Ho Ho Homicidal Maniac (Murder and Mistletoe #2)

Chapter 3

Blake

I’m in hell.

Cold walls of raw brick surround me from all sides, and I can’t help the shivers running down my spine from the overwhelming cold. Despite it not being freezing, the chill seems to be reaching all the way to my bones. Is this place damp, or are the sensations I’m feeling caused by all the souls who’ve perished here over the years?

I’ve never believed in ghosts, but now that I’m in the hands of the Christmas Killer, all the crazy paranormal documentaries I’ve watched as a teen are coming back to shatter my composure.

This place appears ancient . The floor looks like it’s been carved out of stone, there are no windows, and the bars making up my cell are iron, like this is a historical sheriff’s department, not the second murder-basement I’ve woken up in within the past twenty-four hours .

At least this time, there’s no torture equipment in sight, so maybe he intends to get rid of me fast, without making me suffer for his enjoyment? But if that was the case, I’d already be dead.

I pull the red-and-green blanket I’ve been covered with more tightly around me and sit cross-legged on the narrow cot taking up a third of my prison.

How on Earth has it come to this? I’ve always seen myself as careful, I read so many books about serial killers, I even feature the Christmas Killer each year on my podcast. What are the odds of my head ending up wrapped with his signature vintage bow?

I chuckle, but it soon turns into a dry sob as I slide off the bed and once again attempt to get the ancient lock of my cell to open, but to no avail.

Even if I did have mad lockpicking skills, which I don’t, I would need some kind of tool to get myself out of this mess, but the only things I’ve been provided are the bedding, and a meal of milk and cookies. It’s as though the murderer is fucking with me.

He probably wants to interrogate me, find out who I am, to work out how many people will be looking for me. Or, another grim option, he does know who I am, hates what I say about him on the podcast, and will carve a pound of flesh out of me for every perceived lie.

I’ve not touched the food, in case it contains drugs, or even poison. If he wants to stage my suicide, he’ll need to try harder than that. On the other hand, I am starving. I was so nervous about my first outing to a gay club I didn’t eat since breakfast, and now it’s been who-knows-how-long since my last croissant.

Oh, what I’d give for Franklin’s omelet with goat’s cheese and a sprinkle of fried garlic… Right now, the sheltered life I’ve complained about in my mind so many times feels like a distant dream. A golden cage doesn’t seem so bad when you’re stuck in one made of iron.

I stiffen and back into the corner when I hear footsteps on creaky wood, but my blood goes cold when I hear the Christmas Killer’s voice.

“Ho ho ho!” he says cheerfully like the deranged maniac that he is.

I stand straight, wrapped in the ugly Christmas blanket and try to keep calm as the door opens and the tall, handsome guy strolls in holding a neat little basket, and yet another blanket, even more garishly festive than the one I’m using. I would have dreamed about flirting with a man like him at the club. If I didn’t know he has blood on his hands.

I open my eyes, but the stress eating me from the inside is so overwhelming I can’t push out a single syllable, and stare at him, wordlessly begging, Please, don’t kill me .

Yesterday (or is this still the same night?), he wore a soft long-sleeve that wouldn’t restrict his movements, but now he’s in a well-fitting burgundy shirt with one button open at the collar to reveal his neck tattoo. Several snowflakes. How appropriate.

His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow as if he were trying to distract me with his sexy forearms instead of cutting me up like he did my earlier abductor. Am I catnip for kidnappers? What the fuck?

He puts down the blanket, the basket, and cocks his head at me. “This is quite the pickle, isn’t it?”

For a moment, I see myself marinating in a huge pickle jar, like one of those deformed fetuses preserved for prosperity, but I shake it off and clear my throat, because this is my chance to gain this man’s sympathy, and even serial killers aren’t immune to others stroking their ego. “T—thank you for saving me,” I tell him just before my stomach makes a low gurgle that goes on and on, filling the silence between us.

He makes a concerned face. “Poor thing. Did you not see I left you cookies—” he pauses and his eyes widen when his blue gaze settles on the plate “—raisins. Of course. I didn’t think you might be particular about that, I was in such a rush to prepare the space. Lots of people dislike raisins, I should have been more considerate about it. Any allergies?”

Does he want to… kill me via anaphylactic shock?

It would be an unorthodox but efficient and discreet way of disposing of someone who now knows this man’s secret. And since I did go out to party last night, it would be plausible for me to accidentally ingest something I shouldn’t.

But I shake my head. “Just dust mites.”

He nods and his smile wanes as he looks around. “I know the space is not ideal, but I will spruce it up in no time, and it’s well-insulated, so there’s no damp here.”

He’s mad. In a world of his own, and I’m an unwilling participant in whatever unhinged fantasy of his this is. Then again, I should have already known this, since he is the Christmas Killer. No one sane rips people’s teeth out then wraps their decapitated heads in ribbons.

But he isn’t trying to scare me, and he didn’t threaten me yet so… maybe I can make him like me? I’ve made podcasts about victims who managed to endear themselves to their captors and survived. Could this be my chance?

“I’m just so scared,” I tell him, desperate to appear younger and more innocent than I am, so he pities me. That’s right, Christmas Killer, I don’t deserve to die. I’m a nice boy, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time .

I think back to last night’s party, and the thoughtless way I accepted a drink from a stranger, just because he was hot, makes me cringe. I know the methods criminals use to victimize people, and I should have known better. As it turns out, reading about crime is very different from actually dealing with manipulators trying to spike your drink. If my life experience wasn’t so limited, I would have known that.

And now here I am, trying to make the most prolific killer in my state like me.

Fuck my life.

Trying to pressure him into releasing me would backfire, so being ‘nice’ is the tactic I’ll be sticking to for now.

“I understand. The situation is new to me as well. I’ve never had a witness before. Or survivors.” He opens the basket to reveal a thermos, cups, plates, and food. Does he want to have a picnic with me, or something?

As much as I want to deny it, when he pours hot chocolate into the cups, my stomach demands to drink it right now .

But what if he’s just being nice to fool me, like Sexy Santa had? What could he gain from poisoning me, though? Unless it’s his thing to watch someone die a slow and painful death.

“I imagine that must be extraordinarily awkward,” I say with a nervous chuckle and stare at the marshmallows he tosses in from a cardboard packet. Could those be spiked as well? He didn’t put any in his own mug.

My mind flashes back to the moment the saw ripped into my dead abductor’s neck. I’ve seen so many photos of crime scenes, yet it can’t compare to the real life experience. The sudden smell of blood in the air, the awful sound of the blade as it ripped through meat and cartilage …

Maybe I can go another hour without eating after all?

As he passes me the hot mug, I wonder if he chose a burgundy shirt so blood doesn’t show on it as much.

“Let’s consider it a Christmas miracle,” he says with a smile and bumps his cup against mine. “My name is Nico, like, you know, Saint Nicholas. But no ‘h’. It will be a while until I work out exactly what to do with you, so it would be nice to get to know each other.”

I struggle to remain serious, because for all his prowess in remaining free over the years, this guy is utterly deranged. And unpredictable, and that means the next time I wake up, there might be a knife against my throat.

“Blake. And, uhm, my big brother must be worried sick about me,” I add to check his reaction.

“I’ll find out about that, but Blake… Sometimes life takes a turn, you know? A few years ago, I lost my grandfather, and he was the only family I had left. It wasn’t an easy transition, but I adjusted over time.”

Does he mean… I’ll be adjusting to living in a cell with no windows?

“You want to just keep me here on my own?” I ask in the most sullen voice I can muster.

“It’s all so fresh it’s hard to tell. I don’t believe in gifting pets for Christmas, but I could consider getting a puppy for you, if you think you won’t deal well with solitude.”

Is that even a question? I hate him so much already for restricting my freedom, for the abduction, for the farcical ‘treats’ meant to subdue me, but I’m still fighting back tears at the thought that this might be my life now. Stuck in some freak’s cellar.

“What kind of life is that?” Rips out of my chest as I step closer to the bars, pinning him with my gaze. “There’s no sugarcoating murder. Even if it’s just murder of the soul, and my soul is going to die in these conditions! ”

But it’s as if he’s not hearing me at all. He cocks his head and stares into my eyes so intently my heart rises to my throat. I overdid it. I couldn’t stay nice, and he’s gonna kill me. Or leave me here alone for a week to ‘teach me a lesson’.

“‘There’s no sugarcoating murder’…” he repeats. “I could swear I knew your voice from somewhere! You’re Cryptic Boy Wonder.”

My blood might have just frozen over, and I want to deny it, to hide my interest in his work of blood and gore, but he’s already decided what to believe. And I’ve never been a good liar. He’s certainly going to kill me now, and make it his grandest spectacle to date, sending a message to every single person who ever spoke ill of him.

“I…”

Nico puts down his mug and reaches into my cell through the bars, extending his hand. I step back, afraid that he’s trying to grab me, but his smile widens.

“I am such a fan. I love that you cover the local cases. I know I’m the December highlight for a lot of true-crime aficionados, but it feels more genuine from you. And your voice? Ah.” Still keeping his hand in front of me like he wants me to… squeeze it (?), he pats his cheek as it darkens a little. Is he blushing? “I might have a bit of a crush on you. I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable? I just figured that—I mean, your outfit…”

I couldn’t have been any more scared, because not only does this maniac know my voice enough to recognize it, but he’s also gay and has me in his clutches. Does that mean I’ll have to navigate his sexual interest in me on top of everything else I’m already dealing with? How could my life take such a rapid turn, and on a night meant to be my step into adult life and toward freedom ?

“I… don’t know you yet,” I say, because it’s painfully obvious I’ll get nowhere without pandering to him. Even my ears feel hot when I think I might have to get close to him to get out of here. How close? Shaking his hand? Kissing him? More?

I should definitely not be thinking about that.

He pulls his hand back, flustered. “Right. Of course. Too forward. After all, you, like me, hide under a pseudonym for a reason. I might have gotten a bit too enthusiastic. You don’t like hot chocolate?”

Seriously? How is the reason for my wariness not obvious?

“I… that guy spiked my drink.”

Nico tut-tuts and he looks at me with compassion, as if he’s not holding me prisoner. “Oh no… that’s how he got you? Look, I’m drinking it,” he says and takes a sip. “I’ve also brought sandwiches and a fluffier blanket.”

My stomach rumbles at the very idea of having a sandwich, and I bring the mug to my lips, tasting the creamiest, milkiest chocolate I’ve ever had. Or maybe it’s just my hunger talking. “I don’t know if I can trust you either. After all, you’re not letting me go.”

He passes me the blanket, and I once more glance at his muscular forearm dusted with dark blond hair. Am I admiring it or wondering how easy it would be for him to strangle me? I’m not sure, but I do know that without a weapon I won’t stand a chance against him.

“Nothing is out of the realm of possibility.” He’s dangling freedom in front of me, which makes me wonder if his perky persona is just a manipulation tactic. “But while I have you here, I’d love to clear up some misconceptions about me.”

Nico takes a big sip of hot chocolate and drags a small table close to the metal bars. He presses it against them, then sits on a small stool, which previously stood in the corner, as if he and I were sharing a meal. It’s… bizarre, but when he places a sandwich overflowing with meat, cranberry, and other goodness on a plate, I can’t resist and dig in.

It’s so heavenly I end up grunting with pleasure, only to freeze when a grin appears on the killer’s handsome face. “Uhm… yes?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he dismisses it and looks down at all the paper crafts he has set up on the table along with scissors. But the way he’s blushing suggests my moan might have been way too enthusiastic. I’m not used to being around a man who’s attracted to me, and now I’ll have to deal with that on top of the fact that he’s a damn serial killer.

“Do you like it? I just love Christmas foods. I can have them all year round.”

I might hate Christmas, but the seasonal food is all right. Or, in the case of this particular sandwich, damn tasty. I only hope the meat is in fact turkey, not human thigh. “It’s very nice. Did you make this yourself?” I try to once again crawl into his good graces.

He lights up as if he’s a star on a Christmas tree, and my heart skips a beat, even though I know he’s evil . Is this Stockholm Syndrome kicking in already?

“I did! I make a whole turkey every few weeks, carve it all up then freeze it, but I’m sure you’re more interested to find out the facts about me and my legacy. Who knows what will happen. If I die or go to prison, you’d be allowed to reveal everything I tell you.”

Now it’s him trying to reel me in. Whether he just wants me docile or to get into my pants, I don’t know, since I have no experience in flirting .

Once again, I’m a fish swallowing the bait. “You’re a copycat, right? You’re clearly not over a hundred years old.”

He looks genuinely offended as he bites into the sandwich. “Me? I might be twenty-seven, but I am a legacy, trained and allowed to carry the Christmas Killer name by my grandfather. There was a copycat though, I’ll tell you that. Three years ago, that murder of the innocent bauble-maker. But that wasn’t me. I found the bastard who did that under my name and disposed of him quietly. I didn’t want his death to muddle the waters of my story, and I only found him in January. I don’t kill willy-nilly. I check who’s naughty and who’s nice. And that guy was most definitely on the naughty list.”

I have no words for this shit. And still, despite the fear that makes me shiver and the horrible things that have already happened to me, I can’t help my curiosity. I’ve been following this guy’s story since I first heard about him, years ago. To have him at arm’s length and eager to answer my questions is an opportunity I can’t pass. To be fair, it might be the last opportunity I might get, so I chew my food and ask.

“The Christmas Killer’s victims appear to be chosen at random. Most were men, but investigators could never establish a preferred victim. I see how the copycat might have been a problem if they never figured it out. But you’re saying there is a pattern?”

Nico grabs the scissors and starts meticulously cutting the green paper in front of him. “I watch over many local towns in the area. It’s not perfect, I only have so much time in the day, but I have a system in place. I also leave gifts for those in need, but is that reported on? No. No one ever associates me with those acts of kindness. Ah, now it just sounds like I’m trying to boast. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Otherwise I won’t be able to focus on this, and I promised a friend of mine to get it done. Have you ever made paper chain decorations? You could be a real life Santa’s helper, make yourself useful. You’re already dressed like one.” He winks at me as if any of this was funny.

I adjust the blanket so my bare chest is no longer on show, and continue eating my sandwich, trying to process what I’ve just heard. “So you see yourself as a… Robin Hood-type of character? A folk hero?” I ask incredulously.

He gets up and brings me a pair of rounded kids’ scissors. Is this a labor camp now? Still, I better comply, so when he explains what kind of paper strips he wants, I get on with it.

I have never done this before, actually. The house would always be decorated by our staff, Christmas tree included. Maybe it would have been nice to have a say in the colors of trinkets or something, but I’ve always just accepted reality for what it is.

“Well, yes, I do weed out the danger, so that people can have a lovely, peaceful Christmas time. And if I enjoy it a little? No one said you have to hate your job.” His little smirk tells me how much he liked sawing a man’s head off.

The ghost of the nausea that overcame me when it happened appears back in my throat, but then I think about the new microphone I was planning to buy, and it subsides. “This might be presumptuous,” I say and clear my throat, glancing at my captor, who whistles as he continues making the paper cutouts. “But people never have a peaceful time when they worry there’s a killer on the loose. ”

Nico hums. “No, that’s thoughtful of you. Maybe I should make it clearer that there is a pattern. You’re so smart. And your voice? Just like the podcast.”

The dreamy look he gives me is as enticing as it is disconcerting.

“Don’t you think all this would be comfier if I wasn’t behind bars?” I ask in the most innocent tone I can muster, because while it is obviously a ploy to run, maybe someone as deranged as this guy might believe I’m on his side.

“It would, it would, but I don’t have time to set things up tonight. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Things will get better here, I promise. I have so many questions for you as well.” He gets up, picks up the stack of papers he was cutting, then reveals it to be a long decorative chain. The links are shaped like hearts. “Ta-dah!”

Taken aback, I hide behind the mug of cocoa and use its sweetness to calm myself down. “It’s not Valentine’s….”

When Nico’s face falls, I realize these hearts were made for me, and I don’t know if I’m flattered or unsettled. “I just thought it would be nice,” he mumbles. “Spruce things up a little.”

To my disbelief, he gets up and hangs it from one prison bar to another with bits of string.

“I mean… it is, but it’s Christmas season, and the paper is green,” I mumble, too confused to think clearly. But then I remember what he said about Christmas, and clear my throat. “I appreciate the effort, really.”

He pins me with his gaze, and it feels as though he’s sawing right through me. “Are you single?”

The mug almost slips out of my hands, but I catch it at the cost of spilling some of the chocolate over my fingers. What the hell should I tell him? This freak is interested in me, and while that’s terrifying, he seems willing to be nice about… however he’s planning to handle this situation, so I nod, knowing that might be the way to make him more pliable to my suggestions. “What about you?”

“Same. I work a lot. Not just at the… you know, the killing. I have a lot to do. Even tonight. I can’t spare much more time. But I’ll get better about it. Promise.”

“Maybe you could stay a bit longer?” I ask when he gets up. Because the longer we talk, the more likely I am to convince him I don’t need to be under lock and key.

Do I even believe his vigilante fantasies? I don’t know what connection he really had to the guy who tried to abduct me first.

“I’m so sorry, Blake, I have a lot of loose ends to wrap up after last night, but I’ll come back as soon as I can. We will have the best Christmas ever .”

Thoughts scatter and jingle all over my skull. Has he planned this? Was he working with Sexy Santa before betraying him?

“No! Wait, you can’t just leave me here,” I beg, grabbing the bars. I cannot be alone again between those hard, cold walls and with no access to natural light. I just can’t!

But Nico shakes his head and a strand of hair slips out of his short ponytail. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I have a long night ahead. I need to work out if Tooley had accomplices and who ordered your kidnapping in the first place.”

I stare at him as my heart attempts to win a short-distance run in the Olympics. “‘Ordered’? What do you mean ordered ?” I choke out, staring at him pleadingly. “You can’t just leave me with this!”

He waves me off but takes the big scissors with him. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got you. You can’t be any safer than here. No one knows this place exists.” He winks at me and walks off with such an infuriatingly sexy swagger I’m left raging in my cage.

How? How am I in this situation?

And did he just call me sweetie?