The Butterfly Killer

Chapter 10

10

Marcus woke to something wet on his forehead. He let out a little groan in the back of his throat—barely audible to his own ears it was so faint. It was out of exhaustion. It plagued him worse than the last time he woke to this unfamiliar place. His eyes were even more blurry. From tears? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t feel like he was crying or that he’d been crying before he came to.

His body ached. It was a full-body ache eluding to the pain he’d been put through. Slowly, the memories came back. First, the attack of Micheal, some deranged suburban rapist who was mad Marcus foiled his plans to rape and kill Lilianna. Second, the stranger who’d slammed his head into the hood of a car. That same stranger ended up being the copycat killer who’d kidnapped Marcus and took him to a far away secret location.

Oh, did Marcus mention there was a fucking blizzard going on so he couldn’t escape even if he had the chance to?

He hissed as anger bubbled up inside him. It lasted for a second before his body shook with a feverish cold-sweat that made his muscles tense. He panted as he tried to sit up. His arms shook on the mattress as he held himself up for a second before the weakness in his limbs became too much.

He opened his mouth—to yell or to curse, either one—but it was dry. He tried to wet his lips with his tongue. It was like dragging sandpaper over an open sore. His lips were so chapped that touching them with his dry tongue was painful.

The wet thing on his forehead had fallen onto the pillow when he tried to sit up. It pressed against the curve of his neck. He grabbed it and held it up to his slowly focusing eyes.

It was a rag. It had been folded neatly until it had fallen, but the creases told that someone had folded it so that it lay across Marcus’s forehead perfectly.

Marcus let out a hot breath through his nose. The signs of a fever were all there. Sickness had fallen over him and it was probably what had made him pass out the second time. He placed the rag back over his forehead because even though he wanted to throw it at the wall, it did help with the burning in his face.

He sucked the remaining water from his fingers. It alleviated some of the dryness, however, it left him even more desperate for water than before.

He dragged his tired eyes around the room. Everything looked the same as before except the one thing he was scared to find: the man. He was gone from this cramped place. And the only other place he could be was outside.

Marcus thought about jumping out of the bed and going for the door even though escape really wasn’t an option. He had only a minute to think about it—anxiety spiking—before the door opened, almost slamming into the wall from the gust of wind.

Marcus jumped as a wave of cold air billowed into him. The chill was welcomed, cooling the first layer of fire in him, but that was only surface level. The burning came from the inside and getting rid of his sickness was the only way to stop the rising fever.

He clutched the thin blanket, pulling it high to his chin as if it made a good shield. The man clomped in, wearing a thick coat lined with fur, black snow boots, a ski mask, and goggles. He was so covered up that it would have been hard to know who it was. But Marcus knew. His body sensed the other man as if they were connected in some paranormal way.

The door slammed shut behind the man. He gave it a rough shove, his gloved hand sliding over the lock so the wind didn’t open it again. He stood for a moment, hand on the door, eyes staring into the depths of Marcus’s soul. The man was too far away for Marcus to see what color they were—honestly, he couldn’t even clearly see them. But he didn’t need to for his body to have an overwhelming bad reaction.

The man pulled down the blanket nailed to the wall above the door so that it covered the door once more. He kicked the end of it with the tip of his boot, shoving the fabric into the gap at the bottom of the door.

With his back to Marcus, he slowly stripped from his winter gear. He yanked the large thick gloves off and sat them on the old counter that was part of the little kitchen. He removed his goggles, the ski mask, and then his coat. He wore a long sleeve black sweater. His face was flushed from either the cold or from the heat of the ski mask. His hair was matted with sweat so Marcus figured the ski mask had done a good job at keeping the man’s face safe from the cold.

His dirty blond wavy hair fell in tiny disturbed ringlets over his shoulders and back. His straight eyebrows pinched together as he slowly stepped toward Marcus, his chest heaving.

Marcus tried to move further away, but there was nowhere to go. A wave of nausea fell over him. He shivered and more sweat beaded at his temples. He clenched his teeth and clawed at the sheets. For a second, the room swirled into a sea of colors. He couldn’t make out the man’s face as he crept closer and closer until he was right in front of Marcus.

Marcus jolted, arm darting out with a semi-clenched fist because he didn’t have the strength to clenched it as tightly as he should. He was just able to think clearly enough to remember that he shouldn’t clench his thumb against his palm unless he wanted to break it. It didn’t really matter because he didn’t have the strength to knock out a fly—and that was if he could even hit his target. Which he didn’t have the ability to do at the moment.

The man let out a snort. There wasn’t an ounce of humor in it.

He slapped Marcus’s arm out of the way and leaned over the bed. Marcus jerked his head back, skull thumping against the wall. He hissed at the dull pain, but then froze when the man’s hand cupped his face.

“Your fever has gotten worse,” he said in an accent Marcus hadn’t noticed until then. It was faint, but still there. Marcus assumed it was a latin accent—maybe Mexican but he couldn’t be sure.

His late great-grandmother had barely spoken it when she was alive and that was when he was under the age of five. She abhorred speaking the language, afraid her grandchild, Marcus’s mom, or great-grandchild, Marcus, would pick up any of the words. While Marcus understood she’d simply been trying to do the best for her descendants, Marcus only felt sorry she’d felt that way about something that was a part of her.

The man’s gray eyes looked beyond him, not really seeing him at all. A chill went through Marcus, not because of the cold, but because of the emptiness he saw in the pools of those irises. He averted his own eyes, looking toward the door as he silently pleaded for someone, by some miracle, to find him and save him from the painful death he knew was coming.

The man’s fingers tightened, pulling a gasp from Marcus’s lips. His eyes met the man’s by force when his head was jerked. The long slender fingers were firm, digging into his jaw like it too was punishment for trying to escape. Though, there wasn’t much anger shown on the man’s face. He looked a little annoyed, but not as much as Marcus would have expected.

And there wasn’t amusement painted on the man’s face either. There was barely anything on the man’s face except maybe a sense of boredom. However, Marcus couldn’t even be sure of that. Marcus had prided himself in being able to read people relatively well. It was a skill he naturally gained by watching people as he himself didn’t like to be the center of attention or participate in large groups. He was always the person to the side, watching others and getting his social needs vicariously through those high energy situations.

It was frustrating he couldn’t even read the man in front of him now. He’d been able to understand the kill so well when he was analyzing the murder scenes that he thought the man himself would be like reading a book. It had even scared Marcus that he was too alike and too close to the copycat killer.

But it seems he and the man weren’t as attuned as he once worried. The man gripping his jaw and standing over him like some god might have well been any stranger on the street with no ties to Marcus what-so-ever.

What should have brought him some sort of comfort was actually the thing that made him sweat with anxiety.

Marcus jerked his head back. The man’s fingers slipped across his hot skin, leaving a blazing trail that burned him even more on the inside. His lips parted in a soft pant. Hot air blew through his nose, burning his nostrils. His chest heaved. His eyes narrowed down to a single point: the man.

The man raised a brow. That was the only sign of emotion, the only change in his expression since Marcus had first woken up…was it hours ago? Or days?

His own brows furrowed in confusion as he couldn’t tell how much time had passed since then. His eyes darted around the room to find a source of time. Surely the man wasn’t living in the middle of nowhere by himself with no way to tell time. It would be a step closer to going mad.

If he wasn’t already.

Marcus licked his cracked and dry lips. The man’s eyes flickered to them.

He moved so suddenly Marcus jumped. The man ignored his skittishness and crossed the room to the kitchen corner. He grabbed a large canteen and poured a bit of water into a cup with a broken handle. He put the canteen back on the ground under the window and returned to loom over the bedside.

Marcus wearily looked up. He met the man’s eyes even though every fiber in his being didn’t want to. He was compelled to. As if the man had some power over him that Marcus hadn’t even come to realize yet.

The cup hovered in front of him, between them as a truce that came laced with betrayal. The man jutted it toward him, urging him to take it. Marcus looked down into the cup expecting to find something foul. Maybe a body part. Maybe blood. He found nothing of the sort. Just clear liquid that made him feel like an animal when he had to hold himself back from snatching the cup.

He cautiously raised his hand. It shook with weakness. The man saw and grabbed it. Marcus’s breath hitched at the coldness in the man’s fingers. That large hand closed his over the cup. He guided it to Marcus’s mouth and held it there until he was sure Marcus wasn’t going to drop it.

Marcus’s hand still shook as the man’s hand left him. The cold water filled his mouth. He drank greedily, downing the whole cup before he could really taste it. It wasn’t enough. The thirst wasn’t quenched. He felt the cold fill his stomach like a balloon, but it still wasn’t enough.

“More,” he rasped, pushing the cup back at the man.

The man snorted but took the cup. “You’ve had enough.”

He turned away, walking back toward the kitchen corner to return the cup.

“No, please.” Marcus’s resolve broke. He didn’t care if he was begging. He was in pain and he needed something.

He needed the man’s help whether he wanted it or not. He didn’t have a choice. He felt how sick he was. It was the sickest he’d ever been and it would be so easy for the man to just let him die.

The man paused. He gazed down at Marcus. Surprise maybe? Or a cruel satisfaction that Marcus was breaking faster than he thought.

Marcus’s brain was too foggy to care one way or another. He held his weak hand out—begging for the drink. But the man turned his back to him. He put the cup in a bucket that must act as a small sink.

He came back, grabbing the chair from the right side of the…cabin? Whatever it was, it was too cramped for Marcus’s comfort. It was made even smaller when he was forced to be confined to this small bed.

The man pulled the chair beside the bed and sat in it. The legs creaked under the man’s weight. His limbs were long, his body too large to fit comfortably into the seat. He draped one arm over the back of it and stared at Marcus.

Marcus took a shuddery breath. His throat and chest ached with soreness. His eyes darted again across the small room, searching for answers not there—or so well hidden he would never be able to find them.

When his eyes met the man’s again, something changed. The man’s head cocked just a fraction and his emotionless eyes held some sort of curiosity. It was the kind of look someone gave to a bug crawling on the floor. A child-like wonder that bordered on cruelty when the child inevitably squashed the bug under their palm.

“Hello, Marcus,” the man said in a soft low voice.

Marcus swallowed against the forming lump in his throat. It shouldn’t have surprised him the man knew his name. The man had been stalking his sister, luring him out there. To do what? Finish what the real Butterfly Killer had started so many years ago?

The man leaned forward. His knee bumped into the side of the bed. Marcus went still, holding his breath for only a second and then letting it go because his weak body couldn’t keep doing it.

The man waited. Marcus waited as well. It was a game of chicken to see who would cave first. Marcus knew there was a game happening, knew he was being forced to play, but he didn’t know the rules and he didn’t know what the winning piece was.

Only the man knew.

The man’s face crumbled. The stoic look that had hidden his emotions dropped. Irritation and a flicker of anger showed on his face. Marcus was both enamored and frightened with how quick the man covered up the emotions.

“Do you know who I am?” The words weren’t threatening. There was anger, yes, but he was almost hopeful for Marcus to say the right answer.

Marcus thought he knew.

He just barely found the strength to speak.

“You’re the Butterfly Killer.”

He didn’t know if calling the man a copycat killer would set him off. He didn’t believe the man was a ticking time-bomb, but his meticulous way of holding himself back couldn’t last forever. Like his inability to keep a mask on, he would fail to control the taste for murder he was afflicted with.

Marcus misjudged what the man wanted to hear. The man scoffed with a roll of his eyes. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave a disappointed shake of his head.

“You know my name. You know who I am.”

Marcus shook his head.

Roman’s expecting face turned angry and then just annoyed. He abruptly stood. He slammed his hands on the bed, jostling it.

“My name is Roman,” he said through clenched teeth.

Still, Marcus didn’t know who he was which pissed Roman off more.

Marcus took a sharp breath, pushing himself away from Roman. Roman quickly caged him in, one hand on either side of him. He lowered his face so there was no where for Marcus to look but at him.

So, he closed his eyes.

He felt Roman’s warm breath across his cheek. He jerked when he felt the man’s cheek graze across his.

“You’ll know who I am. You’ll remember, but for now, I have something to finish and you’re going to help me.”

Marcus feared whatever help Roman needed would be far worse than death itself.