Марни Азарелли - Strange Girls - Women in Horror Anthology

“Just letting my eyes get used to the light.” She stumbled in with a grin to him. Tobias still couldn’t figure why a poor girl had good teeth, but he pushed that to the back of his mind – they wouldn’t be important. He’d knock ‘em out with a hammer afterwards. “So, what did you have in mind?” Mercy asked, pressing up against him.

“I thought you might like the view from my bedroom – you can see right over the city.” He grinned, showing her through to the sweeping windows. The moon was swollen full, casting bright over the clutter strewn about.

“God I’ve not seen it that well since I was back home,” she said, peering out.

“Drink?”

“Any bourbon?” she asked with a smirk over her shoulder.

“Of course. So, what do you think?” he asked, slipping around her to the drinks cabinet. He drew a blade from the drawer and slid it up his jacket sleeve, before pouring two measures. Hers was a double.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice was liquid velvet, warm and seductive as the drink. Tobias almost found himself regretting what he had planned for her.

He knew his tastes were perverse, that he was considered sick, but he couldn’t face going to another therapist, having to move again when they called the police. He’d come to terms with what he liked, and he didn’t hurt anyone important – street walkers and the girls that slept rough. No one of any use. He was helping the city, in his own way, and helping himself at the same time. They should thank him.

But they never would, because he was ‘unwell’, went against the normal sensibilities, and they feared him for it. He tried to quash the flares of useless rage licking up his back: he needed a clear mind to finish this business then he could have all the fury and violence he wanted.

“Most people can’t appreciate the beauty of the night,” he whispered, his voice thick, as he grazed his lips against her bare shoulders and then neck. She let a small laugh escape, leaning into his touch.

“A lot of people are just scared of it,” she said, turning so they were both illuminated by the silver light. He passed the glass to her and flicked his hand, feigning nerves. The liquid spilled down her chest and stomach.

“I’m so clumsy,” he muttered, moving the blade closer to his wrist as he reached for a tissue.

“It’s okay.” She laughed, wiping the liquid off.

“No, here, let me get it,” he said, thrusting his hand forward and pushing the blade in, then up, beneath her sternum and through her heart. Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating far quicker than with the last few. She fell to her knees, looking at the blade and then back up at him as she gave a little gasp of shock. He pulled the knife from her and wiped the blood against her top as she slumped forward. It was only slightly darker than the material, barely a stain.

He moved to the door and turned the light on, a grin spreading over his face. He went back to the cabinet and poured himself another drink, savouring the kick as he downed it. The adrenaline always shook him up when he took them, but it was worth it for what he got with the bodies. Just looking at her living had almost aroused him, and now that he knew she was there, dead, it was nearly too much. The sheer desire. He’d drag her to the bed in a few minutes; he just needed another drink.

It was odd for Mercy to feel pain. She hadn’t felt it for the longest time, her strength and speed keeping her safe. The stabbing had been unexpected, and rather agonizing. She hadn’t even considered him a possible physical threat. She could easily overpower most humans, even the stronger specimens.

Oh but this motherfucker thought he was going to do that to her?

She slowly stood up, her eyes narrowed in anger.

“You stabbed me!” The sound of her voice sent a cold bolt of shock through his system. “You stabbed me! And you ruined my top.”

She was next to him now. He turned to look at her, prickles of fear dragging over his scalp. The wound of his blade was still sputtering small splashes of blood, seeping into her top. Her face was outraged, glaring at him with those blue eyes almost black.

“Y-you’re dead.” His voice didn’t want to work, leaving his mouth gaping and moving like a dying fish. He didn’t understand this: he’d killed her.

“You utter bastard,” she spat, the back of her hand catching his jaw as she fumed at him. He hit the cabinet and crashed to the floor as bottles accompanied his decent, shattering around him. She stamped on his leg and he heard a sickening snap, felt his stomach twist to eject the drinks of the evening. As his head spun he heard her shout, “You’re not even worth drinking!” before a door slammed.

Mercy stormed out into the evening, fuming. She’d have to find someone else to drain tonight. She cursed the wasted hunt, livid that she’d not had her meal. Vampires in this city were careful, they never left too many bodies in one spot or got greedy with their deaths. It kept them safe here. She’d used that diner on and off for years to mark out her prey but this had been a thorough fucking disappointment. She was skilled in her hunting, she’d never lost a meal here before.

Spying a drunk wandering towards her she tripped and fell to the pavement, seeming helpless. She looked up with the most innocent expression she could manage, noticing his hungry smirk as he moved towards her. Maybe she would get to feed soon enough.

Charlotte Plattis a young professional who writes horror and urban fantasy and is an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. Charlotte spent her teens on the Orkney Islands and studied in Glasgow before moving to the north Highlands. She lives off sarcasm and tea and can often be found walking near cliffs and rivers, looking for sea glass. Charlotte was shortlisted for the Write to End Violence Against Women Award 2017, placed second in the British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition 2017 and has had short stories published in Unfading Daydream, Dissonance Magazine, Econoclash Review and Horror Tree. She can be found on Twitter at @Chazzaroo.

His tongue is in her mouth again.

Against her back, she can feel the fabric of the tent, the wet canvas smell mixing with the taste of ketchup and soda and Juicy Fruit gum. Her right hand is closed around a guy-rope; her left, for want of anywhere else to put it, is on Richie’s belt. He has taken hold of her right breast and is squeezing it rhythmically and not especially gently. This is your fault , she thinks to herself, eyes closed and mouth open. You didn’t say no.

The tongue retracts back into his mouth, slick, fat and slug-like. She imagines it leaving a trail of thick mucus behind itself, and her stomach lurches at the thought, sending a tide of acid rushing into her mouth. Her own tongue flicks out and runs across her lower lip, as if it were possible to lick away every trace he had left behind.

“You liked that, did you?” he says, grinning, wet-mouthed. She realizes he has mistaken the emotion behind her reflexive gesture for enjoyment.

“It was nice,” she says. He takes a stick of gum from his pocket, rolls the paper and foil into a ball which he tosses to the dusty ground.

“You want some?” he asks, as he folds the stick into his mouth. Before she can answer, he leans close and kisses her again, his probing tongue pushing the chewing gum behind her teeth. The back of her skull makes contact with a tent-pole, hard enough to rattle her jaws together, and he pulls back, laughing. “Sure you don’t want some?” Her face feels tight, her laughter hollow, but he seems neither to notice nor to care. “So what do you want to do now?”