Xion Island Carrier: Chapter 21 (no missing chapters I split one)

I am filled with hatred. And the ache of something I can’t name.

I sit alone on my bed, the lamp throwing everything into a weak orange soup. I want it to be red, like my red rage, my red mist, and the red of blood pouring from the throats of my people. My fists are clenched. The newspaper lies on the duvet. Page one. Yesterday, before it leaked that she was one of mine, her death made a column inch on page eight. I am enraged for her.

Iris Taylor. Beloved mother and friend.

There’s a photo. She’s smiling. That crooked grin with her head tilted like she’s listening. She looks as though she’s about to offer you a cup of tea and ask about your train. I feel something rising. It’s tight in my throat and burns behind my eyes.

I don’t understand these feelings.

I should feel clean. Efficient. Job done. But I sit here and feel tears running down my face. I don’t cry. Never have. But I’m sobbing like an abandoned child in a locked car. It isn’t remorse, I don’t regret what I did to her. But when I examine my ridiculous reaction, I realise that this is what loss is like. It’s ugly, sudden and stupid. She didn’t care about me.

Her house smelled of cinnamon. Her hand shook when she poured tea. She told me I had kind eyes. And proving her so wrong stung. She should’ve died with the rest. Not by my hands.

I wipe my face and shake myself once.

And like a light switch, I shut it down. The emotion is gone. The mission is back on track. I am not a weak man. If that happens again, I’ll kill myself.

I leave my room, break through the police cordon, warning that the upper two floors are out of bounds. Not to me, they aren’t. I go where my will takes me, and no ticker tape will change that. I have to slide past the police guarding the corridor, though. I go when they check the stairwell.

And I am flying high on the heady thrill of luck I didn’t earn.

What is this incredible gift from God? He loves me, and Christmas has come early. I wander where I’m not supposed to, checking on my stock.

When I have the lay of the land, I sit in the bar that’s been allocated to them. It’s on the third floor with a good view of the shipyard and second-rate croissants and percolated coffee that tastes of bathroom tile grout. But none of it matters because the place is filled with them. My family, all assembled without having to lift a finger. There aren’t many hotels in this God-forsaken place, but what are the odds they’d be dropped right in my lap? The world is mine.

Faces I’ve studied in documents and social media photos are queuing for room keys like prize livestock. Most of them don’t know they’re related. A few are distant enough to have never met.

I want to release the last tick. I can unscrew the capsule and let her find her way across the carpet tiles to the ankles in trainer socks.

But I control myself because she’s precious. I need her for specific people. She’ll feast on the very last two Taylors. A bloodline isn’t dead until the whole rancid lot has been buried.

There are cops everywhere.

Not many of them are uniformed. But I see them. The way they move and their teeth when they smile. The ones in plain clothes can’t hide the stance. Nash is here. I’ve learned all about him.

He’s at the bar, a man halfway between profiling and battle mode. He’s drinking coffee because he’s on duty and can’t bring himself to order a scotch. Fool.

He’s a handsome devil, but unassuming, and there’s a coil in him that doesn’t release. I watch him from three seats down. There’s nobody between us.

Our first interaction is civil. I nod.

‘Long day,’ he says.

‘Always,’ I reply.

‘You here for work?’ The cop doesn’t recognise me as one of the clan. His guard’s up. He’s fishing, it’s in his nature.

But I’m not concerned. ‘Family,’ I say. ‘It’s a weird one.’

See, DCI Nash, I’m meant to be here. I see him relax. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push.

He’s smart.

He’s clocking me. Not as a suspect, just as somebody alive, who isn’t sick. But he’s dangerous. He listens more than he talks. I see him, a force wrapped in silent questioning. He’s the man you don’t see coming until he’s got your number.

I don’t like him. But I respect the hell out of him. I’ve been under his microscope long enough. Maybe one day soon, I’ll smear him under mine.

I leave without further acknowledgement and stake out two interesting relatives. Rooms 219 and 302. One of each original gender, both in their 30s, and testing clean. They are too alive.

Eeny, meeny, miney. Mo.

There are others in the hotel, former guests who will not be replaced on checkout. We have sales reps, sad men with Bluetooth earpieces, and a family with a screaming toddler, all staying in rooms on the first floor. Nobody notices me.

I follow the man into the lift just after 10 p.m. I don’t bring the tick. I carry a blade. The man’s looking at his phone, and I move quickly.

I take one step. My knife thrusts under his ribs, fast and deep. And when he’s staring at me with a What are you doing? look, I flash the knife across his throat and watch his essence pour. That’s the red I crave.

He gasps, so I hold his mouth closed and watch his eyes change. He slides down the wall panel. There’s so much blood, but not on me.

When the doors open on three, I get out fast before the moving slick reaches my shoes. With murder in mind, I rolled layers of electrical tape over the treads, just in case. I step over the body and walk to the stairwell.

There will be panic soon. Maybe even a lockdown. But that works in my favour. It localises the fear and tells them the killer is here. Ten minutes later, and a change of clothes. There’s nothing unusual in changing for the evening at a hotel. I have a thorough examination to see that I’m not carrying evidence and head to the bar again. I hope he’s still there. I want to flaunt my kill and slap his face with it like a dueller’s glove. He is, I sit in the corner, but make sure he sees me. He sees everything—except my gift for him in the lift. After a drink, the evening is spinning out nicely. I take the back stairwell. There are no cameras.

And then I see her. The woman walks with sass and attitude. She looks as sharp as glass and twice as brittle as she comes around the corner.

I stop in the hallway and smile. ‘Well hello,’ I purr. They like that, women, a purring voice, whatever the hell that is, I’ve been told I have it.

She frowns. ‘What are you doing on this floor? Are you lost?’

‘Not anymore.’

She narrows her eyes. ‘Which floor are you on?’

‘Three. Just heading up.’

‘This is two.’

‘Looks like we’re both somewhere we shouldn’t be.’ If she’s a first-floor guest, I can afford to be brazen. She tries to walk past me, but I step in front of her. I lean one hand on the wall beside her head, then the other.

She doesn’t flinch. ‘Move.’

‘I like a feisty woman, so how about you and me find somewhere to get acquainted?’

 She moves fast, bringing her knee up to a place I’ll protect for now. I’m faster.

I twist away and laugh. ‘Cute, sweetheart. You almost had me.’

‘Try me again,’ she growls. ‘Please.’ It’s hot, and she’s a flaming fireball in a cocktail dress.

‘You’re too pretty to be this angry. I can sweeten you out.’

She’s about to swing again when a man barrels around the corner like a runaway fridge on legs.

‘Get away from her,’ he bellows, launching himself into my middle with his head down. The fridge has turned into a grumpy bull. ‘You all right, Keeley?’

Keeley—nice name—steps back. ‘What are you doing, Bowes? You idiot. I had this. I’ll leave you to your rutting. I’m going downstairs.’ And just like that, my lady flounces off with a fine sashay to that ass, leaving me in the arms of a six-foot rugby type.

Bowes—not so nice—straightens up and glares at me. ‘Which room are you in?’

I shrug. ‘302.’

‘You’re on the wrong floor.’

These people are obsessed with room numbers. I realise I’ve been wrangling with two cops and hold up my hands. ‘Easy, Officer. I got turned around. No harm done.’

He flips out his warrant card. ‘Name?’

‘Colton Parrish. I’ll just be heading back to my room.’

Bowes takes a step forward. ‘Try that again and I won’t be so nice next time.’

I grin. Raise two fingers to my eyes. The old gesture—watching you. Move my fingers from my eyes to his.

As I walk away, I whisper her name once. ‘Keeley.’ It rolls off my tongue like trouble.

I let the southern drawl sink into my cowboy-booted gait, slow and measured.

It’s getting too hot around here.
 

Xion Island Carrier is book 6 in the DCI Nash series. They're all on KU. Hush Hush Honeysuckle is Book One, and this is the Amazon link.

https://books2read.com/u/4EB0zg