrollably against the hardwood floor. Biting on my nail, I move my finger a bit farther into my mouth until I bite down on flesh.

The pain makes it a little more bearable.

“Mr. Spencer-Astor, I asked you a question.”

My gaze shoots up.

I blink.

“You did?”

“Yes. I did,” Dr. Leonard, my therapist, says with a roll of her eyes.

I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t be rolling her eyes at a patient. But I’m a rather aggravating case, if I do say so myself. We’ve been meeting twice a week for three months now, and we’ve barely made any progress. Not that I don’t want to. I really do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have sought her help. But I have a very limited attention span thanks to my ADHD, and she speaks far too much for me to be able to focus on everything she’s saying.

Like now.

She’s been asking too many questions.

Shouldn’t a patient speak more than a therapist?

But I suppose she just loves hearing the sound of her own voice—not the best quality in someone whose job is to listen.

Perhaps I should kill her. But that would go against my moral code—I do have one, albeit it’s rather skewed. I don’t kill women. And no matter how annoying Dr. Leonard is, the sessions have helped temper my urges.

A little.

I bite harder on my finger.

“Can you repeat the question?” I ask, letting my lips curve into an amiable smile.

She presses her lips together in annoyance. She does that quite often.

“I asked when the last time you’ve seen your family was,” she repeats.

I blink again.

“A year ago,” I answer with a shrug.

The tapping on the floor intensifies.

“When will you see them again?”

I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes at her.

What’s she trying to get at?

“I’m here to talk about my urges, Doctor, not my family,” I say in an even voice.

Not that she knows exactly what urges I’m talking about. That would be criminal, and she’d be forced to report me to the police.

As far as Dr. Leonard knows, she’s treating me for my obsessive tendencies, or as she calls it in her medical terms, obsessive-compulsive disorder. It’s not too far from the truth. I’m obsessive. One might say fanatical. But not about mundane stuff like the matching color of my socks and underwear, though they’re all black—see, problem solved. No, my obsession runs far deeper than that.

I’m obsessed with watching the light go out of people’s eyes. Slowly.

I’m obsessed with seeing their blood paint the walls red.

I’m obsessed with…well, death.

I clear my throat.

“My mother’s birthday party is soon,” I mention.

Unfortunately for me, it’s an invitation I cannot refuse. My mother would get sad. And I hate it when my mother gets sad.

Dr. Leonard nods.

“Good. That will be a good opportunity to be among loved ones. You spend too much time on your own.”

“I like it on my own,” I clip out.

I don’t like not being on my own. I started living on my own the moment I turned eighteen, and although I see my family once a year or so, I’ve lived alone for the last ten years.

It’s better that way. I can be myself without sending someone screaming for the hills.

“Do you?” She raises a brow. “You’re almost twenty-nine. Haven’t you ever thought about settling down? Meeting someone?”

My lip twitches. We’ve talked about this before, and the answer is no. Why does she think a few months would have changed my outlook on things?

“No,” I state harshly.

“I think it would do you some good, Mr. Spencer-Astor. You have never been in a relationship before. You have not even dated. Isn’t that right?”

“I don’t have an interest in it.”

“Human beings are not supposed to be alone. We are social creatures, Mr. Spencer-Astor.”

Little does she know that at times I’m more animal than human being.

“I don’t require anyone in my life, Doctor. May we change the topic?”

She clicks her tongue against her teeth. The sound rakes on my brain, and a vision of snapping her neck appears before me.

Calm down,I chant to myself. You do not kill women.

I wouldn’t even enjoy killing Dr. Leonard. She’d probably bitch at me while I was killing her as she does during our sessions. But at least then she’d shut up.

Hmm, appealing…

“This is your homework for the month, Mr. Spencer-Astor. I’d like you to meet someone, put yourself out there.”

“No,” I grit my teeth.

“Yes,” she counters. She waves her finger at me as if I were a little boy in need of chastising. Although I suppose considering her advanced age, she does see me as such.

My tapping becomes more erratic.

“I think we’re done with this session, Doctor.” I stand up and turn my back to her.

“Mr. Spencer-Astor? Mr. Spencer-Astor?” she calls out after me as I exit her office.

I leave a hundred-dollar bill at the receptionist’s office and stride out of the building without a backward glance.

Pity. I thought we were making some progress. But it seems it might be time to seek out another therapist.

Grabbing my car keys out of my pocket, I head to the parking lot and get in my car.

The therapy session lasted exactly fifteen minutes. And in those fifteen minutes, my car was entirely covered in snow.

I hate snow.

While I wait for the obnoxious substance to melt from my hood, I check my phone.

Six missed calls. From my mother.

I groan aloud.

I know better than not to return her calls.

Clearing my voice, I dial her number.

“Marlowe, dear. Why did you not answer when I called?”

“I was busy, Mom,” I add drily.

“Doing what? We all know you’re not doing much with your life,” she chides in that motherly tone of hers.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom. What would I do without your precious advice?”

“I’m serious, dear. You’re always cooped up in that house of yours. When is the last time you’ve had fun?”

“It’s a very nice house,” I mumble.

“I didn’t ask whether your house is nice or not. Although that’s good to know since you won’t allow any of us to visit you?—”

“Mom, you get one visit from me a year. Be thankful.”

“But it’s not enough,” she whines.

I can imagine her pout. She always pouts.

“It’s enough for me.”

She tsks.

“Why can’t you be more like your older brother? He loves coming over, and not only once a year.”

“Because my brother is a wimp who needs your constant supervision to do anything. I do not.”

“Yes, yes. I know you’ve always been so independent. But would it cost you much to come visit more than once a year? I do miss you a lot.”

“We talk daily,” I remind her.

“But it’s been a year since I’ve last hugged you!” she exclaims. “Talking is not a substitute for physical interaction. Or is it that you’ve found someone?” Her tone becomes excited. “You’ll finally give me grandkids?”

I hate hugs. And physical interaction.

“Mom,” I groan. “Can we not do this right now?”

“If not now then when? I was hoping you’d bring someone special to the party and?—”

“It’s enough that I’m coming. Don’t push your luck,” I tell her sternly.

“I don’t know what I did wrong, Marlowe. All your other siblings turned out fine except for you. Why can’t you be a team player too?”

“Because I’m not,” I grit my teeth. “Now if that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’m going to hang up,” I say, checking my watch. It will take me about an hour to get home. Since I always go to bed at eleven on the dot, that means I’ll have time to watch five episodes of Supernatural.

“Wait!”

“What?” I ask and roll my eyes.

“What about the job I asked you to do?”

“It’s done. But it’s high time Cristopher dealt with his own shit.”

“Marlowe! Language.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “But he needs to learn to stand on his own feet. What is he going to do on his own?”

“Your brother is the artistic type,” my mother interjects. “He doesn’t have your affinity with computers. We’re a family and we need to help each other out.”

“Yeah, well, he fucking needs to learn that everything you post on the internet stays on the internet.”

“Marlowe!” Her scandalized voice makes me grimace.

“Fricking,” I amend.

Mother hates swearing. When I used to live with my parents, whenever I swore, she’d wash my mouth with soap. Old-fashioned, and it still didn’t work. It only made me want to swear more.

Fucking hell.

There. Better.

“You’re a good brother, even if you’re a bit surly sometimes. Cristopher appreciates your help.”

“Then he can say so himself. Why does he always need you to speak for him?”

“Marlowe! You know why!”

I take a deep breath and look at my watch again. The minutes are going by and that will mean one less episode of Supernatural when I get home.

I can’t do quarters or halves. It’s everything or nothing. But that will free up a small window of time before I go to bed. What should I do?

The noise of my foot tapping against the car floor interrupts my thoughts. I should stop doing this—but that’s what I’ve been saying for years and I’m still here.

Still, an episode is forty-five minutes on average. A quick calculation reveals that with my current delay, I’ll have about thirty minutes to spare before bed.

Anxiety rushes through my limbs.

What can I do in that time? What takes exactly thirty minutes and not one second more or less?

I bite my lip as I debate.

“Marlowe? Are you still there?” My mother’s voice startles me.

“Yes,” I reply.

Did she say something? I lost the thread again, damn it.

“About my birthday party,” she starts, her voice already dropping an octave. “Are you bringing anyone?”

“No. I’m not,” I add slowly.

“Well, Julius is bringing his fiancée, and it will be our first time meeting her. I want everything to go well. I think she might feel better if there’s another woman around?—”

“He’s bringing her to the party?” I cut her off. The last thing I need is for my mother to talk to me about women—again.

“Yes, of course. Julius is excited to introduce her to us. He proposed, too.”

“That’s news to me.” I narrow my eyes.

I don’t speak with my brothers unless it’s through Mother. We’ve never been close. Each of us has different personalities that have never meshed well. But to hear that he has a serious girlfriend that he actually proposed to? That’s quite…interesting.

But not surprising.

At thirty-five, Julien is an accomplished heart surgeon and the face of his hospital. He’s the charming one, all smiles and fake platitudes.

He only cares about his reputation. Since the expectation was for him to get married soon, he of course decided to do what’s right. Never mind that he probably has a slew of other women on the side.

He’s a fucking selfish prick.

“Marlowe, why would you call me if you cannot be bothered to talk? You’re worrying me, you know.”

Another glance at my watch has my anxiety spiking again. The time is dwindling.

Damn it.

“I have to go, Mom. Have a good day,” I say as I hang up.

Immediately, I pull onto the road and start the long drive home. With the icy roads, I have to drive carefully, which means I’ll lose even more time.

Double damn it.

This snow annoys me, as does the white background it creates.

I hate white.

A tired sigh slips past my lips.

Fifty-two days until I have to go to the family gathering. Fifty-two days until I have to bear the presence of other humans in my proximity for an entire day.

Fuck.

I hate people.