Chapter 1 Chase

It already 2:14 AM. I knew this because the neon sign of the twenty-four-hour pawn shop across the street flickered every four seconds, illuminating the cracked face of my watch.

"Twelve dollars," I muttered, staring at the crumpled bills in my hand. "Twelve whole dollars in tips."

I shoved the money into my pocket, burying it deep under my keys and a half-eaten granola bar. Twelve dollars meant cat food for Pickles. It meant I could keep the lights on for another two days. It did not mean I could afford a cab.

I locked the door of The Grinder, rattling the handle three times just to be sure. Gary, my manager, had threatened to dock my pay if I left the deadbolt unlatched again, and I couldn't afford to lose a cent.

The street was empty. Ashwick at night was a carcass. The streetlights buzzed with a dying yellow hum, casting long, distorted shadows that stretched across the puddles like oil slicks.

I pulled my hood tighter, hugging my arms to my chest. The wind cut through my jacket like it wasn't even there.

Just keep moving, Victoria. Twenty minutes to the apartment. Twenty minutes to dry socks and a purring cat.

I started walking. I kept my head down, watching my feet splash through the grit-swirled water in the gutter. I stuck to the main road for the first few blocks, staying under the lights.

A siren wailed in the distance, lonely and shrill.

The city had been on edge for weeks. They called him the "Ashwick Butcher." Five women in three months. No pattern, no motive, just bodies left in alleyways, drained of blood. The papers said it was a ritualistic cult. The internet said it was a maniac with a medical fetish.

I just hoped he didn't like baristas.

I turned the corner onto Fourth Street. It was a shortcut. I knew I shouldn't take it, Mina would have screamed at me but my feet were numb blocks of ice, and the thought of shaving ten minutes off my commute was too tempting to resist.

Fourth Street was narrower, the buildings leaning in closer together, blocking out most of the sky. The streetlights here were broken, dark glass eyes looking down blindly at the trash-strewn pavement.

My footsteps echoed off the brick walls.

I stopped.

The sound hadn't come from my feet. It was a soft, dragging noise.

I turned around slowly.

The street behind me was empty. Just rain falling in sheets, blurring the world into gray static. A loose piece of newspaper tumbled across the asphalt, sodden and heavy.

"Hello?" I called out. My voice sounded thin, swallowed instantly by the damp air.

No one answered.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. You’re tired, you’re hungry, and you watch too many True Crime documentaries. I told myself.

I turned back around.

He was there.

Standing twenty feet in front of me, directly in my path.

He hadn't been there a second ago. I was sure of it. He was just… there. A silhouette cut out of the darkness. He wore a heavy rubber raincoat that glistened wetly in the gloom, the hood pulled low to obscure his face. He was big, broad-shouldered and still as a statue.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice trembling. I stepped to the side, intending to walk around him, giving him a wide berth.

He stepped to the side, blocking me.

I stopped. The air in my lungs turned to ice.

"I don't have any money," I said, holding up my hands. "I have twelve dollars and a library card. You can have them."

He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just stood there, watching me. I couldn't see his eyes, but I could feel them.

Then, I saw it.

In his right hand, hanging loose by his side, was a knife.

It wasn't a pocket knife. It was a filet knife, the kind used for skinning fish. The blade was long, thin, and terrifyingly sharp. It caught a stray beam of light from a distant window, flashing a dull, wicked silver.

Run.

The command screamed in my brain. It overrode every other thought.

I threw my heavy bag of keys and granola bars at his face and bolted.

I spun on my heel and sprinted back the way I came.

Heavy boots hit the pavement behind me. He wasn't walking anymore. He was running. And he was fast.

"Help!" I screamed, the word tearing out of my throat raw and desperate. "Someone help me!"

But Fourth Street was dead. The windows were dark. The doors were locked. Ashwick didn't wake up for screams. In this part of town, screams were just background noise.

I slipped on a patch of oil, my arms windmills, barely keeping my balance. I rounded the corner, skidding into an alleyway.

Dead end.

A chain-link fence, ten feet high and topped with razor wire, blocked the path.

I spun around.

The man in the raincoat was at the mouth of the alley. He wasn't rushing. He was walking now, taking his time, blocking the only exit. He tapped the knife against his thigh.

"Please," I gasped, backing up until my spine hit the cold metal of a dumpster. "I won't tell anyone. Just let me go."

He stopped five feet away. He tilted his head.

"You smell different," he rasped.

His voice was wet, gargled, like he had a throat full of gravel.

"What?" I whispered.

"Different," he repeated. "Sweet."

He lunged.

I threw myself to the left, scrambling over the hood of a rusted-out sedan parked by the dumpster.

Pain flared in my upper arm. It was a hot, stinging line of fire.

I cried out, stumbling off the car and hitting the wet pavement on the other side. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my arm. Warm blood oozed through my fingers, soaking the sleeve of my jacket instantly.

I looked at him. He was licking the blade.

He swiped his tongue over the steel, tasting my blood.

And then he stopped.

His body went rigid. A shudder ripped through him, violent enough to shake the water from his coat. He let out a low, moaning sound that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with ecstasy.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, yes."

He looked at me. I saw his face for the first time under the hood.

It was… wrong. His eyes were too wide, the pupils blown so large they swallowed the iris. His skin was gray, slack, like it didn't quite fit his skull. And his mouth… his mouth was hanging open, drooling.

"More," he whispered.