The Tattoo Artist (La Petite Mort #1)

Prologue

T wo Years Earlier AGE 16

"DEIMOS," I whispered to myself in the confines of my bedroom.

I wasn't sure what drew me to the masked man, but I was fixated on him like a moth to a flame. And just like a moth, I was almost positive it would bring me death.

What I saw outside my bedroom window was unmistakable.

He was known to be ruthless. He was fond of blood, and he enjoyed watching his victims suffer. The silhouette of a person lingering outside caught my attention. Curious, I peered through the window.

And that was when I saw him—Deimos.

He was standing there in all his glory. I was fascinated and caught up in my fantasy; I didn't even notice the man he had kneeled in front of him.

The darkness of night and his mask made it extremely difficult to see anything beyond his piercing eyes. The only part I could memorize besides his silhouette was the color of those eyes. His piercing green eyes captivated me and kept me frozen as I watched the scene unfold.

I witnessed it tonight when his gaze locked on mine. Deimos noticed me watching but continued even after he saw me. Maybe he thought I'd run off when I saw him stab that man a total of 120 times.

I counted each stab Deimos inflicted.

I memorized the tattoo on his hand as he held the knife tightly and the necklace around his neck, the same symbol he marked his victims with. And in that moment I thanked God for that faulty lamp post because the light flickered giving me just the right amount of light to take in the necklace around his neck and the tattoo on his hand.

Deimos was known to shove a poker card with the sign of death down their throats and then proceed to crave out their hearts—marking his victims.

A sign of death!

A skull with horns and a sword going through the top of the skull's head. The sword represented a fight with both sides.

Good versus evil.

And tonight I watched in fascination how he shoved that poker card down the man's throat and carved out his heart in less than five minutes. I watched him intently as he raised the heart, almost as if he displayed it for me to see—like an offering. It was fascinating to see it still beat for a few seconds before it stopped beating, and his life drained before my eyes.

I wanted to run. I should have run, but my feet wouldn't move. Instead, I watched it all, the brutal stabbing and the blood gushing out from his victim's wounds. I was frozen, but it wasn't fear. Something deep inside me stirred, almost like he awakened something dark in me.

I knew this was twisted, but he piqued my interest.

It was almost imploding.

To some, this would be traumatic, but I wasn't sure why I didn't suffer from nightmares. Not a single nightmare plagued my mind.

He was all I could think about.

But I never saw him again after tonight. He never came by. I stood by my window painting, hoping to catch a glimpse of the devil himself, but he never came.

NOTHING.

Not one sighting of Deimos. It was almost as if he passed away and that thought alone had me feeling sad.

He couldn't be dead.

What if I scared him?

I laughed, shaking my head, knowing the answer. "No one scares him. He's the God of terror and dread. Deimos is the devil himself," I muttered to myself.

Deimos was a legend, a myth that our town only talked about to frighten their kids about the dangers of the streets. Not one person knew anything about him.

No face.

No identity.

All we were told was that he was a killer.

A murderer!

I had an obsession. My obsession was Deimos.

The roles were reversed, and instead of a stalker male obsessed with the innocent and sweet female main character, it was a stalker female obsessed with the dangerous and mysterious killer Deimos.

I was the obsessed female stalker!