SAINT

CHAPTER 9

'' If you look up 'charming' in the dictionary you'll see that it references strong attraction, but to spells and magic. Then again, what are liars if not great magicians?'' ~ Deb Caletti.

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Little Sinner

Some people believe that obsessively watching and following someone's every move is akin to the worst kind of addiction. A drug that many can't seem to shake lingers as their muse observes, akin to an angrily sung prayer.

There he was, as lovely as ever, with the morning's bright star shining through the painted glass upon his golden locks. It was a pure scene, contrasting with his dark, inked arms. I took in every detail about him, and the touch that drew me close, pressing me to his body. We were consumed by a feeling of devouring each other until blissful heat separated us.

He was the son of God, his heart not mine, but his gaze upon the town as darkness descended. I yearned for him, for every hidden secret within his skin. I longed for every inch of his pink lips and blue eyes, drenched in the chaos of this passion. I craved every trace of his scent upon me, and his mind, which I would gradually entwine with my own.

Damon was a vision of heaven that made me take a second glance at the light. The only reason my knife remained sheathed was the daggers lurking in his gaze. The way he lies about despising me, yet seeks me out in the crowd, bewitches the world around me like a magician's illusion.

His gaze meets mine, and I find myself admiring the hatred in his eyes, so replete with deceit. That my heaven despises me only signifies that I am affecting him deeply. I observe the absence of the beads in his hands, and a slight smile forms on my lips. I required his vision to perceive through my own and to witness the terrors in the town he deems sacred.

His eyelids gently fall, lashes brushing against the warmth of his cheeks. I lean back, allowing the choral melody to wash over my mind, instilling tranquility like a seldom-heard symphony.

A gentle pat on my shoulder elicits a soft groan from me as my eyes snap open, as if jolted by a shot of espresso. Killian Reid slides into the space beside me, crossing one leg over the other, and gives me an amused stare.

His brown eyes twinkle in sync with the small smirk he flashes, prompting an eye roll from me. "Little A has a crush?" Killan chuckled, keeping his voice to a whisper before winking. ''A drug,'' I reply pulling of my mask letting my eyes settle with the morning light.

"Oh interesting," Killian said, his gaze lingering on Damon as if trying to figure him out. "I had no idea you were someone who believes in God," he smirked, eliciting a soft laugh from me. "I do believe in heaven, for sure," I winked, standing up to leave.

"He's cute, Little A," Killian winked again, trailing behind me as we left the chapel that harbors my greatest treasure. "Cute isn't the only word," I replied icily. ''And the bitch is back,'' He remarked sarcastically as he climbed into the back of the black van while I drove.

"Boo hoo, you'll live," I said with a smirk as he hoisted my computer. I have been installing a network of cameras around the towns and cities of New Jersey. Tracking every entity that passes by the light, marking the nocturnal activities in this ghostly town, focusing on the singular murder of three men. Police tread upon those deemed lesser in reputation, disdainfully overlooking the bodies that bear no resemblance to humanity, nor the wide-eyed hope for salvation.

Killian scoffs softly, "Just a bunch of kids so desperate that they've been ensnared in this web of pain, yet not a trace-" His voice is laced with frustration, mirroring the anger surging through me. I grip the steering wheel, attempting to speed up, but a red traffic light halts us, and I exhale a heavy sigh.

"She is out there somewhere, Killian. Your sister isn't lost," I said to him gently. Killian scowled, "For four years!" he exclaimed, "Four years, Little A, and not a single trace of her in this ocean of lies," as he slammed his fist against the desk. I glanced in my rearview mirror to see boys, about 13, moving from car to car on the streets, their faces etched with a look of pity.

The boy's ginger hair was matted with dirt, his eyes red from sleep deprivation, and his hands trembled-not from the cold, but from the gnawing need for a fix that clawed at his mind. He was desperate for money, a fleeting solace controlled by those who claim to control us. My heart softened as I rolled down my window and pressed a crisp $10 bill into his palm.

The boy with ginger hair left without a smile, running desperately to find the happiness that his family couldn't provide. I pressed down on the accelerator, following the boy at a slow pace as he dashed into a dark alley, the kind often depicted as bustling with activity in movies. I scan the area, watching the boy dash toward a police van, before shifting my gaze forward.

I become emotionless once more, watching cars pass as if their lunch break is nearly over. ''Check the camera of that vehicle, the number plate and if you could the cop attached to that title of protector of the innocent.'' I spoke in a detached tone, shifting my gears forward to overtake several large trucks.

I had made system the recognizes people in this town with a soft virus into the department of information. The camera identifies the nearest human-like figure and scans them to match their data with their features, secrets, sins, and good deeds. Killian smirks into my mirror and swivels the computer around. "Police officer Ted Mcooly, Sebastian Shaw's nephew," he says, his voice tinged with the promise of sinister deeds and a menacing look on his face.

A soft chuckle escaped me, even as my eyes widened with a mix of anger and sorrow. Blood coated my hands, seeped into my thoughts, and gripped my heart, fueling a vow of vengeance and the exhilarating pursuit of justice for the one who haunts my dreams.

Damon, open your eyes to those you call children of God, they are suffering, my heaven, and so am I. A wild smile is drawn on my face as I cut his hands off, the same ones that feed kids dust with a smirk. God is your head still hanging at the because they were cursed by your kids or are they the devil.

''So,'' Killian raised an eyebrow, as he smirked with a plain delight of blood promised to us. ''So, what?'' I smirked with an icy tone. Killian exhaled loudly, rolling his eyes, ''Bitchy tomorrow, please or I could cut your tongue,'' he shrugged with pout. He was a puppy who carried razor sharp teeth and a key for playing games of fetch where you don't win.

I raised a middle finger and sliced it across my neck, ''You want to be next?'' I said with a wink. He groaned in response, ''What's the plan? Little A.''

''Wo ek raaz hai,'' I smirk driving back to our apartment where the real fun happens, and the words are written in stone and those who wanted blood will receive war in return.

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''Don't be fooled by a soft look and pretty white teeth.''

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