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PROLOGUE

VICTOR

The warning bell chimes while I’m out back, chopping up firewood to distract myself from the insistent, nagging malaise that always sets in this time of year. I really do hate autumn.

The log splits in two, tumbling to either side of the chopping block. I embed my ax in the block and wipe the sweat off my brow. Another soft, twinkling chime echoes through the little clearing tucked between my gas station and my home. For the first time since the leaves started turning back in September, I feel something like excitement. It’s been months since I’ve had a good option come by. Maybe this one will work.

The faint purr of a car engine filters through the rustle of mostly-empty tree branches. Then it cuts out, just on the other side of the building. Someone’s definitely in the parking lot.

I don’t step into the gas station to greet them, however. Instead, I hoist up my axe and take it with me into the back room where I keep an eye on the people who come through here, evaluating each one before I act. Can’t have them see my face until I decide what they’re going to be: customer or victim.

The CCTV screens glow softly as I sink down in the old leather seat, flicking my gaze between each one, looking for my target. The parking lot camera shows an old pick-up truck. I breathe out, irritation rankling. Good options don’t usually drive pick-up trucks, in my experience.

Of course, good options also don’t usually take FM 890 up into the mountain, and even when they do, they sure as shit aren’t stopping at The Backwoods Gas and Go—not when there are any number of well-lit, family-friendly rest stops and snack emporiums dotting the roads between Denver and the various ski lodges.

I slouch down in my chair, watching the screens. Movement activates the door camera, and I see my latest arrival:

A man. Of course.

It’s not one of my regulars, though. I do have a handful of them, enough to give The Backwoods Gas and Go plenty of plausible deniability. I’ve never seen this guy before, although he doesn’t look much like a tourist. He’s too rough around the edges, and he’s got the big arms of a lumberjack. He makes a beeline for the beer cooler, too. He’s gonna be disappointed, because I haven’t restocked it in a while.

My heart thumps. Normally, a man would be a customer. Men are too much trouble to be victims most of the time; they bluster, they try to put up a fight. But that’s not the real reason I usually go for women. Because the truth is that it’s a certain type of woman I look for.

Mary. I’m always looking for a Mary.

I slouch further down in my chair, watching this man—a customer? A victim? I still haven’t decided—step out of the beer cooler with a six-pack of Budweiser. I’m grateful when he stops in the snack aisle. Buys me a bit more time.

I don’t particularly want to make him a victim. I know it won’t ease the century-old wound in my heart the way a Mary would. But it’s autumn, nearly Halloween, and that’s got irritation crawling just under my skin.

It’s also been six months since I last killed someone, and I’m fucking hungry for it.

I watch him frown at my admittedly measly collection of chips and mixed nuts. I’ve got to decide. If he’s a customer, I’ll go out there the way I am, ring him up, send him on his way.

But if I’m gonna make him a victim, well—things’ll go differently.

He selects something from the display. Can’t tell what, not on the camera. But my chest feels tight, and it’s hard for me to get a proper gulp of air. My skin itches like it’s crawling with fire ants. Six months is too long for someone like me to go without killing.

I guess that’s what does it. The burn under my skin. He’s not a Mary, he’s not even a woman, but it’ll tide me over until someone better comes along. And with Halloween so close, with the smoky scent of burning leaves perpetually lingering in the air, I need a kill more than I usually do.

So I make my decision, but I don’t really think about it. I grab my gas mask from its hook on the wall and slide it over my head, settling it into place so I can hear my breath echoing. I’ll use my wood-chopping axe as a weapon since it’s currently leaning up against the wall. Simple, effective. This doesn’t need to be fancy or elaborate. All that matters is that I spill some fucking blood.

“Hello?” The victim’s voice is muffled through the wall. “Anyone here? I’m ready to pay.”

I shove away from the CCTV screens and grab the axe and stroll into the storefront. My office door deposits me directly behind the cash register, and the victim looks up when he hears my footsteps against the tile. For a second, there’s a blank expression on his face. Then it twists into confusion, seeing the mask. His fear spikes, sharp and tantalizing. He hides it well, a big, strong lumberjack like him. A human would think he wasn’t scared at all. A monster like me knows better.

“You forget to take something off, buddy?” he asks, a slightly nervous edge to his voice. He hasn’t noticed the axe yet, I don’t think. I’m dragging it along my side because I want to surprise him as much as I can. I certainly don’t want him running.

He takes one step back, his eyes fixed on me.

“You hear me?” His fear brightens his voice, and even with the gas mask on, I can smell it. I removed the respirator from this thing years ago. I needed a way to hide my face, and I liked how this looks, how it makes me seem alien and insectual. It seems to heighten my victims’ fear when they see me in it, which is part of what I’m chasing whenever I indulge in my nature. That scent of fear.

“Fuck this,” my victim says, and I know that’s my cue. He steps like he’s gonna turn around, but I’m faster than any human, and I’m on top of the register counter before he can actually do anything. Then I’m swinging the blunt side of the axe so that it slams into the side of his head. The whole thing takes less than a second.

My victim falls to the ground with a thud. I jump down, landing light on my feet like a cat, and listen. He’s still alive, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest. There’s some blood on the floor from a small, tidy wound at his temple, and my body lights up when I see it. Fuck, it really has been too long. Or maybe it’s just because it’s October. I always go a little crazy in October.

My victim groans and tries to shift onto his side. I swing the axe down again, hitting him on the back of the head this time. Not with my full strength. I don’t want to kill him out front like this. But I use just enough force that he slumps forward, limbs going limp.

I grab him by the ankle and drag him one-handed toward the back entrance over by the long-defunct ICEE machine. He’s heavier than I’m used to, so it’s slow going, but I’m not bathing the Gas and Go in blood. The last time I did that—nearly fifteen years ago at this point—I had to toss half my inventory and shut the place down for a month to make sure everything was spotless.