One

Moonlight Sonata

 

My mother never wanted me to be like her.

Aggressive. Self-absorbed. Cynical. Cruel. She would be the first to call herself a monster. My father would disagree with that moniker—though she could be monstrous when she was so inclined.

But even monsters love fiercely, and she was no exception. My mother loved me, and that love was why she wanted me to choose a different path than she did. One more like my father, who valued compassion and always saw the best in people—even, or perhaps especially, in monsters.

As I stood in the doorway of the dark bedroom of one Ben Fraley and thought about what I was about to do, I wondered if she’d be disappointed in me.

Light from the waning moon on a cloudless autumn night speared through the breaks in the blinds, giving the small room enough of a glow to make out the prone figure on the double bed, sheets twined around his legs and hips. He slept on his back, the sight almost disturbing to me—I couldn’t remember, in my entire life, ever sleeping so exposed like that. I almost always both fell asleep and woke curled on my side, facing the door.

That, at least, was likely something that would’ve pleased Mom—I was always prepared for a fight.

I stepped forward softly, the dark area rug that covered the laminate floor muting the footfalls of my combat boots. Ben Fraley slept soundly, a faint snoring from his open mouth. There was nothing impeding the path to the bed, the room untidy but at least with clutter kept to the corners. He currently lived alone but only recently—before that, his ex-girlfriend had cohabitated with him for four years. She sank all of her money into the bills while he’d whittled away at her sense of identity and isolated her from her friends and family. He’d been the one to sabotage the condoms, she was certain, so that she’d end up pregnant, then as she’d entered the second trimester, he’d beaten her badly enough that she’d miscarried.

And why had he beaten her? Well, there is no “why” with a man like him—there are excuses but none hold any weight. When his girlfriend miscarried, she’d ended up on the street because he insisted it had been her fault...somehow? Honestly his logic was fuzzy, and regardless of what twisted reasoning went on in his head, the end result was an abused, grieving woman now homeless. Afraid to make contact with her family, still positive she did something wrong. There was one old friend she’d finally gone to.

That friend had brought her to me.

And now here I was, alone with dear Ben.

I sat on the edge of the bed beside where he was sprawled out and regarded him for a moment. Then I pressed my hand to his bare torso, just beneath his breastbone, my fingers splayed and gentle.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, body shifting and stretching on his back as his eyes blinked sleepily. It took a moment for my presence to register, then his muscles went taut, flexing beneath my hand. He was strong from having a physically active job and youth, not from anything he’d put into it—and strong enough to move me from his bedside if he wanted to.

And if I was a regular human.

“What—who—” He pressed his hands to either side of the mattress and started to push himself to sit.

For thousands of years, witches’ spells required several things to work. Innate ability, to power them. Focus, to channel said ability. Occasionally ingredients, depending on the complexity needed. And words, which were crucial to any spell.

But my generation inherited a whole new world.

Power pulsed through my veins, taking my preferred form—an electric jolt that hummed harmlessly along my fingertips and burned into Mr. Fraley’s flesh.

He yelped and jerked an inch straight off the bed.

This goateed motherfucker was definitely awake now.

He moved sluggishly this time, heels uselessly kicking at the mattress as he slumped back and stared up at the ceiling.

“I’d prefer you to stay put,” I said quietly. “Please.”

His mouth moved wordlessly like a gasping fish, and panting breaths eventually slowed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his dark hair as his eyes focused on me. “Who...?”

Then he frowned.

I was not what one expected to go bump in the night. Twenty-two. Average build. In the moonlight he’d see the darkness of my roots and bleached blonde hair but not the pink hue in some of the strands. I don’t look like a predator; I look like I’m an average college student, and Dad is always quick to remind me that I should be one.

“No, you don’t know me. And you will never see me again after tonight.”

“I...” His gaze flickered to my hand against his chest, the wheels in his brain turning. Was he merely in some waking nightmare or had I actually shocked him with my fingertips? Could he push me away? Was it worth trying to take a swing at me? Should he wait and see how this plays out?

“I’m not here to rob you, Ben,” I continued, and the use of his name had his eyes widening again. “But you have done some terrible things and I try to have patience for men like you—I do, I really do, because I know at some point you’ve had some damage and you’re raised in a world that teaches you from birth that you’re entitled to our minds and our bodies and our souls, but...” I shifted forward and pressed a little harder on his chest. “...I was not gifted with an abundance of patience, unfortunately. I don’t know if it’s nature or nurture, but either way it was not a virtue either of my parents really instilled with me.”

“But—”

“Now, my more violent tendencies? Definitely hereditary. Combined with my father’s sense of right and wrong and, well, you get me, in this moment, right now with you, Ben.”

“I don’t know what you think I did”—motherfucker apparently found his voice at last—“but you’ve got the wrong guy, I swear—”

He shifted to rise again, and another spark ran along my fingertips to jolt him.

Ben yelped and flailed this time; I was over him in a second, my other hand coming to clamp over his mouth as I whispered, “Shhh, shhh, it’s all right, calm down.” My tone was soothing and sweet, and his muscles twitched from the brief shock of electricity.

When he seemed settled again, I released his mouth and returned to my seated position. “I do have the right guy, Benjamin Mackenzie Fraley. I do my research and I would not be here otherwise.”

“What do you want?” he whined, the moonlight catching the rising sheen of sweat on his pale skin.

“Well, first I have to give you a message. It’s not always something I do, you see—sometimes I think it’s better for someone like you to never have the answer, to not know who to blame. Because, really, the person to blame is yourself. You did this. But as soon as you get a name, you throw everything onto them, and you think of yourself as a victim. And you aren’t one. You’re an abuser. A predator. You are everything that is wrong in society and even if you were capable of change, I don’t believe you’re worth the opportunity to do so.”

I let silence fall while he panted painfully and wiggled, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

There is always a moment where they get it. Where they either know, or have a pretty good guess, who I’m talking about. Some of these men have a list of potentials so long, though, that they aren’t sure which one it is—as if saying the wrong name might piss me off further.

Regardless, there is no way Ben could save himself whether he spoke or not.

He opted for silence, but his eyes hardened, and in that instant, we both knew what I was about to say.

“Joy Suarez,” I answered at last, “would like her goddamn life back.”

His lips trembled and voice cracked as he tried to speak. “I don’t know what she told you, but—”

“There is no way to finish that sentence that will change the outcome of this.”

Tears welled in his eyes then and it was a fight not to smile—I enjoy the moment the soft underbelly of the predator is exposed and they show you who they really are. Ultimately, Ben was a fucking coward, and his tears now, the stink of fear rising on him, was absolutely beautiful to behold.

“Who are you?” he managed.

This time I did smile—sweetly at that, though an edge of predatory glee glided across my features. “My name is Elis O’Connor, and I’m the woman who kills you.”

He tried to scramble up then, grasping the bedsheet beneath him, his lips parting in a frantic “Wait!”

My silent call was answered by a fierce, violent electrical charge of magic that rushed along my arm into my palm and fingertips, surging as it made contact with his skin. Blue crackling light flowed, frying his flesh and delving deeper. His scream was cut off as his muscles seized, head flying back and spine arching.

Magic in the form of electricity burned through his body, jolting through his torso, cooking organs, frying everything it came into contact with, threads dancing over his body to burn away any DNA I might’ve left, and brightening the room so it was almost blinding.

Sometimes that was enough to kill them outright but Ben’s heart kept kicking, a stink rising as his bowels loosened and a wet spot spreading across the bedsheets over his crotch. Hair sizzled and his eyeballs started to melt.

It was vile but still strangely fascinating.

When he stopped shaking, tendrils of electricity crawled back up my hand, winding around my arm and sending warm, playful tingles skittering across my skin. Dad always said magic had a sentience, that it behaved better when you treated it as a partnering force rather than something to be controlled. I was inclined to agree.

I rose from the bed and turned from the stinking corpse to look around the room. Joy said she wanted her cat back—it had to be around here somewhere.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty...” I called softly and began the search.