Ho Ho Homicidal Maniac (Murder and Mistletoe #2)

Chapter 1

Blake

It’s just my luck that my first-ever evening at a gay nightclub ends like this.

My head is a snow globe filled with tar. Scattered thoughts whir without rhyme or reason, but as I wake up and open my eyes, the world falls back into place.

I don’t like a single thing about my new reality.

The musty smell of the stained mattress I’m on reaches my senses first, but as everything comes into focus, my muscles calcify with terror.

A camera mounted on a tripod is pointing straight at me, and when I look around, I realize I’m in a real-life horror movie.

The X-shaped frame of a Saint Andrew’s cross, complete with wrist and ankle restraints, towers over me and casts a long shadow on my legs. Knives and saws hang on the wall, lined up by size, and the smell of dried blood is barely covered by the overwhelming stench of bleach.

Once I’m certain there’s no one else here, I lift my head and attempt to dart toward the camera, but a tug on my waist pulls me right back onto the musty bedding with a loud clang of the chain attached to the steel belt sitting around my midsection. I narrowly avoid hitting my head on the wall, but as my temples pulse from the onslaught of fear, I grab the ring digging into my tender flesh. It’s attached to the wall with links that refuse to budge when I pull.

I have always considered myself smart. I’ve consumed so many true-crime documentaries, I started my own podcast, and yet, when a guy dressed up as a sexy Santa bought me a shot at the club, I didn’t even blink twice before downing it. He complimented my dark curls, whispered a sweet word about my green eyes, and I fell into his trap.

After all, it’s my eighteenth birthday, and I left my house for the first time in weeks. I was supposed to have the time of my life, and my brother got me a fake ID so I could enter a gay nightclub. I even dressed up in a dumb Christmas elf costume in hope of attracting someone willing to take my V-card.

I glance down at the ridiculous green shorts and candy cane-patterned stockings.

If I’m so smart, how could I have been so stupid?

I would have texted my friends about where I was going, or even been there with them… if I had any.

Instead, I’m knee-deep in my worst nightmare, because the last thing I remember is Sexy Santa helping me walk when the spiked drink started working, and now I’m in a sex-and-murder basement, surrounded by raw concrete walls and furniture I don’t even want to name. They all bear traces of much use, and as I imagine this stranger strapping me to one of them to inflict torture, panic blurs all my thoughts. I helplessly pry at the lock of the steel belt around my waist.

Maybe my abductor made a fatal mistake that might just save my life? I am quite slim and have the slightest chance of pulling out of this contraption. But as I wrestle the chain with my bare hands, close to having a panic attack, a door opens somewhere above. My gaze travels beyond the camera, to a staircase leading out of this place.

Before I even see the dark shadow on the steps, someone whistles ‘Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly’.

I’m stunned into silence as I back out into the darkest corner of my prison without making a sound, hiding behind a cupboard like the little mouse I am. I’m not someone to act impulsively, especially not while in the vulnerable position I found myself in.

The whistling man’s silhouette is tall, with wide shoulders, and a trim waist. He’s dressed in a fitted black top and dark jeans, but I end up focusing on his balaclava which features… ears. Cute, round teddy bear ears.

My stomach clenches, but I’m soon distracted by the resounding thud thud thud created by the limp body he’s dragging behind him slamming against the stairs again and again. He pulls it all the way down with a final tug that reminds me of a figure skater spinning his partner in a death spiral. The corpse slides over the floor, and from the shadows of my hideout I see a dark shape eject from his pocket and roll toward me.

I’m so frightened even breathing feels like too much of a risk, but when I recognize the fallen item to be a small gun, determination floods my veins. Despite my guts coiling as though they’re full of snakes, I hold the chain attaching me to the wall, to keep it from clinking, and lean forward, trying to make myself as small as possible. The man in black still has his back to me, so I need to move fast.

Sweat beads above my lip as I stretch my arm. I’m about to put my hand on the firearm when my gaze slides over the dead man’s face, and I realize this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him.

It’s the Sexy Santa who drugged me at the club, and while I’m relieved to see that he won’t be able to hurt me in this godforsaken dungeon, I might have escaped the frying pan only to end up in the fire. Or a whole fireplace doused with gasoline for that matter. I stiffen when the whistling killer takes a saw off the wall.

I pull away from the gun and retreat into my prison of dark shadows before he can spot my hand. The weapon that could save my life is so close, but I can’t risk being discovered.

The man stops whistling the jolly tune with a huff and pulls off the balaclava.

I’m dead. I’m so dead.

Even if he never meant to show me his face, even if he doesn’t know I’m here, he will find out, and by then it will already be too late, as I know from every true-crime story I ever read.

My only hope is to remain silent as a mouse, and maybe, just maybe, thanks to a freakish amount of luck, he doesn’t spot me.

I try to memorize every detail of his face. Victims are often too frantic when confronted with an attacker, and can’t describe or even recognize the criminal at a later time.

That won’t be me. If I survive, that is .

In the light coming in from above, his profile couldn’t have been sharper. He’s pale, with messy dark blond hair that barely reaches his chin. Some strands are of a lighter color. I don’t see that well from afar, but his eyes are bright. Either green or blue. Maybe gray?

Big nose. Golden stubble. Must be over six feet tall. Is that a tattoo on his neck? His face is flushed, and his smile widens as he assesses the dead body. I’d describe that grin as either cheerful or predatory. Or deranged. As though he’s just come back home through a snowstorm and is about to bite into a warm cookie.

Details, Blake. Details .

Just as I’m about to log his dark eyebrows into my memory, he leans down with that cheery grin and puts the saw to work on the dead man’s neck. Blood splashes his face, but he just… licks his lips.

The rusty teeth of the saw bite deeper into flesh, and the sudden faintness in my head dives straight into my stomach. I’m retching, and the freak looks my way, his gaze diving into my corner behind the cupboard. I no longer have anything to lose so I dash forward, grab the gun and point it at the stranger with acid still burning my throat.

“Stay back,” I demand, and when my hands shake, I pull them close to my chest, hoping that will make me appear much less intimidated than I am. The chain attached to my waist rattles, as if it has a mind of its own and wants to make it clear to him that my whole body is trembling.

I don’t want to die. My life was supposed to finally begin next week. I was supposed to inherit half a fortune, gain new freedoms, explore the world, and suck my first dick.

The man isn’t frightened, and that doesn’t bode well. His eyes (blue, definitely blue) pierce me, and he doesn’t even blink, like he’s not even human, but a sexy lizard man.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says and cocks his head as he steps closer. Blood drips from his chin.

I’m not a crier, but right now I want to wail. I’m only eighteen, with a whole life ahead of me. What did I do to deserve this?

“H-he spiked my drink. I don’t care what you do with him. I just want to go home,” I mumble as my head throbs, making rational thinking impossible. Maybe my older brother was right when he said I don’t have the personality to deal with stressful situations. Then again, who the hell could easily handle this kind of situation?

He takes another step closer, and I wonder if I ought to shoot yet, but I’ve never even held a gun before, and I’m less likely to miss from up close.

The man’s expression turns curious as he eyes me from head to toe, and I’m all too aware that the Christmas elf top I have on is split all the way to my belly button.

“You should have shown yourself while I still had the mask on,” he says with a sigh and runs his leather-clad hand through his hair. If the situation wasn’t so surreal and terrifying, this could be a perfume commercial and he’d fit right in, with those looks. “What do I do with you…?”

He’s holding something, and I’d recognize the thick vintage ribbon in my sleep, because I’ve read all the articles, books, and watched every documentary about the Christmas Killer. Hell, I even publish a special December podcast about him each year.

“Oh shit… shit,” rips out of my mouth before I can stop myself, but facing the bogeyman of New England while being chained to the wall is too much to handle. “Please, just let me go. I won’t even remember you. It’s science. ”

His nostrils flare in a long inhale. He’s thinking. Maybe I do have a chance. I wasn’t his target after all. If I get out of here and report him, I could probably go into witness protection.

It should be the last thing on my mind, but I’m excited that I could be the one to crack the case of the Christmas Killer.

“Calm down and put the gun away. We will sort this out. I did save you from him after all, did I not?” He points to the dead guy whose neck is partially severed now but doesn’t look back. All of his attention is on me.

He did save me, by accident. Still, he wants me to stroke his ego, so I nod and attempt to steady my voice. “Yes. I am so, so thankful. Please, can you just toss me the keys to those chains? I’ll show myself out,” I add but grip the gun more firmly when the muscular form moves closer. He’s still a few paces away, and I already feel crowded, a mouse hiding from the mountain lion.

He’s young, too young to be the Christmas Killer. Some historians believe he claimed his first victim in 1912, but the person I’m seeing can’t even be in his thirties. Is this man a copycat?

The monster makes a sad pout. “I can’t let you go, I’m afraid. But I see you appreciate the Christmas spirit.” He points to my costume, in which I wouldn’t have been caught dead in if I hadn’t been trying to get laid at a nightclub. “I’m sure we’ll get along just jolly.”

He moves so fast I yelp and step back, but pull the trigger anyway, only for it to… do nothing.

I freeze, and he pulls the pistol out of my hands with a soft sigh. “Next time pull the safety off first,” he says and demonstrates, as if I haven’t just tried to kill him. Despite the terror sinking deep into my body, all I can focus on is that there might be a next time , and that surely means he doesn’t plan to leave my head wrapped in the same ribbon as Sexy Santa’s.

I open my mouth, ready to face him again, but before I can make any noise, a sharp sting makes me glance to my arm, where a small needle is embedded in my flesh. My eyes meet the killer’s blue gaze, he smiles at me, and then everything blurs.

The last thing I hear is his soft murmur.

“ Sleep in heavenly peace …”