Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

“You can’t copy everything,” I say. “London likes her villains authentic.”

He raises the gun. “She tastes like lilacs. Did you know that?” he taunts. “I’m rock-hard in anticipation to show her how real I can be—”

The animal in me lunges. A primal roar of possession released into the night. It’s not part of the design—but I’m human, imperfect. Carnal and feral, and bloodthirsty.

Nelson is primed for the attack. It’s possible this is a part of his design, making the struggle between us all the more believable. I get in a solid punch to his jaw. Satisfaction at hearing the sickening crunch fires through me, blistering my veins, seeking more carnage.

The pistol whips the side of my head, blacking my vision and bringing me to my knees. I feel the cold press of steel to my forehead.

Breathing labored, Nelson says, “Making you disappear would be poetic justice, but I just can’t forfeit the capture.”

“It’s in your blood now,” I say, gaze cast up at him. “The lust for the kill.”

His finger moves to the trigger, and I close my eyes. London’s face appears and, even though this isn’t how it’s supposed to end between us, I’m comforted by the finality of it. For however brief, she was my salvation.

An eternity passes as I wait for the bang.

A siren whoop bounces around the alley. Flashing lights assault my eyelids. When I open my eyes, it’s the fear I see in Nelson’s face that heigh

tens my senses and feeds my awareness, bringing me back from the depths.

I’m alert, aware of the footfalls echoing off the pavement. Voices shout to “lower your weapon.”

Teeth clenched, Nelson pulls the barrel away from my head and sets his gun on the ground. “I’m FBI,” he announces.

Two uniforms round us, taking Nelson into custody and searching him, the other wrenching my hands behind my back. “Stand up,” he orders. Then a string of profanity fills the air as he notices the dead woman. “We got a vic!” he shouts.

Nelson directs a scathing look my way as the officer removes his badge from the inseam of his suit. His eyes say what he’s not able to, expressing the morbid loss of his hard-earned kill.

“Glad we were able to locate you in time.” It’s Foster’s voice that cuts through the chaos. The detective walks right up to Nelson. “For your sake, agent. Can’t be too careful where this bastard is concerned.” He glares at me.

I’m searched and then cuffed, lowered to the ground forcefully, the gravel digging into my knees. For the second time, Detective Foster has surprised me.

Nelson receives his badge and weapon back, and as he’s straightening his suit, he says to Foster, “Just how did you wind up here?”

“What? No thank you?” Foster asks, his voice laced with smugness. A cast wraps his arm, a sling draped over his shoulder. He’s still bruised and weathered, but his pride sloughs off about ten years. He beams with satisfaction. “Don’t worry, Agent Nelson. I’ll be sure to declare this was a team effort.” At Nelson’s incensed expression, Foster says, “A crime-scene tech led the taskforce to the Refuge. Said he spotted Sullivan hanging around here. It didn’t take long to pick up your scent on the same lead. You’re about as stealthy as a bull in a china shop. Luckily for us all, we got here soon after you.”

When Foster’s gaze lands on the victim, his proud features purse into a saddened scowl. “Not soon enough.” Then to me, he says, “But it’s the very last fucking time for you, Sullivan. I can’t wait to watch you die.”

I smile conspiratorially at Foster, and he backs up a step. I sense the disturbed mood rioting through him. He’s bumbled his way to this point, a tagalong, not even sure how he got here.

Lawson. If I hadn’t left him alive, he would’ve never had time to think about our moment together to make the connection to me. Ironic. By sparing his life, he in turned saved mine.

Before I’m led away by the officer, I glance at Nelson. “Every hunter has his whale,” I say, smiling. Foster has been one step behind Nelson for weeks, tracking the copycat killer just as Nelson has been tracking me. The detective has his Moby-Dick—he just doesn’t realize it yet. “Getting caught is an inevitability.”

Agent Nelson moves in close. “A lot can happen between holding and prison.”

Thrill of the challenge spikes my blood. “Are you worried what I might say?”

His features harden. “Only if you’re worried about your doctor. She’s been pretty vulnerable lately.”

A red haze covers my vision.

The act of murder is intimate in its own right. In the final moments before a person’s death, you’re given a candid view into them. Open and bare, a secret life revealed. I’ve never before desired to kill for personal agenda. As close as I become to my victims, I’m still an abstract demon to them—a reflection of their sins.

Revenge. Greed. Even love. All intimate motives to commit murder, and I’ve felt none of them.

Until now.