The Saint of Killers E-Book

Mia Kingsley

• Herausgeber: Black Umbrella Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 127

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Eloise How much bad luck can I possibly have? There's a serial killer on the loose, killing blue-eyed blondes, and after accidentally walking in on him murdering my roommate (a blue-eyed blonde, of course), he's after me. I have green eyes and brown hair, so I'm not even his type—but I guess I'm a witness now. Great. Just great. On top of that the police deny that there is even a serial killer, opting for my roommate's ex as the prime suspect instead. I'm on my own, and I already have a faint idea how that is going to work out for me. I need a protector. Unfortunately, there aren't many people willing to take on that kind of job.   Theron I'm brokering unusual services to people with unusual problems. The solutions often involve highly skilled contract killers or a specific kind of cleaning personnel—if it's already too late for the former. Normally I don't keep people alive. At least not until Eloise Price asks me to catch a serial killer. I probably should say no considering that I suspect the killer is one of my own men. But somehow I just can't resist Miss Price…   This is a dark and twisted romance novella with a guaranteed HEA.

Leseprobe

THE SAINT OF KILLERS

MIA KINGSLEY

A DARK ROMANCE

CONTENTS

The Saint Of Killers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

THE SAINT OF KILLERS

Eloise

How much bad luck can I possibly have? There’s a serial killer on the loose, killing blue-eyed blondes, and after accidentally walking in on him murdering my roommate (a blue-eyed blonde, of course), he’s after me. I have green eyes and brown hair, so I’m not even his type—but I guess I’m a witness now. Great. Just great.

On top of that the police deny that there is even a serial killer, opting for my roommate’s ex as the prime suspect instead.

I’m on my own, and I already have a faint idea how that is going to work out for me. I need a protector. Unfortunately, there aren’t many people willing to take on that kind of job.

Theron

I’m brokering unusual services to people with unusual problems. The solutions often involve highly skilled contract killers or a specific kind of cleaning personnel—if it’s already too late for the former.

Normally I don’t keep people alive. At least not until Eloise Price asks me to catch a serial killer. I probably should say no considering that I suspect the killer is one of my own men.

But somehow I just can't resist Miss Price…

This is a dark and twisted romance novella with a guaranteed HEA.

1

THERON

The disgusting smell of decay creeps into my nose as soon as I step through the apartment door. Robson called me after the coroner told him about the latest victim.

I avoid the chaos of the uniformed officers trying to get a glimpse of the body, and the forensics department carefully cataloging every little particle. I take one big step to cross the markings on the floor.

At first glance, it’s impossible to say whether the apartment has been messy before the killer started his work or whether he’s responsible for making it difficult to find any clues. The books have been pulled out of the shelves and tossed to the floor, broken glass litters nearly every surface, and then there’s the blood. A lot of it.

Dr. Gene Holt looks up as my shoes appear in his field of vision. I stopped far enough away so that the expensive leather would not come into contact with the blood—most of which has already seeped into the carpet anyway.

He isn't pleased to see me, but just like his police colleagues, he doesn't try to send me away.

"Mr. McCall."

I nod to acknowledge him. "So, what do we have here?"

By my estimations, the blonde on the floor died sometime last night and, if the expression on her face offers any clues, it wasn’t a pleasant death. I would bend closer, but I don’t want to risk contaminating possible evidence. In addition, Dr. Holt's nose has suffered from years as a forensic coroner and he basically puts on far too much perfume, which—apart from the corpses—makes breathing in his vicinity even more difficult.

"Blonde, mid-twenties, handsome and slim. The death should have occurred around 11 p.m. Two hours ago, an anonymous call was received by the police. Not that anyone would ask me, but I think we're dealing with victim number six here."

"I ask you, Dr. Holt."

He closes his eyes for a short moment as if to commemorate the victims. "That's right. It’s the same M.O.: The hands are tied behind her back, the numerous injuries were caused by a scalpel, and shortly before she bled to death, the murderer strangled her. All other mutilations occurred postmortem. He took the nipples with him again."

"Does Captain Schwartz finally accept that a serial killer is making New York his hunting ground?"

"No, but if I interpret the crowd of journalists, bloggers and podcasters outside in the street correctly, he won't be able to keep it a secret for much longer." The doc shrugs his shoulders and spreads a thin, white cloth over the body.

I just hope that no one from the press gets wind of what special souvenirs the killer takes with him, otherwise we will soon have to deal with countless impostors.

But no high-ranking police captain who spends half his time playing political power games gladly admits that a serial killer is raging in "his" city.

At the same time, more casualties also mean that the likelihood of the FBI getting involved rises exponentially. It’s the captain’s biggest fear that the FBI might ultimately take credit for the work of his department.

I’m not bothered by those little things. I’m here for another reason.

Apart from the fact that it is my job to be informed about what’s going on in my territory, I’m worried that one of my men might be responsible for the deaths of the young women. I do my best to control my men, keeping a tight leash on them, but I also know how hard it can be to keep these cravings under control.

The rules for my employees are therefore simple: Do what you have to do in order to keep your inner demons calm—but please do so at least three states over.

The killer's approach matches Calvin Burns' preferences, who we all call "Blade" because he really likes to play with knives. Blade has failed to attend the weekly meetings three times in a row, arousing my suspicion.

I look at the body. Blade prefers red-haired women though, not blondes. I want nothing more than to sigh dramatically while pinching the bridge of my nose but I know it’s better to keep up appearances and pretend to be calm and collected. It’s about time for this chaos to end.

Dr. Holt clears his throat and reaches for one of the bags in which evidence is stored. "Our unsub did something new."

"Why am I sure that I probably don't even want to know what it is?"

"I guess it's a tribute." The doc hands me the bag.

Inside is a severed finger. I suspect from the size that it’s an index finger. "Please don't tell me the owner was alive when the finger was severed."

"The owner was alive when the finger was cut off. You can probably guess where we found it?"

"In the vagina of the dead. Wasn't William Henderson executed ages ago?"

Henderson was a notorious serial rapist who killed more than thirty women during the eighties. He always left the index finger of the next victim inside the corpse of his latest one. Ironically, he was caught when law enforcement showed up at his property because Henderson had negligently stopped paying his taxes. A pretty stupid beginner's mistake.

Dr. Holt shakes his head. "Henderson’s still alive. Can't you send one of your men there to find out if Henderson knows anything? It can’t be a coincidence where we found the finger."

"I'll see what I can do." Since I’m not in the habit of sharing my plans with other people, this vague statement has to do.

"The facial injuries, as far as I can tell, have been inflicted first. The extent of the perpetrator's anger seems to be rising. And also, I discovered this." Dr. Holt takes the UV light lamp and shows me a stamp on the back of the victim's hand.

OMNI.

The OMNI is an expensive nightclub which opened only a few months ago and has been the latest hype since then. The owners have a pretty good approach to social media and the parties are already considered notoriously wild and unrestrained. The perfect hunting ground to separate a beautiful woman from the herd.

"If you notice anything else during the autopsy, don't hesitate to contact me."

"Of course."

With one last look at the body, I turn around and walk to the door. I almost make it into the hallway, but at the last moment Captain Schwartz comes around the corner.

Inside, I sigh. The man has just been transferred here and is yet to understand how things work in New York.

"You!" Immediately he points at me and hurries closer. "Is that the work of one of your psychos?" His voice has become a hiss so that no one else can hear us.

"No. I have my 'psychos' under control."

"Obviously, you don’t. And I've told you before that you have no business being at my crime scenes."

"I wouldn't have to come here if you did your job, Captain. When are you going to realize you're looking for a serial killer?"

"Do you know how many women are killed every year in New York City alone?"

"About a hundred, I'd say."

The Captain's stunned face tells me that he has not expected an answer and also that I cannot be far off with my guess. He narrows his eyes at me before he continues, "And usually it's someone the victim knew. The neighbors have reported several noisy disputes in the past weeks with the victim's ex-boyfriend. That's the direction in which we're going to investigate."

"Do what you must. I guess I’ll see you at the next crime scene then." With these words, I slip past him and leave.

2

ELOISE

"Help me out here—why did we think it would be a good idea to pursue a PhD in art history?" I ask with desperation in my voice, looking at the books in front of me, although the letters have long since blurred before my eyes.

Alyssa laughs merrily. "Because I hope that Starbucks will pay more per hour if I have a degree but can't find a job in that field." She closes her laptop. "Come on, it's Friday. Let's finish up for tonight, enjoy the weekend and on Monday everything won't seem so bad anymore."

I groan and put my forehead on the table. "Do you know what the worst part is? I'm not even sure if I like art history anymore—but I can't just stop so close to my goal."

"You'll be all right." She squeezes my shoulder. "You probably need a little break."

Although I try to force a smile, my lips really don’t want to move.

Three months ago, my cat Mo died and since then I’ve felt completely lost. Of course I know that I loved Mo, but her death was more of a symptom of the underlying problem that I didn’t need to confront before.

Mo has been the last link to my old life because I inherited her from my aunt who died four years ago. Alyssa doesn’t know anything about this though because I rarely talk about myself. My only friend still has no idea that I was raised by my aunt after my parents died in a traffic accident. After losing my aunt too, I have clung to the only lifeline I had left: a spoiled cat named Mo.

Now I permanently feel like I have nothing and nobody anymore. Getting a PhD isn’t particularly fun and at home, I just stare at the wall. I simply don’t know what to do with myself or my life.

But instead of entrusting myself to Alyssa—or simply dumping my problems on her—I close my own laptop. "I'm sure you're right."

"Do you need a ride?" Alyssa asks as we leave the library.

"Thank you, but it’s not that far. After sitting for so long, the little walk will do me good."

She shrugs. "Whatever you like."

"You really don't have to drive me. I'll just put on my headphones—prepping myself for tonight."

"Oh, yes, the weekend." Alyssa pulls a face. "Did you look for a new place yet?"

"I'm afraid not. But it's bearable. Most of the time, at least." With one last nod I say goodbye to Alyssa and make my way home after taking the headphones out of my backpack.

I hope Taylor Swift will distract me from my worries and drown out my roommate's leisure activities. Actually, Jane's fine. She's clean, punctual and reliable.

Unfortunately, she’s also very, very, very loud during sex and brings two or three new guys home every weekend to demonstrate it. I basically put on headphones every Friday afternoon and take them off again Sunday afternoon.

Since my only other option was an apartment with an obtrusive landlord directly above an Indian restaurant, I chose Jane, who has given me a fair warning beforehand at least.

Even though I don't believe in love myself, I hope that Jane will find it one day and stop fucking around so much. Either that or she hopefully develops a fondness for ball gags soon.

Taylor chirps cheerfully into my ears as I climb up the stairs to our apartment twenty minutes later. I realize quickly that the door’s not fully closed.

With my fingertips I push it open and ask myself if Jane has perhaps forgotten to lock it when she left for her first hunting trip of the weekend. The display of my cell phone lights up with the push of a button. It’s not even six p.m. and thus a little early for Jane.

My heart’s beating faster as I put my foot over the threshold. It’s dark in the apartment, the only light coming from the window in the living room, since there’s a bright neon sign on the other side of the street.

The faint glow spills over the floor into the hallway and I can see a shadow move. To keep myself calm, I figure Jane doesn’t need any light to ride a man on our couch while cheering him on with obscenities. I turn up the volume of Taylor Swift singing into my ears. Obviously, my roommate has just forgotten to close the door behind her in the heat of the moment.

I close the door as quietly as possible to not draw attention to myself. I tiptoe across the hall, just wanting to hide in my room from the world and Jane's newest conquest.

Taylor keeps on humming in my ears and recommends that I just be happy. I roll my eyes and try to keep my gaze down as I pass the living room door.

It’s one of these moments that convinces me the universe just wants to fuck me over—otherwise there are just too many coincidences at once.

The song ends and the few seconds between the tracks are enough to hear the dull rumbling in the living room. The noise causes me to turn my head despite my good intentions. Outside, a police car drives by and the red-blue light illuminates the room long enough to see everything. Every single goddamn thing.

I don’t know why I pull the headphones off my ears to see better, but I do it with trembling fingers.

Taylor goes silent, but I can hear the siren of the patrol car in the distance. Come back, I want to yell, but my lips are sealed.

Jane lies on the floor and her blonde hair—like everything else around her—is soaked in blood. So much blood.

And she’s naked. I’ve seen her naked many times before but usually she’s accompanied by a man. 

Now, there’s a man huddled over her too, but he has a scalpel in his hand and is about to cut Jane's nipple off. It’s probably my own fault that I whimper and make him look up at me.