Chapter 2

Pierce

"Well, she booked the entire house for the month, Mr. Augustine," Karen says on the other end of the phone.

I grumble, placing the phone on speaker and setting it down on the table. Rubbing my hands over my face once over, I try to calm down.

"Why would anyone want to come here this time of year?"

The forecast is calling for two back-to-back storms. Ones that are going to snow the new tenant into the house for what might be the entire month of December.

Karen sighs, exasperated with me. I know I'm not a simple man to deal with, but I pay her well, as did my family before me. This house is a part of the Honeoye Historical Homes District and has to be registered through her firm and any work has to be overseen by the historical society.

But since I took over the home after my father's death, I've been renting it out to out-of-towners for functions. The extra income doesn't hurt, and keeping occupants in the home doesn't either.

But this time of year, the house stays shuttered. I go over and check on things as the snow gets thick on the roof. I make sure the basement doesn't flood and the pumps are all working when the melt happens.

Someone wanting to stay there through some of the worst snow we've seen in years makes no sense to me.

"All I know is that she wants it for the entire month. She didn't notate why. I do know she'll be alone, though," Karen adds.

Which means I'll have to keep a closer eye on her than I do the other tenants because she stupidly booked a Gothic-style home with three floors in the middle of winter in New York.

"Look, the only reason I called is because you like to look the tenants up beforehand." The exasperation on the other end of the call is becoming more like exhaustion as the moments tick by.

"Alright, I'm sorry, Karen. I just didn't get it, was all. Give me her details." I grab a pen and pad from next to the fruit bowl on the table, clicking the end and getting ready for when she spews names and addresses at me.

I like to look them up because it's an old home that costs me a lot to keep up and running throughout the year. People these days have no wherewithal to keep things that don't belong to them nice. They'll trash the place and move on. And I'll be damned if I allow that to happen.

"There's no first name on her reservation, and she paid with a card that also doesn't have a first name. It says Ms. Banks will arrive on the first, and her home address is listed as 323 Bond St. Apt. 10F, Brooklyn N.Y., 11231."

I get it down and repeat it back to Karen so that she can confirm I got the information correctly copied.

"Is there a reason someone would go to such lengths to obscure their first name from their reservation?" I ask before she rushes off the phone.

I can't blame her. I exhaust myself sometimes.

"I mean, maybe she's well off, or the head of a company? This time of year, she might be looking to hide from something. But I really need to go, Mr. Augustine. Will there be anything else?"

"No, Karen. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll meet her in town, as usual. Have a good rest of your day."

The way Karen said the girl might be hiding from something raises the hackles on the back of my neck. I don't need trouble. It's one of the reasons I go to such lengths to look into the people. I spent my life investigating the dark side of the world, and I know what lurks its streets.

And I don't need that in my town. Or my home.

Stalking to my bedroom, I drop in front of my laptop, setting down a double espresso I made myself before powering it on and clicking into google.

It's easy enough to figure out the apartment she lives in is very pricey. She has to be well-off. But I'd known that from the amount she paid so flippantly to stay here for a month. I tour the interior of what her apartment might look like, and the rest of the building, before moving on to gather all I can about her.

Finding the enigmatic Ms. Banks is a lot harder than the usual check I do on tenants. She's hidden herself well. But cross-referencing the apartment with the list of renters I'd pulled from the apartments' database had made it easy enough.

The apartments' system was far too lax in their security, so it had made it a breeze to get inside.

A person named Julia Banks is renting the apartment. I quickly learn that Julia Banks is a pen name. The woman in question is a writer; one with best-selling novels at the top of the charts.

The only photos of her are ones at book signings, taken by fans of the author when she wasn't looking, or candid headshots of her for the back covers of her novels. Her red hair is long and flowing, delicately curled midway down, giving an easy, yet elegant vibe. Her eyes are rimmed with dark glasses she has perched on the tip of her nose as she smiles up at someone in front of her signing table.

I bet if I got a closer look at her, she's got freckles painting her flesh. In one photo, she's smiling for what looks like a posed portrait. Her eyes are deep brown, almost black. They look beautiful against her cream-colored skin.

Before I can overthink it, my finger reaches up and rubs the screen of my laptop.

There's something about her. Something in the way she looks at the camera but seems to be looking beyond it. Her past is buoyant and afloat in her eyes as she lifts a fake smile up for the camera. It's not the same smile from the other photo.

I flip back to the other one, leaning in and studying it harder.

No. The smile in this one is unguarded and real. Where the one in the next shot has a heavy darkness to it. I pull the metadata from each picture and find the first shot was taken at a signing two years ago, while the second candid picture was shot for a magazine piece done on her only two months ago.

Something happened to her recently. Something that dimmed her shine and weighed down her soul.

And for some ungodly fucking reason, I want to know what it is.

Obsession isn't good for men like me. My brain hasn't been lright since Cynthia died. And probably won't be ever again. And I know I should leave this girl alone.

It's a better idea to have Karen check on her instead of me doing it.

Because the way my blood is thrumming faster in my veins as I look at her isn't a good sign.

Pitch black men like me need to stay away from women like her. Because as succulent and inviting as her body looks, it'll quickly lead to a mania the likes of which my brain isn't capable of handling.

Yes, we should steer clear.

Slamming my laptop shut, I walk away from Ms. Banks and her fire-red hair. Because embers spark flames.

And I have a penchant for fire.

* * *

"No, no, no!" Mario screams. His throaty chorus is no use. I'm not letting him go. After what he did, he's lucky I've left him alive for this long. But the other side of me, the inky side that's been dreaming of this day, had to have more time with him.

Had to draw this out.

For what he did.

My blade sinks into his wrist, slicing through his olive-toned flesh as it makes its way down toward his armpit. He's tied to the ceiling of the abandoned butcher shop like the pig he is. A meat hook is through the reddened skin on his back, his weight dangling from chains surrounding his wrists.

I've had him here for days.

One by one, I'd cleaned house. Killing his men strategically in order from lowest to highest. So the leaders of his little gang knew I was coming.

Having the freedom my bosses awarded me is a breath of fresh air. When one of our own goes down, the rulebook gets thrown out the window. And fuck, I'm glad it does.

The broken side of me is living within each echo of Mario's screams. He's the last one I have on my list. The last life I'll take as an agent for the government. After this, I'm done. Retired.

Or, R.E.D., as the government likes to call it—Retired, Extremely Dangerous.

I roll my neck as I watch the crimson blood running into his armpit. I hadn't cut him deep enough to kill him, but he's lost a lot of blood over the last few days.

Today's the day my toy expires.

Part of me is worried about what'll come after this. There's a shattered side of me that can't function outside of this setting. Outside of killing and maiming. And that's Mario's fault.

"Please, you've had your fun. Just kill me," he says, his choked-out words bringing me back to reality.

The room is chilly and smells of must and mold. Mario's lips are blue, and his teeth chatter unceasingly.

"Fun? You're not stupid, Mario. You know why you're here. And fun isn't what brought me here."

He sniffles, and I roll my eyes, resuming my pacing as I smack the blade of my knife on my shoulder.

"I shouldn't have done what I did. I know that now. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't bring back my partner, does it? Sorry doesn't bring back one of the best fucking agents my company had on payroll! Sorry doesn't give her children back their mother!" I shout.

Anger lights his nearly dead face. "Their mother was a fucking bitch! She stole from me! It's a pity you didn't die in that explosion, Agent Augustine. I knew I should've shot you!"

I know he's trying to bait me. And I don't know if it's fatigue, or it's just plain-out hatred that fuels me to step toward him finally and sink my blade into his stomach, but once I realize what I've done, I look down.

He smirks. "It's over now. It doesn't matter anymore."

My head begins to throb, and I know what comes next. A blackout for me, and a fun ride for the other half of me that'll take the helm while I'm asleep within.

"No!" I growl, pulling back my knife and stepping back, hitting my head with the heel of my hand to try to starve the switch off.

Mario gurgles as I feel myself slip away, anger and hatred rising to the surface.

"What the fuck?" Mario manages through his mouthful of blood as my face changes completely.

A smile pulls my lips up as I step forward and jab my knife back through his body. He convulses with each stab of my blade, but I can't stop.

It feels too good.

"Argh!" I shout in agony as I stab again and again and again.

"Pierce," a voice calls, and my blade freezes.

Blood is pounding inside my ears, and my breathing is erratic. My haunted eyes look around the room, finding someone standing just inside the shadows near the door.

"Come back to me," she says, and confusion fills my diluted brain as I pull the blade from Mario's dead body.

Turning toward the shadowy woman, I drop the blade to my side. Blood drips off the tip to the concrete floor beneath me as I take two steps toward her.

"Who's there? Come out into the light!" I snarl.

When she steps out, red hair gleams in the flickering lights of the dilapidated building, and shockwaves burrow deep within my bones, my marrow seeming to freeze from the disturbance.

Gasping, I sit up, clutching my chest, and looking around the room as the nightmare fades.

"Fuck," I lament, grabbing for the water on the nightstand and chugging it down.

My eyes fall on the laptop on the desk. The one that I'd used to research the siren who just interrupted a full-on night terror. How she'd done it? I don't know. Could my brain be healing itself? Using her to bring me out of the dark bullshit that I can't keep myself from dreaming about every fucking night?

I can't explain it.

But I know one thing. I'm going to find out.

If she's the key to some kind of sanity for me, then I'm going to let the mania take hold.

Flinging my legs over the side of the bed, I slip into my boots and grab a coat and my keys from near the front door. Getting into my truck, I make for my family home just down the road from my house. Snow is already falling in flurries of whirling white, and my wipers work at full speed to allow me to see.

When I pull in, I race from the truck to get inside. She'll be here in two days, so I'll need to make quick work to get the house ready.

Dropping my keys and jacket in the living room, I make my way upstairs to find all the secret passageway doors that my parents sealed off years ago.

The ones that'll allow me to figure out how Ms. Banks—or whatever her true name is—got so deep into my fucking brain so quickly. When no one or nothing has reached me in years.

I don't care that I'll be violating her privacy, and I don't dwell on the strange aspects of what I'm preparing to do as I ready myself to stalk a woman in my family home. I only know that I need to know what it is about her that calls to me.

I need to know why I am dangerously drawn to a woman I've only seen in a photograph a handful of times.

I pull wallpaper off the first door so I can pry it open with a crowbar I found in the toolbox in the hall closet. My heart is racing through my chest like a rabbit running from a fox.

I don't know what I'll do once I discern how deeply rooted this compulsion runs inside me. But I know one thing: she has no idea what she signed up for when she paid that rental fee.