Before She Dies (Alexandria Novels 3)

Prologue

Eighteen Years Ago

He could pinpoint the day, the hour, even the second when he’d chosen his first kill. In that sacred moment, fear, rules, and consequences ceased to matter and long nurtured fantasies elbowed aside judgment. The switch had been flipped. And a line would be crossed.

He raised his gaze to the blindfolded young girl tethered to the wooden chair. She was slumped forward, unconscious from the drugs he’d administered. A curtain of lush dark hair covered her pale oval face, cascaded over tight full breasts, and grazed a full waist and gently rounded hips. Not more than seventeen or eighteen, the girl worked at the carnival. She was the psychic. The seer. The seducer. For the average person she was a delightful diversion or a harmless amusement. But he was a rare breed, empowered with gifts that allowed him to see beyond her youth and beauty to the timeless evil.

The decision to kill her had come seven days ago when he’d visited her carnival tent. On that night, he’d patiently waited in the line that trailed outside her tent. He’d been nervous, edgy, and still clueless that his life was about to change.

When he’d finally entered her domain, candles flickered in shadowed corners, soft music drained from unseen speakers, and the heavy scent of incense clung to the air. She’d been sitting behind a gilded desk and had worn a bright red flowing gypsy costume. A dark wig framed a lovely face half hidden by a black domino mask. He’d felt the rush of excitement as he’d stared at her and sat across the table from her.

“Madame Divine,” he’d said.

Nodding, she turned his hand over and exposed his palm. “Yes.”

“You look so young.”

“Do not be fooled by my youth.” Confidence dripped from each word as she traced his jagged lifeline.

He wasn’t deceived. “I saw the line. You are quite popular.”

Green eyes bore into him. “What is your question?”

Her abruptness stoked his anger but he was careful to keep it checked. “Did she love me?”

Nodding, Madame Divine traced another line on his palm. “I can answer that question for twenty dollars.”

His skin tingled as he pulled his hand free, dug a rumpled twenty-dollar bill from his jeans pocket, and laid it on the velvet-draped table. She set the timer at her side before she again cradled his hand. Her skin was soft and warm. Sweet, subtle perfume drifted around her and mingled with the heavy stench of scented candles. She closed her eyes and asked the spirits for guidance.

As he stared at the delicate frown that creased her forehead, he imagined what it would be like to strip the clothes from her body and beat her until she wept. How would her voice sound when she begged? He imagined she’d beg, cry, and plead. And when he wrapped his fingers around her neck, how long would it take for the life and warmth to drain from her body? He wondered all these things as she traced the lifeline on his palm and spoke of prosperity and good fortune.

And then suddenly she straightened as if she’d been kicked by the Devil. Tension rippled through her fingers and her breathing grew shallow. She released his hand as if it had burned her flesh. She stared at him, fear glimmering in the green depths.

In this panicked moment, he knew that she saw his true intent.

The realization rattled him. No one had ever seen beyond his veneer. She was a true seer. A witch.

She was The One that God wanted him to kill.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“Yes. Yes. I’m fine.” She moistened her lips. “Tell me about this woman you love.”

He smiled, knowing he could be charming when it suited him. “We met at the university. We’re in the same class.”

“What’s her name?”

“Carrie. I loved her very much. Why didn’t she love me back?”

The predictable question coaxed some of the tension from her shoulders, and she eased forward a fraction. She smiled but he knew her fear, as visible as the sweat on her brow, lingered. “Carrie loves you, but she is afraid of... her emotions.”

Despite his resolve to be strong, her soft voice speaking Carrie’s name drew him in closer. He wanted to believe Carrie had loved him. “She said she hated me.”

“She doesn’t hate you. She loves you. You must go to her and tell her that you care.”

She spouted more nonsense about good fortunes and happiness, but when the timer buzzed, she immediately released his hand.

His open palm lingered. He yearned for her touch. Emotions demanded he take her now. Kill. Kill. Kill. But logic kept him on a tight leash. Wait

. Prepare.

And so he quietly left the tent and used the next week to prepare his room for her. She was his first kill and he wanted the details to be perfect.

On the seventh night after his reading, he’d waited in the shadows. When she returned from her whoring in town and ventured to the carnival bathroom by the wood’s edge, he grabbed her and covered her mouth with his gloved hand. An injection in her arm had immediately rendered her silent and compliant. He easily dumped her in the trunk of his car and brought her to this hunter’s cabin, nestled in the hollow of the Virginia woods.

Now moonlight streamed through the small windows and mingled with the glow of three lanterns. The only concession to luxury in the rough cabin was a water pump, which fed into a deep basin. Furnishings were limited to a long wooden table and a few straight-back chairs by an old soot-stained hearth. Those who inhabited this place were prepared for a monk’s life, an idea that appealed to him.

Eagerness churned inside him. Too many years of fantasizing and dreaming were about to become reality, and it was hard to maintain control. His skin tingled. His stomach clenched. If he didn’t soon unleash the raw energy brimming inside him, he’d go insane.

Unable to wait for her to awaken, he grabbed a bucket of cold water and poured it on her face. She awoke cussing, screaming, and sputtering. The hint of panic behind her screams enhanced his excitement. He stared at her silk blouse, now wet and plastered to full, full breasts.

Breathless, his own muscles aching with want, he retreated to the cabin’s corner and sat down. He’d not expected so much desire. He’d always considered himself a chaste and prudent man, but she made him crave dark, evil passions.

Anticipation burned through his body, and he knew if he didn’t rein in his desires, he’d break his covenant with God.

She must confess and be purified first.

As she coughed, he muttered a prayer for patience. Retrieving the small Bible from his pocket, he gently kissed the gold cross embossed into the well-worn black leather. The Bible had been a gift from his mother on his tenth birthday. Though not fancy or substantial in size, the book provided him with answers, insights, and in times of stress, it was a guiding force.

With trembling fingers, he flipped through the pages, scanning and rereading passages. As he focused on the words, he suddenly felt her gaze through the blindfold. Her head was tipped back and cocked in his direction. Water dripped from her hair and face over a gold chain and down between the cleavage of her breasts.

Tied up, cold and wet, she should have been contrite and scared, but instead she possessed a dark, brooding bearing that unsettled him. He didn’t like her absence of fear.

“Don’t stare at me,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’m blindfolded. I can’t see anything.”

“You are looking at me.”

“So what if I am?” Her voice was rusty, seductive.

“You are Satan’s child.”

She actually smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

Fury scraped at his nerves. He crossed the room and grabbed a fistful of her hair. He pulled a knife from his back pocket and pressed it to her neck so she could feel the sharp tip. Her jugular pulsed under the blade.

He was a half-second from slicing her throat when reason shoved its way to the front of his mind. “I need you to confess your sins to God so you can be released from this earth clean and pure.”

A defiant set to her jaw said as much as her words. “The clean and pure days are long gone for me.” The girl’s tone resonated a lifetime of experience.

“I need your confession. I need to send you to God pure.”

“Then I guess it’s your bad day.” She cocked her head.

This close, he could smell the hint of a spicy, no longer sweet, perfume mingling with the stale scent of the threadbare gypsy costume. He turned her face roughly to the side so the lantern light caught the high slash of cheekbones. She was pretty, but she possessed a callous aura that would grow more insensitive with time. By thirty, she’d be washed up and spent.

Why had she seemed so different a week ago?

“It’s just you and me, baby,” she whispered. “Why don’t we play instead of fight? Some boys like to play rough but I promise gentle is better.”

The grip in her hair tightened. “Don’t call me baby.”

She reminded him of a cat toying with a mouse.

“Why not? I’m good and you’ll like what I can do for you.”

Tempted by her honeyed words, he dropped his gaze to her breasts, so round and full. He ached to touch and suckle them. The balance of power was shifting. “Shut up.”

“Be my baby, and then I promise you’ll forget all about the whip and this cabin.”

He pulled her hair until she cried out. “Whore. Harlot.”

Tears of pain, not fear, ran down under the blindfold’s creases over her cheeks. “Baby, just take me. You know I’ll be good. I’m always good.” She had enough range of motion in her bound hand to brush his jean-clad thigh with her fingertips.

The faint touch sent an explosion of sensation through him and immediately he grew hard. Honeyed words, as sweet as a siren’s call, tested his resolve and summoned him to temptation’s edge. Though he was the one with power over life and death, she’d somehow mesmerized him with her soul-stealing eyes and a simple touch.

“You don’t have to hurt me, baby,” she said. “We can be good together. Untie me and you’ll see.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No.” Her supple lips belied the word. “But we better get busy before someone catches us.”

It was his turn to smile. “No one is going to bust in on us. Only a handful know about this cabin, and those that do wouldn’t bother with a visit until deer season.” He stroked her hair. “And that is still weeks away.”

She moistened cracked, dried lips and this time a faint tremor rippled under her words. “Kiss me. I know you want to kiss me.”

And God help him but he did. He’d dreamed about taking her since he’d first seen her seven nights ago. It had taken repeated razor cuts to his thighs and belly to keep himself chaste and controlled until the right moment.

He leaned forward and tasted her rosy lips. They were soft, salty, and before he thought, he greedily cupped her full breast in his smooth palm. He squeezed her nipple until she wimpered. He grew harder and fantasized about releasing her bindings and taking her. Perhaps he could keep her a few weeks in the special box under the floorboards where he hid his toys. There she’d be safe, secured, and always at the ready to play. Maybe given more time, this Delilah could be cleansed and sent to God pure and clean.

And then in the distance he heard the Voice, summoning him back to his path.

“She is a witch. She will steal your soul if you give yourself to the temptations of the flesh.”

He jerked back and stepped away from her. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

She must have sensed his panic because her smile radiated arrogance. “It’s okay, baby. You can love me. Let me free, and I’ll show you what real fun can be.”

He’d dreamed and fantasized about killing. He’d chosen his victim. He’d planned. And now, when he should follow through, he was faltering. What was wrong with him? He backed away from her, snatched up his Bible, muttered random prayers, and reminded himself that he was a soldier of God. “I am not weak. I am stronger than your temptations.”

She moistened cracked dried lips. “Let me love you, baby. Let me love you. You don’t even have to take the blindfold off.”

He set down the Bible. “‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

Scorn pulsed from her. “I love you, baby. I just need you to unchain me so I can show you.”

“You are a sinner. You need to confess.” His voice, roughened by desire, was unrecognizable.

“I have nothing to confess.”

“We are all sinners, baby.”

She moistened her lips

and shifted her body so her breasts gently bounced.

His erection throbbed.

He pressed his hands to the fresh cuts he’d made to his chest that morning. Pain seared his senses, and for a moment he struggled with his breath as the desire leaked from his body. “‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

The words from Exodus rolled off his tongue, again and again, half statement and half prayer. He’d been born to destroy the wicked, not be drawn in by their earthly temptations.

His own blood dampened the front of his white shirt and his hands now. In the moonlight, the blood had darkened from red to black. He smeared it on the woman’s forehead, mingling his blood with her own. The scent and smell of their blood was sweet, indeed.

He turned and moved to the pump and bucket in the corner. He cranked the pump’s lever until the water spat and then flowed free.

She turned her head toward the water. “What are you doing, baby?”

He filled the bucket and transported it to a long metal tub near the woman. He repeated this process until the tub was full and brimming with water.

With fumbling fingers, he untied her wrists. “It’s time to play.”