Page 16 of The Carnage We Keep

“Well neither of you, Jesus,” Kirill gags out with a sour look on his face. “I mean please, I have standards.”

“Bullshit,” I giggle.

“Cunt,” he shoots back with a grin.

“Twat,” I fire back.

“You’re both big gaping pussies. Now stop teasing each other,” Adrik grunts as he turns to leave my room.

“Thanks, Dad!” Kirill calls after him before he turns to me and grins. “Truce?”

“Fine,” I sigh.

“Good. Now quit fantasizing about sir, put something on over those Jason undies, and come help me pass Econ.”

The butler’s nose wrinkles as he gives me a slow onceover.

“From the agency, I assume?” he says stiffly, not even trying to hide his disgust as I stand there beaming in the doorway of the 5th Avenue townhouse.

Good. Disgust is good. Tonight, disgust will keep him alive, because it tells me he’s not the same sort of creep his boss is.

The creep boss is who I’m here to see. It’s why I’m dressed to look like the most porny, barely legal Lolita trope in the world: schoolgirl skirt so short that my ass is hanging out, platform Mary Janes, knee-high socks with pink hearts on them, and an unbuttoned two-sizes-too-small blouse tied right under my tits. For bonus points I’ve got my hair in twin ponytails with pink bows, way too much makeup, and a fucking lollipop between my lips.

I feel ridiculous.

But, whatever. I get to kill a predator tonight. Even better, a predator who invited me to his home, completely unaware that I know he’s been asking the local escort services for “young, new girls” because his usual source of actually illegal pussy has dried up ever since Carl Bigsby’s little club burned to the ground four weeks ago.

Hm. I think I’ll cut his vocal cords first. Then I can spend allll night having my fun cutting the other parts of him off slowly.

I thought about bringing the last of my homemade green acid. But even I can admit that maybe it caused more problems than it was worth last time.

Timothy Beckford’s butler, or I suppose I should say butler to the Honorable Judge Beckford—how’s that for horrifying irony—gives me another sour look.

“Good evening, mister,” I purr. “I’m selling cookies. Would you like to taste my cookies?”

I can’t help it. I just really enjoy fucking with people’s sense of normalcy.

The butler gives me another barely disguised look of disgust before he steps aside and waves me in.

“Mr. Smith is in his private quarters.”

Mr. Smith.

Whatever, Judge Beckford.

The butler escorts me up two elegantly curved staircases in the stunning midtown mansion and leads me to the gorgeously carved heavy wooden door to the Judge’s "private quarters", then quickly takes his leave.

Showtime, baby.

The door creaks as I open it and step inside, shutting it firmly behind me.

I typically don’t do much research before a hunt. Not because I’m an idiot or have a death wish, I just work better when I can react in the moment. You can plan ahead all you like, but things never go how you think they will when you’re there with your knife in your hand. So why constrain yourself?

That said, I did a little digging before tonight. I know that the judge’s bedroom is at the end of the short hall immediately in front of me. I also know that he’s a paranoid motherfucker—I mean, I guess you would be if you had the sort of shit on your hard drive that this asshole does. This means that Judge Beckford has panic alarm buttons installed all over the house. I clocked one by the front door, two more on the way up, and there’s a fourth one right here by the door to the main upstairs hallway.

Whatever. Beckford isn’t going to be able to push any buttons or even move once I stab the base of his spine with the knitting needle hidden in my clutch and paralyze him.

I take a steadying breath at the door to the actual bedroom, fix my pigtails, and slow the gallop of my racing pulse. Then I twist the knob and step in.