Marc Beaumont.
His face is not just stamped on the page of my scrapbook. It’s imprinted in my memory, an image forever branded like a scar across my thoughts. Just like the warmth of the summer breeze, or the last light of the evening sun, or the smell of the pine needles on the steep trail that led from the beach at Calvert Cliffs in Maryland. I remember the way they crunched beneath our boots as Billy and I hiked up to the road. It was Fourth of July weekend. A quick and easy vacation to see my little brother. He’d moved to Baltimore a few months prior and I still missed him immensely. I remember thinking how good it was to hear his laugh again as I looped an arm over his shoulder. He was talking about the beers we were going to share when we started to cross the road to return to the campground. But we never made it back there. Not when that car careened around the sharp bend and struck us both.
And that moment is the brightest of all. I can still see Marc Beaumont’s shock from the passenger seat of the car. I can still hear the screech of tires the instant before the blinding pain. I can still hear my brother’s scream as he called out my name, the last sound he ever made.
It took me months to recover from my injuries. Several more to build back my strength. I spent every spare moment picking up new skills, learning how to hunt a different kind of prey. And on the first anniversary of the crash, Marc Beaumont was the first man I came for.
“Tell me the names of the two men in the car with you,” I whisper. It’s an echo of memory. I might be sitting in my room in the Capeside Inn, but it’s the terror in Marc’s eyes I see. I trace a numb fingertip over the photograph of his face. I can still hear his muffled pleas when I close my eyes. I remember the satisfaction I felt at ripping the duct tape from his mouth. “Tell me their names and I might let you live.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, please, let me go.” The fear in his voice was an awakening. A revelation. It’s what made me realize that the vengeance within my grasp was exactly what I needed. A drug that would soothe me. One I would never get enough of.
I'd already had an idea who was with him that night in the car, but I had to be sure. Marc had claimed in the police reports that he was at home alone and not with his girlfriend when she barreled into us, even though he’d been seen with her at a party not even an hour before the crash happened. He said he didn’t know anything about the accident that claimed my brother’s life and nearly took mine. The one that supposedly claimed the driver’s life, too, when she took off but crashed a short distance away from where she left us to die, the car tumbling over a cliff and into the sea.
But I knew the truth. He was there. Sitting in the passenger seat, with two men in the back. I remember it, their forms and faces blurry in the distance as they got out of the car and argued about whether to stay at the scene or drive away.
It took only moments for them to decide to run away while the driver got back into the car and tore away with a squeal of tires. The only thing I remember from the brief moments before pain consumed my consciousness was my brother’s lightless eyes staring back at me as I screamed his name.
My gaze shifts from Marc’s photograph to the opposite page of my scrapbook.
“Trevor Fisher,” Marc had finally confessed after only a few punches. “And Dylan Jacobs. He works at the Instinctive Ink tattoo parlor in Graywood.”
I’d bound his arms to the chair and I remember the way he looked down at his forearm when he’d said it. When I twisted his skin, the lettering was still crisp, the edges healed but clean. The tattoo couldn’t be more than a year or two old.
Memento mori.
“Let me guess,” I’d said, releasing my hold on his arm. “Dylan and Trevor. They have the same tattoo, don’t they?”
“Y-yes.”
“That’s good.” I’d turned away toward the table of tools waiting to be christened with blood. “I knew I’d need a trophy.”
I take a deep breath and blink away the memories, returning to my room at the inn. I look at my knife where it now rests on the nightstand, the blade as sharp as the day I’d used it to take my first trophy. My first justice. And then I look down at the patch of thin leather, the uneven edges bound to the page.
Memento mori.
Remember, you must die.
AZIMUTHHarper
I ENTER A SHIPWRECKED BEAN with my bag slung over my shoulder and an eye for anything out of place in the little coffee shop. There are the usual suspects. The three Roberts—Bob, Bobby, and Bert—who spend more time in the café than at their jobs filling the potholes that appear every spring. Maddison, the studious and quiet teenage barista who works full-time behind the counter for the summer. Alex, the boy who’s a year older than her, with his floppy hair and devil-may-care attitude. Maddison has the biggest crush on him, and despite several attempts at meddling with their work schedule when the Bean’s owner is occupied with his other restaurant, I can’t seem to get them together. I step into the line and try not to scowl at him. I’m pretty sure his oblivious stupidity is the only thing stopping these two from getting together. With a final perusal of the patrons, I step up to the counter.
“What can I get for you, Harper?” Maddison asks, giving me a sweet, shy grin as she grabs a to-go cup for me. She already knows I’m about to order an Americano, even starting to ring it into her point-of-sale system.
“The usual, please,” I reply, digging into my small bag for my wallet. I wince when my fingertips don’t graze it. “Shit. I forgot my wallet.”
“Don’t worry, I know you’re good for it.”
“No, it’s totally fine. I know I have some cash floating around in here.” I pull Bryce’s tinfoil-wrapped leg chunk from my bag and dig through the remaining contents until I grab a rogue ten-dollar bill, passing it across the counter with an apology. Maddison opens the till for change as my gaze pans across the tarts and cakes and glazed donuts. I deserve a little treat for my busy morning. It’s not easy work tracking down and murdering a man and chopping him up, all before lunch. Maybe a cinnamon bun—
“Anything you recommend?” a man behind me says. His voice is smooth. Decadent. Warmed with a subtle Southern accent. His tone is richer than any temptation behind the glass case. I turn. And that voice, as delicious as it is, is nothing compared to seeing him for the first time.
He’s tall enough that I notice the difference between us, not easily done when you’re nearly five foot ten. He runs a hand through his hair and it’s almost obscene. And he knows it. I can tell by his lopsided grin, the way his lips tug back at one corner to reveal perfect teeth. He’s full of confident charm. When his hand drops back to his side, his hair falls into place as though it’s physically impossible for him to look anything less than perfect, even when he’s disheveled. Especially when he’s disheveled. Shades of honey blond streak the rich brown strands that skim his cheekbones, the kind of color that can only come from time spent in the sun. He’s magnetic. And a whole hell of a lot of … dangerous.
I swallow, trying to gather my composure, and his attention drops to my throat, the greens in his eyes igniting with subdued amusement. An unusual wedge of brown at the bottom of his left iris is a stark contrast to the lighter shades. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for,” I say, trying to sound nonplussed. “Sweet or savory?”
His smile stretches, just a little, enough to coax out two dimples in his sun-kissed, faintly freckled cheeks. “I’m not sure, what did you go for?” At first, I don’t understand what he means, not until he nods to the tinfoil gripped tightly in my hand. “What did you get?”
