Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4), Matthew Hattersley [best book club books for discussion .TXT] 📗

her. Not very much at all. She’d only been in the bathroom a few minutes, splashing water on her face and pits, freshening up after their second go at something close to passion, and now here he was, snoring into his pillow with his bare arse in the air.

“Bloody lightweight,” she sneered, tilting her head to one side and watching him as he slept.

But this was a good result. She had been gearing up for a third attempt, but mainly in the hope it would tire him out enough so he’d stay put for the night. She had to admit though (only to herself obviously), the boy had lived up to his own hype. She’d hit him with the ‘only a release’ line to keep him at arm’s length (she’d seen how he looked at her and she wasn’t having any of that nonsense), but as she went into the front room and gathered up her underwear she realised it was true. Even if literally screwing the sentience out of someone in your care (what would she call him – her charge, her client?) was a reckless move, it had been a bloody good distraction. Exactly what she’d needed.

She slipped on her pants and bra and gathered up her phone from the kitchen counter. A brief glance at the screen told her it was a few minutes after ten – still early – and she was certain sleep was now far beyond the horizon. With this renewed but gnawing alertness came more obtrusive thoughts, chaotic missives darting haphazardly across her consciousness, too quick to even focus on but leaving their malevolent stench all the same.

She moved over to the small window next to the kitchen and leaned on the sill, gazing out into the inky abyss. There were a few stars in the sky and she wondered if that was Venus over to the east, but no answers. She rolled her head around her shoulders, sensing the dark presence waking in her psyche as her eyes fell on the bottle of Jameson. There was another release right there. A blessed release from the burden of being her.

No.

She had to stay sharp and work with not against the demons in her soul, weaponizing her dark energy like she always used to. With her head held high, she marched past the bottle – still calling her – and into the bedroom. Playtime was over.

Danny’s snoring was more forceful now as she tiptoed around the bed and found her t-shirt and leggings balled up in the corner. She got dressed, picked up her shoulder bag and the Viking 9mm from the top of the chest of drawers and left, closing the door silently behind her.

She made her way out and down the two flights of stairs to ground level. The air was still warm with a slight breeze coming down from the hillside as she stepped out onto the empty street and headed towards the town centre. She had no destination in mind, just an awareness she needed to do something – change the scenery, clear her head. Although, easier said than done when you were Acid Vanilla and at any one time you had a veritable cocktail of over-zealous chemicals, past traumas and bad karma swirling around in your system.

As she walked she chewed on her bottom lip, aware of the road in front of her but seeing so much more. Shadowy memories rose up to meet her, as so often happened when she was alone and in deep contemplation. She thought of her mother, of Davros and Spitfire, and even Jacqueline, her therapist at the home for dangerous girls, the woman who’d introduced her to Caesar. As a professional killer, the fact that her past was littered with so many dead bodies came as no surprise, but now more than ever she felt the burden of karma breathing down her neck.

At the corner she took a right down Zurriola Avenue towards the seafront She’d always found the crashing waves and sound of the ocean spray as it splashed against the rocks to be a calming experience. But as she got closer she saw the tide was far out and the sea was restful for once. Maybe it was the universe balancing itself out somehow. Tonight it was she who carried with her the sea’s violent, restless energy.

As she made her way along the length of the promenade, her thoughts turned once more to Magpie Stiletto, and her entire body shivered with intense hatred. She had to kill her. She had to. Yet she was aware now of another emotion, on the flip-side of her loathing, one she’d been struggling with ever since she arrived in Spain, unable or unwilling to face head on, to look it in the eyes, but perhaps it was time to admit it. She was scared. Except that wasn’t even the main problem. She’d spent the last sixteen years pushing all her emotions down inside of herself. Staying cold, detached, focused – so she could do the job she was paid for. But now here she was on the outskirts of her own life, and she was floundering. Uncertainty gripped her like never before. Could she do this? Could she face Magpie? Could she avenge her mother’s death like she’d promised?

Jesus, Acid.

She shook her head, gazing out across the horizon. If she couldn’t bring herself to kill Magpie, then who the bloody hell was she?

Thirty-Two

It took her all of sixty seconds to pick the lock. Which was longer than it would normally have taken, but she was taking it slow, working as silently as possible. As she felt the pleasing give of the final spring in the cylinder she straightened up and, with her face rigid with focus, opened the door and stepped through into the apartment. Moving stealthily down the short corridor, she took in the open-plan space.

Cerdos asquerosos.

Dirty pigs.

The air smelt of body odour, of sex and hormones. With disgust wrinkling her nose she