Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (14 page)

THIRTY-SIX

The average rose grown
in an outdoor garden carried no more than eight petals. Flat and coarse, their color bleached out by a sun that both nurtured and killed it. They were homely, no better than weeds, without grace or elegance. Wild things, allowed to become and grow as they pleased.

He found them offensive.

His roses were anything but average. Meticulously engineered, ruthlessly trained. Not only was mediocrity intolerable, it was immediately destroyed. Each rose had precisely forty petals per head. Each was vibrant in color, intoxicating in fragrance. They were specimens in perfection. Every petal and stem. Every thorn and auricle. He brushed his thumb along the curve of one such thorn, the sting of its hooked barb shooting through his belly. It sent a flush up his neck, warming his cheeks.

Some horticulturist chose to breed the thorns out of their roses. They preferred the ease and safety of smooth green stems—innocuous beauty without the promise of pain. He bred his thorns bigger. Sharper and more abundant, the curve of them reversed so that their razorlike edges were exposed, giving them the appearance of enormous green teeth. Attempting to cut a bloom free from the stem would almost surely result in injury. It was the danger that made the yielding of their beauty so much sweeter.

He trailed bare fingertips along their fluted petals. Velvet. They felt like velvet. For a moment he thought of Clio, how soft her skin had been. How good it had felt beneath his hands. Remembering it brought both arousal and shame.

He stopped abruptly, letting his hand come to rest on one rose in particular. Would the testing never end? Would the Fates never find him worthy?

He dipped his hand beneath the heavy head of the rose and wrapped his hand around its stem, sucking in a ragged breath before tightening his grip. Thorns dug deep, huge spines, hooked and razor-sharp, pushed into the soft flesh of his palm. Pain radiated from the center of his hand, shot up his arm, hitting every nerve at once. Images of Clio melted away under the blast of hot agony pulsing through his veins.

A dark red rivulet snaked down his wrist, thick and slow. He watched it fight gravity for a few moments before coming to a bulbous head. When it could fight no more, it fell, a single drop, disappearing into the rich black soil almost instantly. He smiled. As always, the sight of his own blood calmed and comforted him. Bolstered his resolve and proved his strength. With his free right hand, he covered the head of the rose he held and tore. It yielded to him, its petals coming loose in his hand.

Steeling himself against the pain to come, he opened his hand and pulled it from the stem. Thorns ripped and gouged a score of wounds, their brittle tips still embedded in his flesh. He brought his palm up for inspection, pressing the side of his hand to his mouth, sucking blood from his injuries.

Hand to mouth, he walked, flanked on both sides by his precious roses, a loud riot of rich colors, practically shouting their beauty in the sultry air. They were nothing more than a water-colored blur to him now. The pain, both sweet and sharp, was all-consuming.

At the sink, he dropped his harvest into a bowl before turning on the water. He washed his hands, carefully removing each thorn from his flesh, thrilling at each tiny bite they took as he pulled them free. He bandaged his left hand and slipped on gloves, first a pair of thin latex, then driving gloves made of soft supple leather.

Retrieving a plastic bag, he sprayed a fine mist of water before placing the petals he’d taken inside it, flattening the air from it before sealing it closed. It tucked easily inside his pocket next to the scalpel he kept sheathed there. It was a sharp instrument, precise and deliberate. Unlike other blades, it held no purpose other than to cut into human flesh. He liked things that had purpose, things that knew what they were made to do and did them without hesitation or effort.

It is through purpose that we realize our potential for greatness. It is through greatness that we pursue our destiny.

Calliope was his purpose. Proving he was worthy to possess
her. Through that proof, he would transform into something far better than himself. It was this transformation that was his destiny. An ascension he would let no one stop him from obtaining.

Sacrifices must be made.

He checked the time. It was getting late and he was growing restless. He started to worry that things would not go as planned, that the Fates had found his weakness of flesh distasteful. That they’d abandoned him. Inside his pocket, he ran his gloved finger along the smooth hilt of his scalpel and prayed.

Preciosa Fata mihi dare gratiam et sapientiam, nam per fata percipere dis petam.

Precious Fates, give to me your wisdom and your favor, for it is through your divine guidance that I seek to realize my destiny.

As if in answer, his cell phone issued a chime, signaling a message. He checked it, and what he read brought another smile. Excitement, sharper and sweeter than any pain, coursed through him. He was not the only one to have proved himself worthy. Calliope had followed the trail he left for her, just as he knew she would.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Rush hour had died
down, cutting the forty-five-minute drive across town down to twenty. Still, it gave Sabrina enough time to think about what she was doing. Chasing after a guy who liked to cut up college co-eds in between courting her with notes and flowers wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done.

Call Strickland. Have him meet you.

She knew what she should do, but that did nothing to stop her from squeezing her car into a spot in front of Original Joe’s. The restaurant had burned down years ago and since moved out of the Tenderloin, but the signage was still up. Probably always would be. Joe’s was a San Francisco institution. The charred storefront and boarded-up windows still drew tourists.

Sabrina locked her car and walked the half block between Joe’s and David Song’s bodega, checking the face of every person she passed.

She pushed her way into the store, giving it a quick scan before turning toward the counter and the clerk behind it. It was that same guy from the footage Song had sent her. Finally, something had gone right.

“Hi, I’m Sabrina. What’s your name?”

“Jerry.” The clerk, his nose buried in a comic book, touched his middle finger to a piece of masking tape stuck to the front of his
Punisher
T-shirt. It had his name scrawled across it in heavy black ink. Sabrina wasn’t sure if he was pointing to his name or flipping her off.

“Nice to meet you, Jerry. I’d like to ask you a few questions if I could?” she said, resisting the urge to rip the comic book out of his hand and jerk his ass over the counter. Instead she twitched her jacket away from her hip just enough to expose her gun and badge for a second before settling it back into place.

Jerry glanced at her, his eyes zeroing in on the dark space between her hip and her jacket. He took a long swallow from his oversized energy drink. “Sure,” he said, but he didn’t look like his heart was in it.

“Were you on shift last night?” she asked, even though she knew he had been.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’ve been pulling doubles ever since Dae-woo, or whatever the fuck his name was, got blown away a few months back.”

A regular pillar of compassion and respect.
She pulled the piece of paper from her back pocket and unfolded it on the counter. “You recognize her?”

The clerk took another slurp from his can before setting it down next to the picture. He glanced at the photo and nodded. “Yeah, that’s Sheila.” He flipped the page in his comic and cracked a smile.

“You wan
t to put the comic book down and pay attention?” she said, fighting to keep her voice level.

Now he looked at her, eyes narrowed. “It’s a graphic novel.”

Yes, and I’m sure the dolls you play with are really action figures.
“Sorry. Was she in here last night?”

The clerk nodded again. “Yup.” He reached up and stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it around like it itched.

“Was she with someone?” Patience. She’d need to at least pretend to have some if she wanted information from him.

The clerk pulled his finger out of his ear and smelled it. “I think someone was waiting for her outside. She kept checking over her shoulder like she was lookin’ out the door.”

She remembered the woman, the way she kept looking at something not caught by the camera’s angle. “Did you see who it was?” she said while he wiped whatever he dug out of his ear onto his shirt.

Jerry took another drink from the can and set it down, this time on top of the picture between them. “No. But I’m sure it was a john.”

“Why?”

He looked at her like she was deficient. “She’s a hooker. Who else would be waiting for her?” He drained his can before tossing it in the general direction of the trash can. He missed.

“You know where I can find her?” she said.

“She works a stretch on Eddy, between here and the Korean restaurant.” He looked at his watch. “I seen her out there about ten minutes ago when I took my smoke break,” Jerry said, lifting his dumpy ass into a stool behind the counter.

She pulled her jacket closed over her gun and badge but didn’t button it. If she was lucky enough to find Sheila, the last thing she wanted to do was scare her into rabbiting. The clerk smirked at her. “Like that’s gonna help,” he said, unwrapping a Slim Jim and sticking it in his mouth.

She swallowed the shitty remark that tried to push its way out. Instead, she wiped at the moisture ring his can had left on the paper before she re-folded it and stuck it in her pocket. “Thanks for your help, Jerry.”

He pointed to the camera behind him. “Mr. Song’ll fire me if I don’t talk to cops,” he said with a shrug. He picked up his comic, forgetting she’d been there before she even left.

She stood on the corner of Eddy and Taylor outside the bodega and looked down the street. Lots of working girls, but none of them were a match for the woman from the picture.

Walking down Eddy, she took a good, hard look at every face she passed. She kept going until she hit Jones Street. She’d passed the Korean restaurant a while back, the smell of short ribs and spicy cabbage soup following her as she went. She wasn’t sure if the gnawing in her gut was hunger or frustration.

This was crazy. No way was she going to find some junkie hooker out here—at least not the one she was looking for. Go home. Call Strickland. He was pissed, but he’d listen. The woman in the picture was a potential witness. Finding her would take precedence over his anger. Turning, she went back the way she came, walking only a few yards before she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

The feeling hit her suddenly, like a million pins pushing into her skin all at once.

Someone was watching her.

She turned a slow circle, scanning the crowded sidewalk. No one seemed out of place. No one gave her more than a passing glance. The feeling intensified, the hair on the back of her neck standing up in response to perceived danger. She reached under her jacket and settled her hand on the butt of her SIG. The sensation evaporated like a fog, leaving her with a slightly crazed feeling, like she imagined the whole thing.

A flash of red caught her eye—then another and another. Red splotches littered the stretch of sidewalk in front of her. Rose petals.

Sabrina rubbed her eyes, certain she’d finally cracked under the pressure of guilt. She waited for Wade’s voice to tell her how fucked up and crazy she was, but all she heard was the busy hum of the city.

She looked again. The flower petals were still there, being kicked and scattered across the sidewalk, but their purpose was clear.

It was a trail. One she was supposed to follow.

THIRTY-EIGHT

He’d driven, his scalpel
and his offering tucked away inside his pocket, the phone nestled on the seat beside him. There was no need to tail her—he knew where she was going and he’d arrived there first. Ninety minutes later she’d cruised past him and parked a few car-lengths ahead of him.

She was alert, aware of everyone and everything around her as she locked her car and made her way toward the bodega. He followed at a distance, admiring the way she moved—shoulders straight and held firm, each footfall taken without hesitation even though she knew every single one of them would cause her pain. Her refusal to succumb to the agony that battered her—the way she almost welcomed it—was proof to him that they were meant to be. She was his muse, of that there was no doubt.

She took a sharp right into the store where the whore had bought the pre-paid cell phone. His Calliope was sharp. Nothing escaped her notice. To be found worthy, he must be doubly so.

Clearing the bodega, he took a right, walking along Eddy Street, his eyes scanning the mixture of vagrants and prostitutes, peppered with an odd cluster of tourists here and there, until he found her standing in almost the exact spot he’d left her. The same dress and shoes. The rose he’d tucked into her hair before sending her into the store now lay flat against her skull. It was nearly black, as if nesting in her hair had poisoned it.

He approached her, made himself smile. “Do you remember me?”

She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and blew a stream of smoke in his direction. The smell of it, mixed with the stink of her well-used flesh and the cheap perfume she used to mask it, roiled his stomach. “Phone guy.” She smiled. “What can I do for you, sugar?”

He reached out and trailed a hand down her arm. The flesh of his fingers crawled beneath the layers of latex and leather as they brushed against the collapsed veins and puncture marks left by the needles she used. “In private.” He took her by her wrist and peeled her of the wall, cocking his head toward the alley that was only a few steps away.

She took another quick drag off her cigarette before dropping it on the ground, giving it a haphazard stamp. “Sure thing, sugar,” she said, tottering a bit on her cheap heels as she pushed past him to lead the way. He wanted to drag her into the alley, but he kept himself in check, following close behind until she passed the first set of dumpsters. It was dark, the dank stench of garbage pushing into his nostrils. This was far enough.

He gave her a light shove to the side, sending her stumbling into the tall shadows of the wall. “Easy, sugar,” she said, turning to give him a nervous look. “I come back banged up, my old man ain’t gonna like it.”

He advanced, standing as close as he could without gagging. “I’m sorry, I’m just … eager.”

She relaxed her shoulders against the dirty bricks and smiled. “S’okay, sugar, no need to rush, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” She gave him a half-vacant smile. “Twenty bucks.”

A whore like her wasn’t worth half that, but he nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets. “That sounds reasonable,” he said, pulling the readied bill from his pocket. His other hand stayed where it was, wrapped around the hilt of his scalpel. She reached for the bill, snatching it from his hand with a sickening leer he was sure she meant to be arousing. She rucked up the skirt of her dress and he felt his penis turn in on itself, shrinking back from what he’d just purchased.

Using his thumb, he eased the head of the instrument from its sheath. With his outstretched hand he gripped her by the arm and turned her around so that she faced the wall, forcing himself close, holding her against the bricks with his hips.

Some animals, when caught in a trap, went wild. They fought and clawed at anything within striking distance. Others withdrew from this life entirely, nearly catatonic while waiting for the end to come. He knew from the beginning what type of animal this woman would prove to be. Perfectly still, her jaundiced eyes rolling back in her head, she tried to look at him. “How ’bout it, sugar? Let me turn around so I can—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, running his gloved hand up her bare thigh. He had to keep her quiet until the time was right. Had to pretend what he wanted from her was something she was used to. He made himself ease his fingers between her legs, keeping an eye on the sidewalk just beyond the alley. It would be soon.

Those animal senses of hers were warning her, telling her she was in danger. He felt it in the tremble of her thigh beneath his hand. Hear it in the catch and wheeze of her fetid breath. “I wanna make you feel good, sugar. You don’t have to get mean …”

Not more than twenty yards away, Calliope walked past the alley. The rest of the whore’s plea was swallowed up by his hand as he covered her mouth and cranked her head back against his shoulder, exposing her neck.

He pulled his unsheathed instrument from his pocket, crossing his arm across her neck. Pushing the scalpel past flesh, he felt the pop and give of tendon and muscle, finding his way to the vein. One slice, quick and deep, under the curve of her jaw. He let her go, wiping his instrument clean on the back of her dress as she fell. He walked away. Behind him, she banged into the side of the dumpster; the gurgling sound she made as she drowned in her own blood faded away, her death forgotten within seconds. He returned the scalpel to his pocket and pulled out the bag of petals. He opened it, their sweet smell like heaven.

Exiting the alley, he found himself several yards behind her. She moved slowly, scanning the populated sidewalk. He dropped the petals, a few at a time, hand held casually against his thigh. No one noticed. No one paid him any attention. Strange behavior wasn’t strange here.

Dropping the last of the petals, he walked right past her. Swallowed by a group of people crossing the street, he continued on. Stopping within the deep shadows of a distant building, he watched her flounder. The prickle of awareness she felt at his brief proximity was almost palpable. She could feel him. Knew he was here.

She went suddenly stiff, turning a slow circle, bracketed by pedestrians moving against her on the sidewalk. In answer, his heart tapped an uneven rhythm against his chest.

She’d seen his offering.

Moving fast, she pushed past the human cattle, practically running in her haste. She disappeared into the dark mouth of the alley, and he finally turned away. As much as he wanted to stay, he couldn’t. He had work to do.

His Urania was waiting.