Chapter 2

In the moments before I go to sleep at night, I think of those who left this earth before me, grateful for all they have done to prepare me for this time and wondering how my life might be different had they not succumbed to the demons in their dreams. Too many years have passed. The many decades I’ve lived on earth don’t show on this near mortal body, this tired angel’s face. Too many nights I’ve studied the textured ceiling above my head, feeling alone and angry. My anger isn’t directed at them. I know they did their damnedest to fight for their lives. They had to. Otherwise, why would they have fought so hard to put the skills to survive in me? No, my discontent is not with my fallen parents or grandparents, it’s leveled at those who caused their deaths.

Tonight is no different than the rest as I close my eyes and take that rage into the dream with me, still searching for killers who would end another life as easily and painfully as they had those of the ones I’ve loved. Although this is the task I accepted before I came to earth, to never truly sleep, to always hunt instead of rest, to kill some damaged soul lurking in the corners and shadows of my dreams, I sometimes wish for a reprieve. What I wouldn’t give for one night of peace. Perhaps I will have that when I’m dead.

From the first day I woke in Colorado Springs, I’ve hated the place. I was young and preferred the trees of Washington State. Colorado was too dry and brown. But a demon had found our Seattle home so I understood why we had to leave. With my father dead and mother severely injured, we had no choice but to move with first light.

For months, I moped around, longing for the thick, lush green I loved. Eventually, I found thick, flowing crimson instead. Now I can’t purge Colorado from my soul.

Impatience over our hasty move—not to mention the trauma of seeing my father dead—had caused severe anxiety and resentment. I rebelled against my unusual new surroundings. Soon, however, those emotions were replaced with intrigue as I caught the scent of the indigenous souls. There was something strong and sedate in the aroma. There was a feeling of being settled and a sense of uneasiness lying beneath the surface. I was curious to know what caused the disturbance. There is a deep history here that most never knew. Something about it made me shudder, with fear or anticipation, I wasn’t positive. What I knew for sure was the voice of death calling out in the night. That was when I started dreaming and the hunted became the hunter. My turn to play.

Only eleven years old, I hadn’t been very big and hadn’t developed full strength, so I was led to the weaker monsters, ones who were deadly, but inexperienced. There were a lot of those in the area, punks who thought they were killers, torturing animals and young kids for ritualistic sacrifice. Women who’d sell their souls, even kill their own child, for a shot of poison in the arm. I was afforded an opportunity to sharpen my skills. Slowly and completely.

By the time I started high school, I’d graduated to more vicious demons, ones who lurked in alleyways to surprise you in the shadows of your dreams at night. I drew on my hatred for the one who killed my father, used it to destroy the others, still searching for the one.

Soon, I’d found him, murderer of dark angels. He’d tracked us to Colorado, somehow caught our scent in the air. I’d barely started dreaming the night he appeared in my bedroom. He was leaning beside my window, playing with the curtains.

“Your father never told me you were so beautiful while pleading for your life. Had I known, I’d have come for you long ago.” He had lust in his gaze while moving to my bedside. “I’ve been waiting for you to dream. I’m dying to play. Can we begin?” His eyes digested my body as he licked his lips, impatient to start.

I’d considered this moment, prepared for it since I’d started hunting. I’d imagined him waiting in the shadows for me and knew exactly what to do.

Without comment, I slid from the bed as if I hadn’t seen him, so he spoke again. “Aren’t you wondering how I found you? Aren’t you afraid of me?”

He asked far too many questions, wanting me to give a frightened response. I gave him something else.

I fought the impulse to turn and bludgeon him where he stood, instead, slipping into my bathroom and closing the door. As soon as he breached the room, barely appearing past the doorframe, I impaled him with the shower curtain rod.

“No, I’m not afraid of you.”

With all other kills, I’d walked away before they’d taken their last breath. This one I observed. As he slipped to the floor, I crouched in front of him, watching his face turn soft. I knew he was in a darker place for eternity. I also knew I’d never fear a shadow again.

I often think about him as I go hunting. I wonder if I’d allowed more time to play, would he have killed me? I felt cheated in a way, not having taken more time to make him endure my wrath and know my pain as he slowly drifted into the darkness. There was so much I wanted to say before he gasped his last breath. For starters, why did you kill my father? And do you realize he wasn’t the only thing you took from me?

Before he came to my room, I’d imagined the satisfaction of seeing him dead. Now I wish for more. I’ve craved more of his blood on my hands as he looked into my eyes in fear. I wanted him to know he was going to die and dread the minutes, every second, ticking off in my room. Maybe it was best to take care of him the way I did, create a known outcome. My morbid sense of entertainment, however, dreams of alternative scenarios.

Sometimes I look forward to the deadly dance. I pretend I’m playing with my father’s murderer. Some nights I want the monster to know the fear his victims felt. Other nights, I want them to pay for what they’ve done and what another had done to my family.

I’m asleep early, searching for the next deficient soul to cross my path, for our separate dreams to meld into one, anxious to begin. Tonight I want a good fight to relieve my frustrations. My mind searches the darkness, wondering if I’ll see Collin Leary. No doubt, Green Eyes also searches for me. He showed his intent when he walked into my territory.

After a moment of darkness, I find myself following an effervescent stream; mountain water with natural fizz. I’m meant to trace the flow. Any body of water typically leads to my target.

This stream draws me to a park surrounding a small pond. Several Aspen line the perimeter. On the edge of the dream, formation is an area I refer to as the shadows. It’s the darkness that cloaks whatever lies within and beyond.

Usually, the shadows separate the real world from that of the sleeping. At times, the shadows serve to separate one dreamer from another, forming the intersection where dreams and dreamers cross over and the realm of somnolence becomes shared by more than one. When that happens, each person can take some amount of control of the dream. Whoever changes it first is the sole one who can change that aspect and no one else can alter it but that dreamer.

Here, a young girl sits on a bench, waiting. She appears to be crying. There are no others around as I search the park. There’s a bubbling pond fed by the percolating stream. A nearby gazebo has benches circling the exterior. I’m hesitant, yet I move across the grass to sit with the girl. When I reach her side, I can tell that she’s frightened, so I kneel beside her.

In the dream state, I have the ability to read the thoughts of most everyone I meet, killer or victim. Paired with an angel’s extraordinary sense of smell, I learn all I need to know of the souls populating my sleep. The closer I am to children, the more they can catch my scent as well.

“You smell nice,” the girl whispers and smiles, her eyes still filled with tears.

To innocent souls, I smell of the place they’ve nearly forgotten. The memory brings back the feeling of love and comfort, something we all desire. The smell of an angel reminds them of home. Not home on earth but the one they knew before coming here.

Darker souls sense death when they near us. They can’t smell love or comfort anymore. If they could, maybe they wouldn’t kill. If their subconscious could remember where they came from, perhaps they would think twice before sending another on to the after-life in such a devastating way.

“Are you alright?” I ask, continuing to search the area.

“I’m lost,” she answers in a weak voice and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“You’re not lost, Princess.” Taking her hand, I draw her to her feet, leading her up the steps of the gazebo. “Here’s your castle, waiting for you.”

Her smile grows as the wooden structure magically forms stone turrets and fortified walls.

“What a lovely dress you’re wearing today.” Her pajamas transform into a full satin dress with flowers and ribbons. A silver crown appears on the messy toss of hair on her head. The grass turns to a field of purple flowers as she creates a kinder dream for herself.

“Did you make this?” Her innocent eyes reflect the moonlight when she turns her face toward mine.

“No, Sweetie, you did.” At that moment, something catches my attention. Has the demon joined our dream? If it is, they’ll take control and change it to a new scenario, one where the girl becomes his victim.

From the corner of my eye, I see someone in the shadows, moving toward us. “Let’s see if we can find the Queen Mum.” I tilt my head toward her and she smiles back, all traces of tears diminished.

When she grabs hold of my hand, I lead her across a field of violets to the edge of the pond. Kneeling beside her, I take hold of her shoulders. “Do you trust me when I say I won’t hurt you?” I ask and she hesitates for a moment then nods. “Good. Because I wouldn’t ever dream of harming you, do you understand?”

She nods again.

“The Queen Mum is in there.” I point to the water and her eyes grow wide with fear. Flowers crush beneath a set of rushing feet behind us and I know there’s no time to explain. “You’ll see her as soon as you wake, I promise.”

Before she can run, I throw her backward, her body careening toward the water. In her fear, she tries to grab my sleeve, but the momentum carries her under. Within seconds, the girl and her purple satin dress can’t be seen and I know she awoke in her bed, although I’m still asleep in mine and continuing the dream with another.

The crunch of stiff blades of grass grows nearer as the intruder swiftly approaches. Their sense of the dream we’re in has changed the landscape to a barren field. Without hesitating, I spin and kick legs out from under them. The resonance of a young male voice cursing me as his jaw hits the ground brings a satisfied smile to my face. Now I can circle him like a hawk zeroing in on my prey.

“Son of a—”

“Don’t say it.” Before he speaks again, I stop and lift his chin for a look.

Damn. He’s only a boy, fifteen at most, initiated into a gang, so below my league. The scent of fear on his clothing tells me the frightened little girl was intended for his first kill.

After knocking my hand away, he claws at the ground until he pulls himself to his feet. I’m nearly a foot taller. He couldn’t be more than thirteen. I’d overestimated his age.

“You’re just a kid,” I tell him and shake my head. “What’re you doing? You don’t belong out here.”

He reaches into his pocket. “What do you know, you mother—”

“Stop! Don’t open your mouth and don’t pull your hand out of your pocket.” I stare him down with a look he’s seen before, one his mother would give to show the severity of the situation.

He hesitates. “What’re you gonna do? Nothin’!” He lifts his shoulders, trying to appear taller.

“What I’m gonna do is make you wish you’d kept your hands in your pockets, that’s what. You don’t want this. And if you decide to do it anyway, I’ll kill you right here. You pull out that knife and I’ll have no choice but to slit your throat with it.”

His dilated eyes drift down his arm, his expression showing he can’t figure out how I knew. If he realized who he was talking to, it wouldn’t surprise him that I can read his mind and his emotions.

“If you kill, in your sleep or while you’re awake, I’ll find you. I promise you that.”

He stares back at me with wide eyes, trying to decide if I’m bluffing. “You some kinda cop?” His voice falters.

A song from the eighties creeps into my mind and I laugh aloud. “Yeah, I’m the dream police. Go home.” Shoving him into the same pond as the young girl, I know he’ll wake in a cold sweat in his bed. There’s no doubt he won’t forget the dream. Hopefully, he doesn’t forget the message.

Since there has been no kill as of yet this evening, I’m still caught in the world of nightmares. My body still prone in my bed, my soul searches the plane where all dreams materialize. The barren fields dissipate and I’m led to the slumber of the next killer.

As I turn away, a whimper stirs my senses. The gurgling continues, but I’m no longer beside a brook. Instead, I’m in an office building on the expensive side of town. The new dreamer has changed my surroundings.

The room is tastefully decorated with stuffed bookshelves and soft chairs placed around polished cherry office furniture. On a corner of the desk is a small, bronze statue. Beside it, there’s a brass clock with the inscription, Boss of the Year. A placard sits at the top of the desk. Phillip P. Bradley. In the adjacent wall, a hidden closet with the door slightly ajar contains two pressed suits and several rows of royal blue ties. Why would any man need that many neckties, all the same color?

A rustling in the next room perks up my ears. The door is open and the lone light in the building is in the outer office. The continued sound of gurgling fills the air, but it doesn’t seem like water anymore.

I’m careful not to make a sound while entering the lobby. To my left is a smaller desk nearly masking a montage of personal photos taped to the wall. One of the pictures shows a young woman kneeling next to her dog. She’s cute, but her clothes are a bit too snug and her top far too revealing. Not appropriate in a prestigious office. Out of place.

Kneeling on the floor in front of the desk is a man in a suit, leaning over a woman with a necktie around her throat, pulling it tighter. Fear dilates her eyes while she chokes and fights to get free. I’m paralyzed for a moment, remembering a night long ago when my screams were muffled. The voices of two laughing boys had drowned out snapping embers in a mountain campfire.

The stifled cries of a frightened woman return me to the room with lavish office furniture and professional literature. I can still save her. She hasn’t expired yet. As I move toward them, however, something slips around my neck and pulls me backward against a warm body. The stubbly bristles of a late afternoon beard catches my hair when he draws me into his chest. No matter how hard I tear at the binding, I can’t work myself free. The constriction of my windpipe limits the air passing through, but doesn’t cut off my breathing completely. He’s toying with me, unprepared to kill me…yet.

“I’ve been waiting for you. I have your favorite tie.” His hot breath brushes my cheek and I wonder if it’s him.

I gather my strength in anticipation, waiting for the scent of Ireland to fill my mind. When I’m sure the bastard is Green Eyes, I won’t take my time with him. Once I’ve extracted the answer as to what happened last night, he’ll meet the ending he deserves; swift justice. As I attempt to draw a deep breath, I realize there’s no fresh scent of moorlands to calm my senses and simultaneously stoke the killer in me. All I smell is expensive cologne. Damn. It isn’t him. My breathing becomes heavy. Suddenly, I’m disappointed he didn’t show.

Trembling with anticipation, I continue surveying my surroundings, desperately hoping to calm my fear. Small lamp on corner table. More filled bookshelves. Several other small bronze statues.

The noose around my neck loosens slightly as he slips in front of me, shoving my back against the wall with his palm pressing firmly into my chest. Finally, I get to see his eyes. Not green. Blue. The pressure of his body pins me securely. I’m still surveying the scene, wondering at the relationship between the two killers in this dream with identical hair, height and build. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, the one still hovering over the woman turns to glance back at me and the one who has hold of me. They’re the same person.

The degenerate is recalling a previous kill and the memory is exciting him into a repeat performance. With me. The feeling of his body pressed into mine makes me shudder and I grit my teeth. His well-manicured hand slides up the back of my thigh. In his mind he has me in a tight skirt and low-cut shirt. Great. The bastard’s imagining me as his sexy secretary. Jerk.

One more look over his shoulder and I recognize something about his kill-site. There’s a scent of salty fish and a hint of rotted wood. He hadn’t killed here in Colorado. She was near the ocean. Probably the West. I can feel the flutter of seagulls in the distance. Cold, not warm. Maybe somewhere along the Oregon/Washington coast.

“How do ya like it, huh?” The strong smell of mint breath spray infuses with the aroma of garlic chicken when he speaks. “Do ya like it rough? Ever beg your lover to spank you hard?” As he pulls my thigh upward until my knee is against his hip, the grin on his thin lips spreads before he slaps the side of my ass. My eyes narrow as I allow him to drive my anger to the edge. Keep going, asshole, I’m nearly there.

His accent is definitely Midwest. This man is a serial killer. She wasn’t his first. Unless I end him tonight, he’ll kill again. In his sleep and while he’s awake. He doesn’t care. There’s no conscience to reason with. The thought makes my heart beat faster and my blood turn hot.

My attention is drawn immediately on him when his free hand slips under my skirt again; then, gently rubs before slapping my ass once more. He keeps staring me in the eyes, waiting for fear to show in them. His touch makes me sick, sparking my fury over a terrible event many decades ago, when I was still young and innocent, one in which he hadn’t participated. I’ll use that memory to enjoy the kill that much more while savoring every moment.

With teeth still clenched, I lower my foot to the floor and then bring my knee up to connect with his groin. This time I watch his eyes. When bone meets flesh, he flinches slightly, but he’s not as fazed as I’d hoped. He’s obviously been kneed before and I didn’t use full force. If I’d given all I had, though, he’d be dead. That wouldn’t be very fun now, would it? Why do I love this game that’ll just make me hate myself later? Am I no better than the scum I hunt in my sleep?

“Is that all you got, Baby?” He’s prodding me on, licking his lips as his fingers slide around my thigh and into me. My body lurches with repulsion at his invasion and I knock his hand away. I’ll give him what he’s asking for. The asshole has no idea that, if I had wanted a swift kill tonight, he would already be dead. But, I’m reveling in the control I have over his life and his death. I’ll let this play on for a little while longer.

He shakes the sting in his hand from my smack, shoveing his groin into mine so I can feel his erection as he tightens the fabric around my throat once again. Then, he nudges the neck of my shirt to the side with his mouth. The sting of his teeth penetrating my shoulder is followed by the smell of iron. My eyes close and my anger deepens. This has gone far enough.

“Come on, Phillip. Let’s play,” I tell him and he lifts his head in surprise, my blood coating his lips. My opportunity.

Bringing my forehead down hard into his face causes his nose to crack and splatter blood on my white shirt. Grabbing hold of a finger beneath my skirt, I bend it backward until he sinks to his knees.

With his middle finger tight in my grasp, I slowly increase my grip. “You won’t be using this anymore, Phil,” I say through gritted teeth as the bone snaps and shatters. He screams in agony.

As he lowers his head to cradle the shattered finger, my knee cracks his chin hard enough to send him backward. Pulling the necktie from my throat, I toss it to the ground beside him. I return to his office, leaving him writhing on the floor.

My stride is slow and tantalizing, enticing him to follow if he wants me. And he will. He’s addicted to the chase, the melee of another human fighting for survival. The greater the struggle, the more invested he becomes. Much like me, he enjoys allowing his victim enough room to think they might win, and then pulls them back to finish the deal. Sick bastard.

By the time I reach his desk he’s standing in the doorway, leering at me with fury and lust in his eyes, blood running down his chin. Reaching for the lamp on a nearby table, I flick it on to illuminate a nicely framed photo in the glow. The picture of Philip was taken in front of a large brick house with tall windows, surrounded by lush landscaping. I know the neighborhood. Very upscale.

“You’re rich. Congratulations, asshole.” Picking up the picture to study it, I see the smile on his face as if there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s standing next to a woman, the two of them flanked by a pair of teenage boys and a young girl. Poor woman probably has no idea what he’s been up to and why they’ve had to move so many times.

“Nice family. They know you’re a rapist? Does your wife have any idea you hire single women with no one to worry when they go missing?”

His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow on me. “Put that down.”

Blankly staring back at him, I slam the picture flat on his desk, enjoying the sound of shattering glass. “Pretty room you have here. Kill all your women at work?”

“Just the ones who ask for it.” The dim light illuminates a gleam in his eyes. His hatred for me is obvious, but he’s enjoying the chase as much as I am.

“Let’s make this epic, then. Shall we?”

At my invitation, he moves forward with the tie dangling from his hand. I stand still, noticing everything around me without taking my eyes from him. I’m only able to use the objects from his mind to defend myself, that is unless I’ve prepared in advance of the dream; planted the idea in his mind before he slept. Since I never know the demon I’m led to, the idea is virtually impossible. The lamp is too light. The plant beside it—still not enough to bash in his brains. Books, table, chairs. Drawer… Gently opening it a matter of inches, my hand slips inside to search for a weapon. Top of desk; name placard, Day-Timer, clock, statue, shattered glass. Perhaps I could wrap my fingers around the bronze. Might break some bones, smash his skull, but there should be something more, a backup. I hate to leave it to chance. After all, he does have as much control over this dream as I do.

As the thought enters my mind, my hand slips across something sharp. That’ll do. I pull it behind my back while keeping his attention on the hand reaching for the bronze. Impatient to begin again, he throws a punch, but his fist blows past my cheek when I turn my head. “Is that all you got, Phil?” I taunt him back.

The hand with the statue swings forward and he catches it with the necktie. His strength is unusual and surprises me by the move. I’m taken off guard and the bronze is yanked from my grip as he pulls me toward him before flipping the tie around my neck once again. He’s very talented at this. The asshole should have his own freak show in Vegas. Or, maybe not.

With my back against the desk, he leans his body over mine and pulls the ends tight. The breath is caught in my lungs until they burn and I allow it. For some reason, I enjoy the feeling of almost suffocating. Near hypoxia excites my rage and makes the kill more satisfying. A smile of accomplishment slips across his lips as he leans over to kiss my mouth, his tongue still rancid with garlic and his jaw covered in blood from us both. My hand reaches up to push his pugnacious face away. The stench of his breath assaults me as he opens his mouth to speak. “You’re mine, now. I’ll own you for all eternity,” he nearly whispers.

I don’t think so.

Pulling his head to the side, I bring the other hand up. The shard between my fingers plunges deep into his neck. The tie around my throat loosens when he reaches for the red-soaked glass. His fingers try to plug the hole in his artery, but blood still flows. After pulling the noose free, I wrap it around his neck, drawing him to sit on the floor in front of his desk. Almost immediately, the fabric is soaked red as I lean over with my lips to his ear.

“How does it feel now, Baby? Are you having fun?”

His pupils dilate as I crouch in front of him. Staring into his irises, I see the wild eyes of two deranged boys who tried to end my life many years ago. No matter how many times I try to kill it, the memory won’t die. The death of Phillip P. Bradley won’t cleanse those demons from my soul.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

He nods. Why am I still discontent, watching the fear in his eyes turning to terror? Studying his expression for another moment, reveling in the kill, I finally stand and walk away. Saliva gurgles in his throat and I close my eyes in disgust, hating myself for wanting more satisfaction.

As I reach the office door, something seems out of place. I smell the presence of another. But, before I can turn, I’m hit from behind. With a hand to my head, I spin to face my attacker. They’re gone. The smell, the feeling of another breathing soul, surrounds me, but my vision is blurred. The pain grows unmanageable and I sink to the floor as Phillip takes his last breath.