Part 1 (1/2)

Cupid.

Jade Eby.

Kenya Wright.

This is dedicated to our brains. You gave us all the creativity, ideas and fort.i.tude to pull together this bada.s.s story.

One.

Cupid.

There was a man in the darkness, and that man held a b.l.o.o.d.y bow and arrow.

The bow was carbon, barely three pounds, and with a leather grip. Long ago, he'd carved ten lines into the handle.

Each mark represented his kill, and tonight, he would add two more lines.

Blood always came, when the man drew back his bow. The arrows were fast and easy to pull, and oh how he loved to make them fly.

He loved to watch the blood drip down a graying corpse, inch by inch, staining flesh and radiating the scent of death.

He loved to watch that crimson liquid pool around dead bodies, his targets, men who'd hurt women for sport, fathers that raped children, husbands that cheated on loyal wives, and brothers that stole the innocence from their sisters.

He loved to watch them die.

And when they did, he crouched down, hummed his mother's lullaby, sniffed the rotting air, and peered into their lids, to see their mortality glaze over vacant eyes.

That night, the bow and arrow had done everything it had been brought to the rich man's condo to do. Mr. Neil Carson, millionaire extraordinaire, lay dead on the kitchen floor. His mistress's corpse was sprawled along the granite counter with her bare bottom up, red bra hanging around her tiny neck, and her head resting in the sink. Water dripped from the faucet, wetting her hair and filling the s.p.a.ce with a haunting rhythm.

”This was too fast.” The killer frowned. ”Too easy.”

Blood dripped from his fingers, spilled red dots onto his polished shoes, and stained the front of his tuxedo s.h.i.+rt. He would have to change before returning back to his mansion. No doubt he'd scratched his hair due to his restlessness, and got blood on his blonde waves.

At least I can wash this mousse stuff out of my hair.

Usually he wore his strands in disarray, only getting a haircut the few times he had to show his face at a board meeting in his corporation or a news spotlight for some innovative food product his staff had designed.

Earlier tonight, his mother obsessed over his hair, called her stylist, and had his head done up in ridiculous waves.

She'd had him on her eighteenth birthday. A monster had gotten her pregnant. But that hadn't stopped her from loving Asher the minute he came into the world. In fact, there was no person, no man who could possess the love she had for her son.

”Oh darling! You look fabulous!” His mother embraced him right as he stepped out of the hallway.

”I look ridiculous.” He patted down his tuxedo. ”I won't wear this thing all night.”

His mother laughed. ”Asher, you'll wear it or I'll give you h.e.l.l.” She slid her hands down his muscular arms as if marveling at his strength.

Asher had been working out more, testing his speed in the morning during runs, timing the instances he scaled up walls or dashed down a hall without making any sound. He'd been getting better, just for the sake of never getting caught.

He always had to be two steps ahead of everyone-the police, his victims, and the few curious rich folk, who put down their caviar and took notice of all the wealthy men dying around them.

Asher's mother stopped her hand at his wrists, turned it over, inspected him, and then glared. ”Do you have to wear those cufflinks?”

He glanced at them. They were cla.s.sic steel and oval shaped. On the surface, diamonds outlined skulls. ”I like them.”

”They're ruining the effect.”

”I disagree. The skulls add to the effect.” Nodding at a maid who hurried past him, Asher traveled down the hall and toward the spiral staircase.

The stairs were one of the main reasons he'd bought the mansion. Several film production companies had made them famous and shot numerous scenes from the top view. Gangsters in mafia movies fell to their death from that level, their legs and arms wagging as they plunged to their descent. In the few romantic flicks done in his mansion, lovers raced down those stairs-the hero hoped to catch the woman he might've lost, the heroine rushed away, yearning to finally be done with the broken cycle. Directors had doc.u.mented those spiraling steps, noting the artistry in the carvings on the rail. Tiny angels decorated the inside, where most people placed their hands as they traveled down. Horned-demons covered the outside.

Asher relished in the demon etchings, pleasured in the wicked grooves that pressed against his fingertips each time he rushed up or took his time going down.

They were eye candy. When he stood at the top and gazed below. A wild rose of stairs greeted his eyes-this sort of spiraling down of petals made from iron and cream marble.

Tonight, those stairs also served as Asher's escape from his mother.

”Where are you going?” She trailed behind him. ”I haven't smelled you yet?”

”What?” He scrunched his face up in horror.

”Smelled.” She rushed after him. ”I haven't smelled you yet.”

”Goodnight, Mother.”

”Asher!”

He stopped at the top of the stairs, checked his watch, and hoped he'd have time to go over preparations for this evening. His gloves, other equipment, as well as his bow and arrows needed to be near his motorcycle that was parked on the far south of his grounds, at the end of a ma.s.sive garden.

His mother inhaled him.

Shaking his head, he smirked.. ”Do I smell good?”

”What are you wearing?”

”Soap and water.”

”No cologne?”

”Good evening, Mother.” He continued down the stairs.

”Where are you going?”

”The party will begin in two hours. I'm sure you want to go over everything with the kitchen staff.”