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"Understood,"Hendricks replied, fingers beginning to move across keys.
Morgan watched asher team sprang into action, each person playing their part in the machinery ofjustice. The weight of responsibility pressed down on her shoulders, but sherefused to buckle. She'd faced darkness before—both within the system and withinherself during her wrongful imprisonment—and emerged stronger. This time wouldbe no different. She wouldn't rest until the killer was behind bars and thewomen of this city could walk without fear once more.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The lamplightspilled through the bookstore’s front window, casting a warm glow onto the dampcobblestones of the quiet street. He stood motionless in the shadows, watchingas the woman inside moved with a purposeful grace, stacking books andstraightening displays. Her hair, the color of polished mahogany, was pulledback into a loose bun, a few defiant strands curling around her face. She wasunaware of the eyes that bore into her, eyes that tracked every move withpredatory precision.
He could hear thefaint sound of music drifting from the store, a soft melody that seemed to wraparound her like a comforting shawl. It was almost time. The hour was growinglate, and soon she would step out into the night—unaware that it had been waitingfor her, that he had been waiting for her.
As if on cue, thelights within the store began to dim, one by one, until only a single lampremained near the register. He watched intently as she reached beneath thecounter, withdrawing a set of keys that glinted briefly before disappearinginto her coat pocket. His breath misted in the cold air, anticipationquickening his pulse. He shifted slightly, his gaze never leaving thestorefront as she approached the door, flipping the sign from 'Open' to'Closed'.
She stepped out,locking the door behind her, and he drew back further into the darkness. Buthis focus broke for just a moment when the flickering light of a nearbytelevision caught his attention. He glanced over to the electronics storeacross the street, where the news was playing silently behind the glass.
"…police areadvising all residents to stay vigilant," the caption read, the image of agrim-faced newscaster framed by scenes of flashing police lights and yellowtape. "The killer has been targeting individuals at historical sitesacross the city. Anyone with information is urged to come forward."
He let out ascoff, the sound muffled by the fabric of his collar turned up against thechill. The incompetence of the authorities amused him; they were always stepsbehind, issuing warnings that did nothing but fan the flames of public fear.And fear was good—it kept the heart racing, the blood flowing.
His eyes returnedto the woman, now pulling her coat tighter around herself against the cold. Thenews was irrelevant to her, irrelevant to what needed to be done. He knew thatthese distractions would not deter him. No, he had a task at hand, and he wasresolute. With every ounce of his being, he believed in the necessity of hismission.
With measuredsteps, he prepared to emerge from the shadows, the evening's work about tobegin.
He flexed hisfingers, feeling the tightness of anticipation in his joints. There was asacred urgency coursing through him, an imperative that clawed at the edge ofhis consciousness like a relentless whisper from the beyond. The shadows aroundhim seemed to pulse with the same fervor, sharing in his clandestine vigil ashe peered at the bookstore's warm glow spilling onto the pavement. His missionfelt like a living thing within him, writhing and insistent. These heathenwitches who desecrated the sanctity of the past with their modern ways—they hadto be punished. And he was the chosen instrument of that divine justice.
"Time is ofthe essence," he murmured to himself, barely audible above the hum of thecity's nightlife. The cold air did nothing to chill the fire that burned withinhim. Soon, he would leave them all where the gods would reward him—where the spiritsof the old world would recognize the purity of his cause and grant himabsolution for the deeds he was about to commit. In the quiet corners of theearth, ancient stones and forgotten groves would bear witness to his offerings.The thought invigorated him, filled him with a sense of purpose that few menever knew.
His gaze neverleft the woman inside the bookstore as she moved gracefully between the aisles,extinguishing lights and tidying shelves—a nightly ritual observed withunwitting solemnity. She was unaware of the fate that awaited her just beyondthe familiar comfort of her literary sanctuary. Unaware and thereforeunguarded. Perfect.
The taste of themoment was on his tongue, metallic and sharp, like the tang of blood yet to bespilled. She hadn't seen the news, blissfully ignorant of the danger thatlurked mere feet away from her sanctuary. This ignorance was a veil he wouldsoon tear away, and underneath he would find the raw canvas upon which he wouldpaint his masterpiece.
His heartbeatthrummed in his ears, a drumbeat of war against the silence of the night. Hecould almost savor the adrenaline that would surge when the time came topounce, to spring forth from the darkness and assert his will upon herunsuspecting form. Each second that ticked by was a note in the prelude tochaos, and he was the conductor awaiting the cue to unleash the crescendo.
"Patience,"he whispered, his breath forming clouds that dissipated into the night.Patience was a virtue, and his reward would come with the completion of hiswork. The bookstore owner would soon step out from the safety of her domain,locking the door behind her, stepping into the narrative he had crafted withsuch meticulous care.
He withdrew intothe deeper gloom, away from the faintest touch of streetlight, his form meltinginto the city's darker recesses. His eyes remained fixated on the storefront,watching and waiting. The moment of reckoning approached, and with it, the sweetrelease of destiny fulfilled.
The key dangledfrom her fingers, a metallic glint in the dimming light as she turned it in thelock. The satisfying click signaled the end of another day's refuge amongstbound tales and printed escapades. It was his cue—the moment he had anticipatedwith fervor. He watched her step out into the cooling air of the evening, herroutine unaltered by the shadows that crept around her.
He emerged fromhis hiding place, a specter birthed from the deepening twilight. His movementswere deliberate, each step calculated to bring him closer to his unwary quarry.The pavement felt firm beneath his feet, the distance between them shrinking withevery silent stride. In this orchestrated dance of predator and prey, he knewthe rhythm well.
"Excuseme," she called, unaware that the chill she felt wasn't just from thenight air. "Can I help you?"
She didn't know,couldn't possibly comprehend that he was beyond the reach of civility orreason. The script had been written long before she locked her shop for thenight, and he was its devout executor.
"Leave mealone," she said, her voice steadier than he expected. A testament to herstrength, perhaps, but futile all the same.
He stood beforeher now, the space between them evaporated by his presence. With eyes thatmirrored the dark intent within, he spoke, his voice devoid of warmth."Not tonight." The words slithered through the air between them, aninvisible serpent coiling around her will to flee. "You are coming withme, and you will die where I tell you to."
Her screampunctured the silence, a desperate plea that would find no savior in the emptystreets. But he was prepared; his grip was ironclad, forged by conviction andthe relentless drive of his mission. He seized her, his hands an unyieldingvice on her arm, pulling her away from the safety she had so carelesslyabandoned by closing up shop and stepping into his meticulously spun web.
She foughtagainst him, a natural instinct to survive flaring within her, but he hadanticipated this resistance. He had planned for it. All these heathen witchesmust be punished, he reminded himself, and her struggle only served tostrengthen his resolve. There was no room for doubt, not when the godsthemselves awaited the fulfillment of his sacred duty, and time was the onecommodity he could not afford to squander.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dawn crept intothe office with the subtlety of a seasoned intruder, spilling a wash of graylight over desks littered with case files and coffee cups. Morgan sat hunchedbefore her computer screen, dark hair spilling forward as if to shield her fromthe glare of endless data columns. She felt every hour of the all-nighter inher bones, the fatigue settling heavy on her shoulders like an unwelcomemantle.
"Anything?"Derik's voice was rough with his own weariness, green eyes bleary but searchingas he looked to her for hope.
"Deadends," Morgan muttered, the words tasting like ash. The trail was cold,their leads exhausted, and frustration simmered in her gut—a familiar adversaryshe had battled many times before. She glanced at Derik, noting theprofessional cut of his suit did little to disguise the tired slump of his tallframe.
