Ghost (The Halloween Boys #1) (64)

My fingers wove and tightened through her hair, and my demon acted of his own accord, pulling her head back. The gasp that left her lips tasted like sex as my cock strained against my jeans. “He who?” my demon voice said.

Her eyes widened like she heard the difference too. But she answered, “My stepdad, he’s coming for me.”

My grip on her hair loosened marginally. “No, Blythe. Onyx called today. The police caught him weeks ago. He’s gone, Little Ghost,” I lied.

She blinked in confusion. “They must have the wrong guy then, because he was at the Moore’s looking for me.”

I stilled. “When?”

“Last night,” she breathed, dropping her gaze to my lips.

No. It couldn’t be. “Blythe, Mr. Moore is old and not . . . all there.”

She nodded. “I know . . . but he knew his name, his overalls . . . I know he’s here. I feel it.”

I noticed darkness swirling around my hands but averted my gaze so as not to draw attention. A month ago, I couldn’t access my abilities, but now, I couldn’t get them to turn off. Not when it came to her.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Ames, I can’t stay. It’s too dangerous for everyone involved, including you—”

“I’m going to kill him, Blythe. If that bastard is somehow alive . . . I will end him.”

She froze and a chilly breeze snaked between us as I held her close. “You’re just saying that,” she whispered on a shaky breath.

I dropped my hand to her waist, pushing up under her T-shirt. She gasped as I touched bare skin, tugging the fabric up to her ribs. They’d faded, but the tint of yellow remained.

Anger pulled at my movements as I beheld her perfect, soft stomach. “Who did this to you?”

“What? Oh, I slipped. I’m clumsy,” she lied breathlessly. It tasted like milk.

“I’m going to ask one more time. Who. Did. That. To. You?”

She swallowed, hands on my arms. “I saw his truck in New Hope. It was early, before the sun came up. I was on my way to work some shitty diner job. I stopped to shower at a truck stop. When I was done, I saw his red truck parked next to mine. I knew it was his. It had the same scratch on the side I accidentally made with the handlebar of my bike when I was sixteen. Then I heard his boots behind me and his stupid . . . whistle. Like he was calling a dog. I ran and tripped. He grabbed my ankle and dragged me backwards. I saw him then. He looked older. And meaner. So much meaner. I didn’t know it was possible to look worse than he had before. The hate that filled his eyes . . . But then a Mack truck honked its horn in the parking lot. I guess I got lucky someone saw. That was about three weeks ago. I got in my car and drove and drove until I ran out of gas here.”

“I need you to listen to my words, Blythe.” This was it. I knew it. And if she tried to run from me now . . . I knew the demon in me wouldn’t let her. She’d be afraid; perhaps she would scream again. Ah fuck, please scream again . . . .“I don’t exaggerate. I’m going to drain his body of blood while pumping him full of poisons to keep him alive and conscious. I’m going to remove each of his appendages and he’s going to feel every slice of my dull blade.”

Her eyes widened and the soft nudge of fear pressed my tongue. “I’m starting with his dick. And he will bleed, and he will writhe in pain. And he won’t die until I allow it. Until I show him a mercy he doesn’t deserve and I decide to usher him to Hell.” I laughed. “That’s not even the worst part. The worst part for him comes after he dies. That’s my job here. But you’ll see. This is what I do, Blythe. And I know for a fact that motherfucker has never known a greater fear than meeting me.”

Her big brown eyes took me in as we stood in the center of the pavement. My forest. I’d brought her here. She couldn’t escape me, and she didn’t even know it. But somehow, her fear morphed into something else. Something sweet like honeysuckle. “You’ve killed people?” What was that sweet emotion so out of place?

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Too many to count.”

The honeysuckle taste flooded my mouth. Not fear . . . curiosity, admiration . . . hope. It took me off guard.

And then her next words shook me to my core. Not much surprised me after nearly two hundred years of existence, but this did. Her sweet pink lips moved as her grip firmed on my biceps. “Me too.”

“What?” I took her jaw in my hands. “What did you say?”

She sniffled, so innocent. I marveled at the freckles dusting the tops of her cheeks. “I’m a killer too. A murderer.”

“Who have you killed, Little Ghost?”

“You’re not going to believe me. It’s too . . . It doesn’t make sense.”

“You’d be surprised what I can believe, Blythe.”

Her breath hitched as I traced circles with my thumb on the side of her neck. Surely, she was speaking in metaphors. She wasn’t a killer. There was nothing dark within my Little Ghost—only light and good and everything I wasn’t.

Her eyes searched mine as she held on tighter, like she thought I’d run away. Never.

“He charged for me with a broken bottle. We’d just buried my mom. I grabbed the butcher knife from the kitchen just in time. He ran right into me.” Her voice shook, and the bitter taste of shame mixed with guilt washed over my mouth. “The blood . . . I didn’t know someone could bleed so much. He went white, and the blood pooled on the kitchen tile. Ames . . .” She cried. “I didn’t run away immediately. I stayed. I stayed for two days with him dead on the kitchen floor. I had to make sure . . . It doesn’t make any sense, but I had to know he was dead, and it took forty-eight hours for me to be certain. The blood turned cold and dark. I forged a suicide note in his messy handwriting, left it on the table . . . and I just . . . left.”