MATCH

A Supernatural Thriller

By William Massa

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Copyright © 2015 William Massa

Published by Critical Mass Publishing

All character appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

Also by William Massa

THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

Occult Assassin #1: Damnation Code - Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #2: Apocalypse Soldier - Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin: Ice Shadows (A Novella) - Amazon US Amazon UK

HORROR/DARK FANTASY

FEAR THE LIGHT

GARGOYLE KNIGHT

SCIENCE FICTION

SILICON MAN

CROSSING THE DARKNESS

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PROLOGUE

“IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT. Let’s hit up some bars in the city and meet some ladies,” Josh’s roommate Peter said. He wore $400 designer jeans and an expensive button-down shirt, both beyond the means of a starting salary of a twenty-six-year-old bank teller, and looked serious about getting some action tonight.

“Don’t tell me you’re just going to stay home and sit in front of the TV.”

“Catching a UFC fight isn’t just sitting in front of the TV.”

“Watching two guys bashing their heads in without their shirts on is gay.”

“Fuck you,” Josh said in a playful tone. “Beats the bar scene.”

Josh meant what he said. He had no intention of leaving the comfort zone of the man cave tonight. Hitting a club or trendy bar to meet a chick was a costly exercise in frustration and a waste of time. He was over it! Of course, his attitude might be a direct consequence of his most recent break-up. He’d thought Karen loved him. The bitch didn’t just break his heart, she had shattered it. He was still picking up the pieces. Bottom line – he wasn’t quite ready for the face-to-face rejection to be found in New York City’s nightlife.

“Come on, Josh, I could use a wingman tonight,” Peter said. A ‘wingman’ was Peter’s code for a designated driver. Why waste money on Uber when your buddy can chauffeur your drunk ass around town?

Josh gave it to Peter straight. He loved his roommate but this wasn’t the first time they’d played this game. “Only reason you want me to come is because you need someone to drive your alcoholic butt to Taco Bell if you strike out tonight. Seeing you medicate your sexual frustration with junk food isn't my idea of fun.”

“Hey, you got a problem with me, fine, but don't knock Taco Bell.”

Peter grinned. He could be an asshole, but he was a charming asshole. Josh smiled despite himself but stayed firm and shook his head.

Peter shrugged, accepting defeat, and said, “Have fun.” With that he marched out of their two-bedroom apartment and the door slammed shut behind him.

Finally some peace.

Josh’s attention returned to the television.

Back in his college days when dinosaurs still roamed the Earth and he’d just started courting Karen, Josh was like poor Peter. He’d hit the bars and clubs on the weekends, cruising the various watering holes in a horny, alcohol-infused daze. His prowling for girls mostly pickled his liver and blew through his hard-earned cash. After living with Karen for three years straight out of college, Josh wasn’t quite ready to return to his old lifestyle.

On a whim he grabbed his phone and called his kid brother Mark. It took two rings before Mark picked up.

“So what’s up? You going to catch the fight with me?” Josh asked.

“I shouldn’t. I got a ton of homework. Classes are kicking my ass.”

Unlike Josh, who at twenty-six had been navigating the corporate job market for a few years, Mark was still in school – lucky bastard. He was at Hunter College studying to be a physical therapist and would make bank when he graduated. The city school’s nursing and physical therapy programs were considered among the best in the state.

“Come on, bro. How about a study break?”

Josh didn’t see himself as a bad influence here, just a concerned older brother. He knew from experience that prolonged work produced diminishing returns. Some time away from the books would do the kid some good. Give him a chance to clear his head.

“Alright, count me in,” Mark said.

“Good man. Don't forget to pick up the pizza. I'll see you in a few.”

CLICK. Josh hung up. He took a deep, satisfying swig from his Stella Artois and switched his attention back to the fight.

Suddenly his phone pinged. Incoming Facebook message from a girl named Akasha.

“Hi Josh, how are you?”

Josh hesitated. He typed a quick, perfunctory response. “I'm good.”

Josh stared at Akasha’s profile pic, which was visible next to the message box. A haunting, intense beauty, her looks managed to be both ethereal and sexual at the same time. Lush black hair framed a pale face dominated by a pair of dark, penetrating eyes; there was a promise in them accentuated by a hint of a smile. The girl possessed a real edge that came through even in the stamp-sized image on his phone.

Another pinging sound announced her next message.

“What are you up to?”

“About to head out to dinner with a friend,” he lied. “No time to chat...”

Her next text was immediate – he wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. “Why are you avoiding me, Josh? Don't you love me anymore?”

“How could I be in love with you after one date?” Josh said to himself.

His question was met with a loud banging sound.

What the hell?

It had emanated from his bedroom. He waited a second and…

The pounding repeated itself, this time much louder.

Josh rose from the couch. The sounds were too pronounced, too insistent to be ignored. Wary, he approached the partially open bedroom door, body coiled and jaw bunched tight.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

No answer.

Josh reached the door but hesitated for a beat before his fingers closed around the doorknob. As the door opened completely, inky darkness awaited within. He flicked a switch and light flooded the room. It revealed his bed, a few cool movie posters, a tangle of dirty laundry...

Bachelor city.

Still on edge, eyes scanning, Josh took a few steps into his bedroom. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a room cloaked in shadows.

Something felt off, though. Josh sniffed the air and picked up the faint aroma of burnt wood. Like there was a campfire outside. Except that it was December in New York City, so that didn’t make any sense at all...

Josh's gaze dropped and his eyes widened with puzzlement. A black footprint had been burned into the hardwood floor. He crouched to get a better view and touched the print. His fingertips came up black, smeared with ash. It was still hot.

Following a sudden hunch, his gaze traveled toward the impenetrable darkness underneath the bed. For a crazy moment he expected something to jump out at him, a horror flick come alive, but a quick scan revealed that no boogeyman lurked under his bed. Josh let out a sigh of relief and the tension eased.

He was about to get up when he sensed rapid movement behind him. He whirled…

Shock rippled through him.

And then there was only pain.

CHAPTER ONE

I GET OFF THE PHONE WITH Josh and already regret my decision to take a break from my studies. My older brother just has a knack for talking me into stuff. As a kid, whenever I’d get in trouble with our parents Josh was the ringleader. Okay, most of the time.

I’ve been hitting the books since early this morning – ten hours straight of cramming for my biology final. I’m fried and have to take a break if I want to maintain this pace for the rest of the weekend. I need to shut off my brain for a little bit. I lack the energy and focus to follow the plot of a movie or read a book – watching guys beat the shit out of each other is exactly what the doctor ordered.

My girlfriend Lynn, who is in the same physical therapy program at Hunter College, flashes me an encouraging smile. She reclines on her couch, wrapped in a Snuggie tattooed with a growing collection of flash cards. There’s a steaming cup of green tea by her side. The same massive anatomy book that has been taunting me all day rests on her lap and once again I wonder why the hell they don’t sell a digital version of this beast. Sadistic bastards.

“Go. You need a break.”

“What about you?”

“There’s a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.”

I think about it for a moment and ice cream seems like a poor substitute for pizza and beer, but to each his own.

She must think I’m on the fence about leaving because she says, “We’ve been on a marathon study session. You need to refuel.”

This is just another example of why Lynn is my girl. I’ve been with her since my first year of college and I’m still crazy about her. She grounds me, keeps me sane. I’m originally from Florida while Lynn is a born-and-raised New Yorker. She’s three years older but seems about a decade wiser and a hell of a lot more worldly. Lynn dropped out of college for a while, traveling extensively, and was married for a few months. She’s Irish-Italian on her mom’s side, African-American on her father’s, and she grew up in Spanish Harlem. Her exotic looks make most people think she’s Puerto Rican — my own personal J-Lo. Fortunately, Lynn doesn’t seem to mind my hick tendencies. In a weird way, she seems to find my simple background charming.

I give her a kiss and our lips linger. I resist the first stirring of passion, knowing that if I let our make-out session go any further I’ll be late for the fight. Josh would never forgive me.

“Have fun, sweetie.”

After a full day of being cooped up with medical textbooks, I definitely will.

I snatch up my jacket and gloves, bracing myself for the biting December cold that awaits me outside the heated apartment. Lynn’s studio is in Astoria, Queens and you can see the Manhattan skyline in the distance while you wait for the train on the elevated subway platform.

I, on the other hand, live in Briarwood — about half an hour deeper into the borough. The rents are low in this working-class enclave of various ethnicities. My place is far from glamorous, but you can’t beat the square-footage return rate. An old friend of my dad likes to say, “You’re not only what you eat, you are where you live!” Can’t argue with him but I’d rather have some money left after I pay my rent, so I could afford to eat.

My brother lives in nearby Forest Hills, an upper-middle-class neighborhood and the home of Peter Parker (aka Spiderman). I’m a bit of a geek, so I know lots of really useful information like that. I catch the N train, transfer to the F and thirty minutes later I get off on 71st Avenue. As I walk down Austin Street, the main commercial strip, I pass my favorite pizza parlor. I go in and order a pie — sausage, pepperoni and ground beef. This is boys’ night out and if it didn’t bleed, it doesn’t belong on my pizza.

As they shove our pie into the steel oven, I head to the liquor store across the street and purchase a six-pack of Heineken. Before long I’m on my way again, pizza in tow, and the scent of mozzarella bubbling away in olive oil makes me salivate. I’m so looking forward to my evening of scholastic freedom. Beer. Pizza. MMA. Not a textbook in sight. Heaven on Earth.

My brother’s apartment building is located at the end of the street. A rusted fire escape mars the exterior. Sirens shriek a few blocks down. We may not be in Manhattan, but we’re still in New York.

I ring the doorbell a few times, but no one answers. Weird. Josh is expecting me, so why isn’t he letting me in? After all, his guest brings booze and chow. Since Karen dumped him, my brother has been drinking too much. Did he pass out in front of the TV? He sounded pretty buzzed on the phone, but I dismiss this idea as soon as it pops into my head. Josh isn’t a lightweight and can definitely hold his liquor. Who knows why he isn’t answering the bell, but my arms are getting tired from carrying the pizza box and sixer of beer. I put the goodies down for a moment and decide to let myself in. I use the spare set of keys from the last time Josh asked me to apartment-sit while he was out of town.

As I enter the unit I shout, “Hey, what's going on? I rang the bell three goddamn times!”

My question goes unanswered, but I do catch a whiff of a burning scent and now I’m worried.

Something’s wrong.

“Hey Josh, you here?” I ask.

Once again, there is no response.

I head for the nearby kitchen nook and put the pizza down on the counter. My gaze travels to the adjoining living room. MMA fighters wrestle onscreen in glorious HD and excited commentary resonates throughout the apartment.

“Josh, what's up man? You get drunk and pass out?”

The continued silence is unnerving. I make my way to the bedroom and as I near Josh’s room, the burning smell becomes more pungent.

“JOSH?! YOU HERE?”

Still no answer. Fuck it! I thrust open the door and a nightmarish sight awaits me.

The bed is on fire. Flames lick the ceiling. Strangely, everything else in the room remains untouched by the conflagration.

No time to wonder why the blaze hasn’t spread, or why there isn’t any smoke billowing from the room. My mind is preoccupied with the search for a fire extinguisher. Each unit has one and I recall seeing Josh’s near the entryway. I back away from the hungry flames, tear through the living room and locate the extinguisher.

Keeping my distance from the burning bed, I aim the extinguisher. How do you activate this thing? My fingers lock around the safety pin and pull. I squeeze the handles together and sweep the stream side to side. Foam engulfs the flames, suffocating them in seconds.

The smoke disperses more slowly. Scorched material hisses and crackles. I stare at a melted bedframe with a dark, ashen crater in the middle of it.

That’s when I spot the charred, smoldering body sprawled on the bed, clothing baked into the skin. The figure is barely identifiable as human. Yet when his eyelids snap open, I recognize the terror-stricken eyes looking up at me. It’s Josh! Oh my God, no...

For a horrific beat, I just stand there, paralyzed. Josh exhales a throaty gasp. Garbled sounds escape his mangled, scorched voice box. I can clearly make out one word...

Akasha.

CHAPTER TWO

I’M NUMB AS I APPROACH THE Hunter College Brookdale Campus. Located on 25th Street, about half an hour from the college, it houses a limited number of the school’s 23,000 enrollees, mostly nursing and exchange students and members of the wrestling team. Most of the physical therapy classes are taught on the first floor of the campus, including anatomy. Snow cascades down in sheets and I’m just one of many students streaming into the building with shoulders hunched against the merciless wind.

As I make my way into the auditorium, my mind is a million miles away. I keep thinking of my brother.

Of the terror in his eyes.

Of his final cryptic message.

Akasha.

What was he talking about?

A week has passed since that terrible day. I don’t even remember dialing 911. Everything is hazy, like a bad dream. But I do recall the fireman’s theory after they stretchered Josh’s disfigured body to a waiting ambulance. As the rear doors slammed shut, erasing my dying brother from view, he said, ”We found pot in the bedroom and empty beer bottles all over the house. Your brother may have passed out, dropped the roach and then the bedspread caught fire. By the time he knew what was happening, it was too late.”

No offense, but I call bullshit. I’m not buying it, not for a second. The bed’s iron frame was a warped mess. Steel melts at 2800 degrees. So how could a small fire generate such heat without spreading? And why didn't any of the goddamn fire alarms go off? I know what I saw isn’t possible. The cops are stumped too and it sure seems like they don’t care enough to probe further.

At least no one’s suggested suicide. It would break my mother’s heart.

Josh lived for a few more hours after arriving at the hospital. According to the doctors in the burn ward, Josh sustained third-degree burns over his whole body and about ninety percent of his skin was compromised. One glance at him had convinced me he wouldn’t live through the night. I didn’t need to be a physical therapy student to make my diagnosis.

The wake took place a few days later. The less I think about, it the better. We had Josh cremated, which is darkly ironic considering how he died. All that remains of my brother is an urn filled with ashes that sits in our poor mother’s New Jersey apartment.

I’ve been checking on her every day, making sure she’s okay. She lost my father to a heart attack five years ago, but this feels even worse. No parent should ever bury one of their children – thank God she is a strong woman, a fighter.

I keep telling myself that I’m a fighter too, but losing Josh has shaken me to the core. I still can’t believe he’s gone. For someone studying to become a health practitioner I should be more comfortable with the idea of mortality, but it’s always been an abstract concept. Death is something that happens to other people.

Not anymore. The grim reaper has clawed its way into my life, too.

I push the dark thoughts aside as I enter the classroom. Each table is surrounded by a group of four students. Everyone is wearing scrubs and disposable gloves. Covered by plastic shrouds, rows of human bodies lie on their stainless steel operating tables. The anticipation is palpable.

Welcome to Surgery 203: ANATOMY. The class where we all get to dissect our first cadavers. Considering where my mind is, the timing couldn’t be better.

I spot Lynn and manage a weak smile. We’ve barely seen each other since Josh’s terrible accident. After snatching up my scrubs and some gloves, I join my girl. We kiss — just a peck. I barely say a word and she eyes me with concern. “Talk to me, babe, what’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

I just shake my head and she nods, like she understands. She squeezes my hand and it’s a reminder that a gesture speaks louder than words sometimes.

Our anatomy teacher, Dr. Wallace, is a surly fellow in his mid-forties with a receding head of graying hair. He addresses the room. “Our first lesson will deal with how to open the dermal layers and penetrate the muscles underneath.”

He steps up to one of the bodies and pulls back the plastic shroud. His scalpel brushes against the dead man's neck. “You’ll make the initial incision, cutting from the jugular at the dip where the collarbone meets. Then down the sternum and along the lowest of the ribs...”

I can’t do this, I think. Not today. Maybe not ever.

Lynn studies me while Wallace drones on. She knows that I’m not really present. She leans into me and whispers into my ear, “Do you think he gets turned on by the sound of his own voice?”

Despite my somber mood, I shoot her a mock admonishing glance. “Behave now. If he hears you, you can kiss that “A” goodbye.”

“He better not mess with me. I'm a bitch with a scalpel.”

My smile breaks through the dark thoughts weighing down on me. Lynn knows how to pull me out of myself. She’s been great through all this.

On stage, Dr. Wallace is studying the class. A hushed, reverent silence hangs in the air and even I am affected. We’re all about to take a giant step forward on the path to becoming medical practitioners.

I peer down at the surgical tools arrayed beside the body. The idea of sinking a blade into the flesh of another human — even a dead one — seems surreal to me now.

“Alright, any further questions?”

The classroom remains as silent as a chapel.

“Good. Then let's begin.”

Lynn nods at me. I know I can do this and fight back the urge to leave. Can’t chicken out on my first day... I give myself an internal push and pull the shroud back, revealing the corpse of a young man. Mercifully, his features are hidden by a white silk stocking designed to preserve the anonymity of the cadaver. I guess it makes it easier to pretend that the body we’re desecrating isn’t quite human.

I’m both surprised and bothered by the youth of this dead man. He was still in his twenties when he died. We expect the elderly to die, but young people are supposed to live forever, aren’t we? The universe is sending me another reminder that this isn’t the case. I want to scream that I get it. Yes, we can check out at any moment, now back the fuck off and let me return to my comforting delusions.

Lynn must sense my hesitation as she steps closer, scalpel in hand. “You think you're up for this?” she asks with growing concern.

I try to make a joke of the whole affair, though my emotions are churning. “Ladies... I mean, bitches, first,“ I say.

Lynn seems reassured by my attempt at humor. She leans over the corpse like the badass she is and makes the first incision. The skin splits, revealing the fatty tissue. I want to avert my gaze, but can’t. Just as when I found Josh, I’m hypnotized by the gruesome reminder that we’re all flesh and bone. No matter who you are, everyone ends up the same way — meat on a slab.

Dr. Wallace appears behind us and surveys Lynn’s progress with a critical eye. He’s one of the few instructors who truly relishes his job. Despite Lynn’s teasing comments, we know Wallace is a born, consummate teacher. His passion for the subject is infectious.

I meet his gaze. Dr. Wallace is picking up on my hesitation. He’s aware that this next step can be challenging for people. Slicing up a fellow human being doesn’t come naturally.

I ask the question that’s been foremost on my mind ever since Lynn pulled back the dead man’s shroud.

“How did he die...?”

“Brain aneurysm,” Dr. Wallace explains in a neutral tone. “Quite unusual for someone his age.”

More unusual than spontaneous combustion?

I can’t stop looking at the body.

I can’t stop thinking of Josh.

***

We make love that night. It’s been weeks — our studies have pretty much destroyed our sex life — so our passion is fierce and filled with need. We’re not just two people having sex or even lovers making up for lost time. We’re celebrating being alive.

Breaking our normal pattern, we climax at the same time. This seems to happen in movies but not so much in the real world. Tonight is one of those rare occasions where life imitates art. I lay still for an erotic beat before rolling off Lynn’s lean yet shapely body. I try to catch my breath and Lynn flashes me a big smile.

“We keep this up, I'll start smoking again.”

We share a grin. Our love feels as deep and real as our physical passion. Once again I wonder how I got so lucky to run into a gal like Lynn.

“Wow, we haven't gone at it like that since our trip to Hawaii.”

The vacation was before the start of the semester. Before the books took over our lives.

“I bet everyone in our class is getting some tonight,“ Lynn says.

“But no one is getting better.”

Lynn grins and snuggles up to me. For a moment we just lie there, enjoying each other’s warmth.

“You know, we're lucky...” Lynn begins, then pauses, choked up with emotion. She was raised by a single mother. The poor woman never dated again after her divorce. Lynn knows firsthand that life doesn’t owe you a lasting love.

She tries to downplay the deep feeling behind her words and continues, “I was thinking. Medical school is kicking our butts, we're both struggling to make ends meet...”

I sense where this is headed.

“And we spend practically every night together, anyway...”

I complete the thought, but my voice shows no enthusiasm or excitement. “You want to move in together?”

“It would do wonders for our party budget.”

“It's a pretty big step, don't you think?”

I feel like I’m listening to a stranger who just happens to sound like me. I love Lynn. So why am I not more excited about what she’s suggesting?

A flicker of disappointment crosses Lynn's face and it breaks my heart. I just flunked a crucial test. It’s not the response she expected, but she’s a big girl and tries to play it off.

“I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I brought it up — total chick move. You just lost your brother and here I am trying to complicate your life…”

I cut her off with a kiss. Any further discussion of moving in together is swept aside by our renewed passion.

CHAPTER THREE

MILKY SUNLIGHT SEEPS INTO LYNN’S BEDROOM as I get dressed. My plan is simple — head to my brother’s place and snoop around. I want answers. Even though a week has passed, I can’t stop thinking that Josh was trying to tell me something before he died.

Lynn is barely awake and I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Gotta run,” I say. She’s back asleep by the time I’m out the door. It’s cold outside but in a good, refreshing way that wakes me up and clears my head. I grab a cup of steaming Dunkin Donuts’ coffee and catch the subway to Forest Hills. My thoughts turn to the night before. What’s going on with me? Why is the idea of living with the woman I love freaking me out? I tell myself that seeing my brother dying in front of me might have something to do with my reluctance. Facing mortality makes me wonder what I really want from life.

I’m twenty-four. Several of my friends have moved in with their significant others. Hell, a few have even gotten engaged or tied the knot. My hesitation when it comes to taking that next step isn’t a recent phenomenon. I know Lynn’s contemplated it before, but each time I avoided the issue. I’m not scared of relationships — heck, I’ve been in one for the last two years — but I do think I’m scared of a permanent relationship.

The final relationship.

Until death do us part, and all that jazz. I’m young and a part of me feels like I’m not quite ready to settle down. So if that’s the case, what am I doing wasting Lynn’s time? She’s ready and she needs me to be ready. I don’t want to break up with Lynn but I’m scared to move forward. Making that permanent commitment feels like a door slamming shut on a world full of possibilities. It’s stupid and immature, but whoever said the male brain was wired in any other way?

A half hour later I reach Josh’s apartment building. A harsh wind whips the snow-laden trees. The building now projects a sinister energy. Somehow the whole edifice has been tainted by what happened within.

Once again I let myself into my brother’s unit and survey my surroundings. As expected, the place is in disarray after the fire department and cops combed through the place. Furniture was shoved aside, chairs overturned.

I move deeper into the living room. So far, so good. But this is the easy part. The hard part is stepping back into the bedroom where my brother died. There’s no getting around it.

There, a scene of surreal devastation awaits. I take in the melted clump of steel that was once Josh's bed. Everything happened so fast when I was here last. My memories are dominated by flames, billowing smoke and the devastating realization that my brother was at the center of the inferno.

This time I’m able to take a step back and observe my environment more carefully. A MacBook and reams of papers rest on Josh’s desk, untouched by the conflagration that day.

I take note of a framed photograph of Josh and myself taken during a family camping trip in upstate New York. Our arms are slung around each other and we’re grinning ear to ear. Memories of better times.

Next I home in on a pin-up calendar mounted above the desk. “THE GIRLS OF HOOTERS.” As I eye the pin-up girls in their bright orange short-shorts, something peculiar jumps out at me. The faces of the two Hooters girls on the page have been burned away. It’s almost as if someone stabbed out a cigar on the picture, erasing the models’ features.

Strange.

Curiosity piqued, I snatch the calendar from the wall and begin to flip through it. On every page I’m confronted with the same bizarre phenomenon. Every model’s face has been obliterated.

I place the calendar back on the desk. One girl could be a coincidence, maybe a stray spark from the fire, but that doesn’t explain what I’m looking at. It lends weight to a dark suspicion that has taken root since my brother’s ruined vocal chords whispered Akasha’s name to me. Perhaps this wasn’t an accident. What if someone targeted my brother?

If the fire department had found gasoline or some other incendiary device at the scene, this theory might hold water. But according to their investigators, there was nothing suspicious about the scene. They were treating it like a cut-and-dried case. A tragic accident.

It doesn’t seem cut-and-dried to me.

I’m about to leave the bedroom when I hear footsteps behind me. I freeze, realizing I’m not alone any longer. The new arrival speaks and I realize it’s Peter, Josh’s roommate.

I turn toward Peter. He looks like a negative image of his former, chipper self. Unshaven, hair unkempt. I catch a whiff of B.O. He’s still grieving and dealing with what happened in his own way. Josh and Peter went to high school together and were always pretty tight.

I lost a brother the other day.

Peter lost his best friend.

“I'm so sorry about Josh,” he says.

I nod. Sometimes condolences can become an empty, if welcome formality, but clearly Peter’s words came straight from the heart.

“Any idea what happened?”

“I wish I knew. I don't even think the fire department knows.”

Peter wraps his arms around himself and shuffles his feet. He shakes his head, as unable as I am to make sense of the horror that devastated his home. “I don’t get it. I mean, how many people lose two of their closest friends in fires on the same weekend.”

The question lands like a punch and takes my breath away. “What are you talking about?”

At first Peter holds my gaze blankly, almost as if he didn’t hear me. Then he waves me over and indicates that I should follow him.

***

We sit in front of Peter’s open laptop and soon I’m watching a two-day-old newscast online. Blurry, low-res footage of a New York University resident building flashes onscreen. Half-dressed, shell-shocked kids shiver in the freezing night, surrounded by firefighters and cops.

A photograph of a young man replaces the footage. I know this guy! He’s friends with Peter and my brother, but I can’t for the life of me remember his name right now. I think we met once at a NYU party, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

The voice of a news anchor jogs my memory. “Tragedy struck NYU this morning when twenty-two-year-old grad student Steve Chebatoris was killed in a fire that broke out in his dorm room. Firefighters were able to contain the blaze before it spread to the rest of the building. Police are still investigating.”

A part of me tries to convince myself that it must be a coincidence, but another part remains doubtful. I ask Peter the question that has haunted me for the last two days. “Any idea who Akasha is?”

With trembling hands, he logs into Facebook.

What is he doing?

A moment later, I’m staring at Akasha’s Facebook profile. Judging from her photos, she’s stunning and can’t be older than nineteen. Striking, yet aloof, like some runway model posing for a gothic perfume ad. Her expression is forlorn and wistful with only a hint of a smile. Her cover page is a winter shot of a forest, the bare branches weighed down by fresh snow.

“Did Josh meet Akasha on Facebook?” I ask.

“No, but the dating app Blaze interfaces with the site.”

I shoot Peter a questioning look.

“Josh was hooked on Internet dating. It was Steve who turned him on to the dating app Blaze.”

I’ve never done any Internet dating, so I have no idea if this app is better than regular dating sites or just another nail in the coffin for Western civilization as we know it.

Peter shows me the app on his phone and explains the basics. “Blaze uses pictures from your Facebook page. It’s a back-to-basics approach to dating. You don’t need some elaborate profile to get started. It pretty much comes down to animal attraction. If you find someone who strikes your fancy, you tap the heart icon. If she doesn’t do anything for you, you press the “X” and move on to the next potential prospect.”

I study the app and conclude that it’s a digital meat market. Peter continues to lay out the basics of the app.

“If the chick of your dreams likes you back, a messenger opens up on your phone and you’re off to the races.”

How did the saying go? A picture is worth a thousand words. When it came to the mating game, that was certainly true. I swipe through photo after photo and begin to understand the addictive allure of the app. This is pure animal attraction filtered through the 640 by 960 at 326 ppi resolution of your smartphone.

I locate Akasha’s profile and it features the same pic from Facebook. She is located within a 5-mile radius, the app informs me. In the “ABOUT ME” box it reads, “Creative, fun, a mystery – 51% SAINT, 49% SINNER.”

Cute.

My smile vanishes as I take in the next line.

“LOVE BURNS YOU WHEN IT’S HOT.”

The words rattle me. Given what happened to Josh, and Steve, for that matter, Akasha’s blurb sounds a lot less poetic and intriguing than it would have a week ago.

As I continue to explore the app, a faraway expression creeps into Peter’s eyes. “There's something you're not telling me,” I ask.

A moment of hesitation. Then, “Both Josh and Steve contacted her.”

“I don't understand...”

“Josh was still upset over the way Karen dumped him. He was dating up a storm, hooking up with girls left and right.”

I nod. After Karen blindsided him, Josh was on the warpath.

“This is going to sound pretty messed up, but they had a bet going. They wanted to see who could score with her first.”

I process this latest revelation. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

“They both hooked up with Akasha the same week they died.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE TELEVISION IS ON WHEN I step into my Briarwood apartment. My roommate Cyrus is sprawled on the couch, eyes riveted on our big-screen TV. He’s watching some crazy reality show about a bunch of hot, flirtatious weirdoes trapped on a cruise ship.

I wish I had time for junk TV. Cyrus works as a server at a downtown steak house and pulls in so much cash that it makes me question my career ambitions sometimes. Still wearing his black restaurant uniform, he is depressurizing from his shift. He looks over as I go to the fridge and grab a beer.

“Not spending the day with your lady today?”

“Ton of homework. Figured I'd be more productive back at my place.”

“I hear ya. Pussy can be distracting.”

Cyrus should know. The man doesn’t have a girlfriend, he has girlfriends. Every time I talk to him he is either chasing or bedding some new girl. He has a face that women swoon for and some serious game.

“So did you get to slice and dice some bodies the other day?”

“Sure did.”

I crack open my Miller Lite and take a deep swig. Cyrus is waiting for me to say more, but I don’t want to go into the gruesome details. Instead, I shift the conversation away from me. “How was work?”

“Too many foreigners who don’t know how to tip.”

The bane of any server’s existence. I‘ve heard this one before.

Cyrus observes me in contemplative silence. He senses something is up without me having to say a word. He can be a bit callous but he’s also a people person — probably one of the reasons he cleans up in his chosen profession.

“What's on your mind right now, bro?”

“Lynn asked me to move in with her.” The answer slips out easily and I realize I was hoping we could talk about this.

“And you said yes?”

“I didn’t say no.”

“I guess it’s time to look for a new roommate.” He pauses, having picked up on my hesitation. “Unless you’re having second thoughts?”

“I love Lynn. So what’s my problem?”

“Face it. You’re a guy... that’s your problem.”

I think Cyrus is right.

“Lynn is an amazing girl, but...”

“There are a lot of fish in the sea!”

Cyrus has hit the nail on the head, though I’m ashamed to admit it. Unlike my ladykiller roomie, I’ve had exactly three girlfriends in my life. Somehow I get sucked into relationships that last for years. It’s only natural that part of me isn’t prepared to get super-serious with someone, no matter how much she means to me. I try to explain myself to Cyrus but judging from his knowing expression, no explanation is needed.

“Long story short, I love Lynn but I'm just not sure I'm ready to settle down.”

“That sexy barista wouldn't have anything to do with this, would she?”

My voice becomes defensive as I answer and it gives me away. “Maria and I are just friends.”

“Right. Of course you are.”

Cyrus gets up and grabs himself a beer too. As he toasts my already half-empty can, he says, ”These are the facts of life. This city is full of great girls, you're young and you're going to be a physical therapist one day. You could get laid by a different chick every night of the week.”

I smile despite myself. “Sounds like you don't think I should do it.”

“On the contrary, go for it. I hate to lose you as a roomie, dude, but Lynn is a keeper. If you let her go you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

I’m not used to hearing him talk like that. There’s heartfelt emotion in his voice. For a second he almost sounds like a mature grownup.

“Truth is, you’re a nice guy and ill-equipped to deal with all the freaks out there.”

“But you are?”

A big smile lights up Cyrus’ face as he says, “Hey, don’t you know I’m one of them?”

It’s my turn to grin. This is why I love my roommate.

***

Falling snow sheets past the window. I’m in my bedroom surrounded by a wall of books and cramming for an upcoming quiz. I try to concentrate, but I’m distracted. My eyes wander toward my desk.

To my computer.

Someone else seems to be in control as I get up and head for my MacBook. I turn on the machine and log into Facebook to check Josh’s profile. It takes great effort to avoid lingering on his photos. I can’t let grief overcome me. Staying focused, I scan his friends list and before long, I’ve found her.

AKASHA.

I click on her Facebook profile and fixate on the SEND MESSAGE button. This is a bad idea. If she’s connected to what happened to Josh, she might come after me next. It’s hard to believe that this girl just showed up and torched my brother without him even putting up a fight, or her leaving behind any trace of foul play. She isn’t superhuman. She has a Facebook profile, for God’s sake.

Something else must be going on here.

The whole set-up reminds me of that old Al Pacino flick “Sea of Love.” In the movie Pacino’s character investigates a woman played by Ellen Barkin. She’s meeting men through newspaper personals – this was before Internet dating – and her suitors are being murdered. Pacino suspects that Ellen is the killer but starts to fall for her anyway. Good flick.

Still debating the possibilities, I open Akasha’s message box and type.

Hi Akasha,

My name is Mark Valentine. I believe you met my brother Josh a few days ago. I have some bad news. Josh was in a serious accident the other night.

Okay, this sounds beyond lame, but what else should I write? I hesitate for a moment. My eyes come to rest on the framed picture of Josh and me that I scavenged from his apartment. Emotions well up and threaten to overwhelm me. I forge ahead.

You were one of the last people to see him. It would be great to talk to you. Please get back to me as soon as you can.

Best,

Mark

I read the email. Once. Twice. Change a word here and there. Reread it. Satisfied, I press SEND. The message is now out in cyberspace.

I shake my head. This is crazy. What am I doing?

A ping pulls me out of my thoughts.

It’s a FRIEND REQUEST from none other than Akasha. I pause, still uncertain about what I’m getting myself into. Do I have a plan here? I leave my doubts behind and accept Akasha’s request. I’m now able to view her entire profile.

I review the page and realize it doesn’t provide all that much information. Most boxes were left blank and there aren’t too many “likes.” No favorite movies, music, books. To my surprise, Akasha has only 39 “friends.” The number seems pretty low for a woman as attractive as Akasha. I eye her friends list and my heart skips a beat as I realize that both Josh and Steve Chebatoris are indeed there. I’m still digesting this when my Facebook messenger pings.

Akasha is messaging me.

“Hey Mark... How are you?”

I respond slowly.

Me: “I'm okay. Thanks for getting back.”

Akasha: “I like your pictures... You have a warm smile...”

What is she doing? Is Akasha flirting with me?

Me: “Thanks. I’d like to talk to you about Josh.”

Akasha: “Let’s grab some coffee?”

I hesitate, then type.

“Where would you like to meet?”

Akasha tells me.

A sudden knock on the bedroom door gives me a jolt. Cyrus speaks from outside: “Hey, can I come in?”

I tell him he can and Cyrus enters. ”I can't find my laundry key. Could I borrow yours?” He stops, having spotted Akasha's Facebook page.

“So you’re meeting chicks on Facebook now.”

Here we go. This is what I was afraid of.

“I'm not.”

A sly smile stretches over Cyrus' face. “Lynn asks you to move in with her and your first reaction is to hit the Internet?”

I ignore the comment and hand Cyrus my key.

“Gotta run. Make sure not to lose it unless you want us to start using the laundromat down the street.”

I’m out the door before Cyrus can respond.

CHAPTER FIVE

THIS IS ALL ABOUT JOSH. I want to get to the bottom of a mystery that is making it difficult for me to concentrate on anything else and move on with my life.

I pull into the Starbucks parking lot. I own a beaten-up Honda Civic built in the last century. You don’t need a car in New York and it’s pretty much madness to drive into Manhattan. Nowadays I only use the car if I’m going somewhere in Queens. The heavy snowfall makes it a bit risky to take the Honda out for a spin, but I don’t feel like braving the public transportation system this evening.

I park my car but don't turn off the engine. I peer through the windshield at the people milling around outside the coffee shop, chattering away. Happy, smiling folks whose lives must be untouched by any recent tragedy.

I stare at the key still resting in the ignition. I’m tempted to blow the meeting off.

I give myself a push and head into Starbucks. I scan the crowd of bundled-up caffeine junkies and quickly determine that Akasha isn’t among them. I order a coffee and wait with my red holiday-themed cup.

And wait.

After thirty minutes, I conclude that I’ve been blown off. I head back into the icy parking lot and walk to my car. In a weird way, I’m relieved.

I get into the Honda, start the engine and that is when my cell chirps. Incoming Facebook message from Akasha: “Sorry for being late.”

A moment. I check my rearview mirror. No sign of Akasha in the lot.

PING! Another incoming message reads: “How about we skip coffee and go for a ride?”

My confusion deepens, eyes scanning the parking area. I send a reply – “Where are you?”

I receive my answer in the form of another buzzing text. “Behind you.”

I check the rearview mirror again and...

Akasha is staring back at me.

She lurks right behind the car, black mane of hair cascading to frame her alabaster skin. Beautiful in an almost translucent, darkly heroin-chic way. I couldn’t quite put it into words earlier, but she reminds me of a black-haired Lana Del Rey. There’s a vacant quality to her beauty, equal measures of sadness and indifference etched into those forlorn features.

I frown. I could’ve sworn she wasn't there an instant ago...

Akasha pouts and rolls her eyes. Her long red nails drum the keypad of her cellphone.

Her message arrives. “I’m freezing.”

I hesitate. This woman doesn’t look dangerous. She must be around five-four, maybe a hundred-and-ten pounds. The idea that she had something to do with what happened to Josh seems laughable. There is something delicate about her beauty, an intensely vulnerable quality. Nevertheless…

Before I can make up my mind, my new Internet friend appears at the the passenger door and flashes me a tentative smile. After a beat, I open the door and let Akasha into my car and into my life.

***

Heavy snowfall erases visibility as my vehicle streaks down a road slick with black ice. The silence inside the moving car is unnerving and only seems to amplify the harsh squeak of the windshield wipers.

Swish, swish…

A grating metronome.

Though I do my best to stay focused on traffic, I keep stealing glances at the striking young woman sitting next to me. Akasha appears lost as she stares into space.

“Let me put on some music...”

A song bursts from the radio. The signal fades in and out, hissing static disrupting the station.

I change the station but get similar results. Strange. Shaking my head, I give up and kill the radio.

What am I doing?

This woman could be connected to two deaths and I’m taking her on a joyride. But Akasha’s fragile demeanor is disarming. She doesn’t strike me as someone who could trigger a car accident or douse a man on fire.

Is her beauty blinding me to her true nature?

Even if she had the psychotic will to commit such terrible crimes, surely she lacks the sheer physicality to pull them off. Despite all this my rationalizing my guard remains up.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your brother,” Akasha says.

“Thank you,” I say, reassured by her words.

“You two were close?” she asks.

“At one point. Our lives were moving in different directions, though.”

“That seems to happen a lot.”

I nod. I would hang with Josh but we both had our own lives. I had only seen him a handful of times since the semester started.

“You seem nervous. This the first time you’ve met someone off the Internet?” Akasha wants to know. Her faraway expression has been replaced by a seductive quality, almost like an unvoiced but implied promise. It makes me nervous.

“It's that obvious, huh?” I say for lack of a better response.

Akasha smiles as she nods. I’m startled by her sudden feral energy. For some reason she makes me think of a wild child who grew up far beyond the confines of modern society. Everything about her says that she doesn’t play by the rules because she doesn’t have to.

“I guess I don't normally give strangers a ride.”

“I'm glad you made an exception in my case.”

Akasha shifts her legs, letting more of her well-formed thighs emerge from her short skirt. My gaze is fixed on this enticing sight. I don’t like where this is going, but another part of me is thrilled. I remind myself that I’m not trying to get into her pants. I have a girlfriend and I’m not a player like Cyrus. This isn’t some Internet hook-up. I’m here to discuss Josh. I cut to the chase. “Listen, you're one of the last people my brother saw before the accident. This is going to sound weird but he mentioned your name before he died.”

“Maybe he felt guilty about the way he dumped me.”

I consider this, slightly thrown.

“How long did you two date?”

“We didn’t date. We fucked,” Akasha says matter-of-factly.

This bit of news shouldn’t surprise me, but her cold assessment of their relationship makes me view Akasha in a new light. Her perfect porcelain exterior is showing a crack or two, and it’s given me a disconcerting glimpse of the emotions churning beneath the calm surface. Now I detect something hidden there.

Resentment.

Suddenly this beautiful woman seems far less seductive. Akasha’s eyes flicker, as if she realizes that she’s losing me.

A horn screeches outside and a tractor-trailer comes barreling towards me. Without knowing it I’ve veered into the wrong lane. I correct my mistake but overcompensate and the car jackknifes, shooting off the road.

I floor the brakes and my car grinds to an abrupt halt. We manage to avoid a head-on collision with the nearest tree, but only by a few feet. The front bumper grazes a snowy embankment.

“Jesus...” My heart hammers in my chest and I’m breathing heavily.

Shit, this could’ve gone a lot worse.

As slushy rain continues to stream down the windows, I remember that I’m not alone and check on my sexy yet mysterious passenger. “Are you okay?”

Akasha nods. She seems completely unfazed by what just happened. Her aloof beauty remains untouched by even the simplest emotion.

For a moment we sit in silence. Finally Akasha speaks.

“I’m sorry for being so blunt,” she says. “It’s just... I thought your brother was different. I thought he was a good guy, that he cared.” Her eyes lock with mine and I’m caught off guard by the scary intensity I see there.

“Do you care, Mark?”

I’m stumped by the question. This whole encounter has gone from odd to bizarre. Before I can reply, Akasha leans in and gives me a quick kiss. It catches me by surprise. Despite all the weirdness, a part of me is turned on by her bold move. I pull away but my efforts are half-hearted.

“Listen, I’m involved.” The words are meant to discourage her, but she interprets them as an invitation.

“How involved?” The playful tone is back in her voice and she comes in for another kiss. Akasha isn’t taking my feeble “no” for an answer. In control, Akasha slides her tongue down my neck. She’s ready to take things further.

Akasha…

I hear Josh’s words in my mind and Lynn’s smiling face invades my thoughts. I stiffen and violently pull away.

“What's wrong?” Akasha asks in a suddenly vulnerable voice.

“I’m sorry, I can't do this...”

I lower my gaze, unable to hold Akasha's unflinching stare. I wipe the sweat off my brow.

My God, it’s hot in here.

My words lack any real force as I respond. “I emailed you because I wanted to talk about Josh. You're beautiful, Akasha, but I have a girlfriend.”

An uncomfortable pause. Akasha turns away and her features disappear behind her dark tresses.

I unzip my jacket, reacting to the rising heat in the vehicle. “Jesus, it's like a sauna in here. Let me turn down the heater...”

I do as promised and roll down my steamed-up window.

Akasha shoots me a final withering glare and opens the door.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Her response is to jump out of my Honda and dash off into the snowy night.

I chase after her. As soon as I get out of my vehicle, blowing ice particles lash my face. My eyes try to penetrate the flurry but I can detect no sign of Akasha.

“Akasha?”

I don’t receive an answer. I’m alone on the edge of the icy road. Cars tear past me on a sporadic basis, rubber splashing along the slippery asphalt.

My gaze scans the white surroundings but Akasha is gone and I’m left to wonder about what just transpired.

***

I drive in contemplative silence. I keep stealing glances at the passenger seat, almost expecting to find Akasha still sitting next to me.

Thirty minutes later, I park my car on Ditmars Blvd in Astoria and head for my girlfriend’s apartment. Using my set of keys, I let myself in and make my way to the bedroom. Lynn is already asleep. Poor girl hit the books all day while her significant other was up to no good. Shame washes over me for giving in to Akasha’s advances.

Especially for the excitement I felt.

I try to convince myself that I’m just a guy — this is how we’re wired, right? My internal pep talk doesn’t do much to lift my spirits or make me forget the queasy rumble in the pit of my stomach.

I get undressed, brush my teeth and scrub my face and hands, hoping to rid myself of the last traces of Akasha’s intoxicating scent. Strangely enough, I don’t even remember what she smelled like. Her perfume seems to have evaporated on the drive over.

As I slip under the covers, Lynn stirs. She gives me a groggy kiss, more asleep than awake, and plants her head on my chest.

I lie there for a moment with her weight on me, reassured and comforted by the physical contact. I’m wide-awake though, eyes riveted on the ceiling. Sleep won’t come easily tonight, if at all, I think. My mind churns, not sure what to make of what happened tonight. After a restless hour or two, I succumb to sheer exhaustion and fall into a dreamless slumber.

The next thing I remember is sunlight filtering into the room. A voice edges into my consciousness: “Hey sleepyhead, you’re going to be late for class.” My eyes flutter open and I sit up. I perch myself on the edge of the bed, still trying to wake up.

Lynn steps out of bathroom, already dressed. She leans forward and kisses me on the lips. She doesn’t care about my morning breath; now that’s love.

“Hey, not fair, I'm not even awake...” I protest. My make-out session with Akasha has become a distant dream.

“Whoever said I liked to play fair? This is the perfect time to take advantage of you.”

Lynn is about to kiss me again, but then she pauses. Her gaze fixes on me and now I’m worried. Did Akasha’s attentions leave some sort of mark? I don’t remember noticing anything the night before...

“What is it?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“You better see for yourself,” Lynn says.

I get out of bed and rush into the bathroom. As I flick on the light, I spot the three small marks that caught Lynn’s attention. They aren’t hickeys, as I feared, though they are on my neck. They vaguely recall love bites but the discoloration is different. It takes me a second before I figure it out. The brown-yellow spots are burn marks, as if my skin made contact with a hot metal surface and donated some skin in the process. How did I sustain these injuries without noticing them sooner?

I probe the marks with my fingers and wince. The skin is sensitive to the touch. I should apply some burn cream if I want to avoid scarring.

Lynn appears behind me in the mirror. “What happened?”

I lamely offer up a bullshit theory. “I must’ve burned myself taking a shower at the gym.”

I wish I had a real answer, but all I can think of is the cryptic message on Akasha’s Blaze profile.

Love burns you when it’s hot.

CHAPTER SIX

ONCE AGAIN I’M FACING THE OPERATING table and gearing up to make my first incision into the cadaver. It’s the same body from the day before, the young man who was struck down in his prime.

“Today we’ll be focusing on head and neck anatomy...” Dr. Wallace says, but I’m not paying attention.

Lynn reaches for the mask that covers the corpse’s features and begins to remove it. I’m about to see the face of the dead man we’ve carved up in the name of higher education. To my horror, the visage staring back at me is all too familiar.

I’m looking at Josh.

His skin is a darkened mass of burnt tissue but those haunted eyes belong to my brother. It gets worse as the charred death mask turns toward me. I cry out and recoil, dropping the surgical blade. It clatters to the stone floor of the classroom, echoing.

Panic explodes in my chest and I’m unable to catch my breath. A hand touches my shoulder. It’s Wallace. A concerned frown furrows his brows. “Are you okay, son?”

Good question. If the experiences of the last few days are any indicator, the answer is a resounding no. My eyes drift back to the corpse. The lifeless features are those of a stranger. The stares of Lynn and the other students are mortifying. Their expressions range from pity to surprise to dark amusement.

I trade a quick glance with Lynn. I spot the love and concern in her gaze and I feel like a shit for my behavior last night. I inhale sharply and eye Dr. Wallace.

“Take the afternoon off,” he says. “It happens to the best of us.”

I nod and leave the anatomy classroom. Lynn’s worried gaze follows me all the way. She wants to come after me, but I wave her off.

Everything’s okay, babe.

I’m lying.

I head to the cafeteria and order a coffee while I wait for the class to let out. I sip the bitter brew, which goes down like a cup of ashes. Forty minutes later, Lynn joins me.

“What happened?” she asks.

Good question. What did happen?

“I think I need to get some rest. Too many nights of burning the midnight oil. It’s starting to catch up to me.”

Lynn studies me with a doubtful expression, not quite convinced.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Let’s do something fun tonight,” she says. “How about we plan a real date?”

“Sounds like a great idea.”

It’s been way too long since we’ve gone out.

“I’ll come up with something,“ Lynn says. “Be ready by eight.”

I relax. Despite a crazy study schedule that doesn’t leave much room for romantic outings, Lynn is going to carve out a window of time. Because she knows we need it.

God, I love this girl.

The plan for the rest of the day is simple. I’m going to study my ass off. If I’m going to have fun tonight, I must maintain my focus and clear some work off my plate. I head to the library and find a quiet corner where the world can forget I exist. A place where knowledge and science dominate and the twisted soap opera of my life will seem small and insignificant.

For the first two hours I make excellent progress. A quiz is coming up in my biology class and I want to be prepared. My grade-point average is solid, if not spectacular. I flunk one test and it could jeopardize my academic future. I can’t slack off or use tragedy as an excuse for failure.

My cell phone chimes. One glance at it and reality comes crashing down on me. Akasha is Facebook messaging me again.

“What are you up to?”

I eye the message, phrased innocently enough. I thought that after what happened last night, we’d be done. I guess I was wrong. I break down and respond to this latest communication.

Me: “Doing homework.”

Akasha: “Need any help?”

Cute response, and I almost smile. Akasha waits for a beat before sending the next message.

“When can I see you again?”

I can no longer sugarcoat this. Better to be honest and direct.

I type: “I don't think that would be a good idea. I told you, I have a girlfriend.”

“Where was your girlfriend when you made out with me last night?”

Akasha logs off and I stare at my cell in silence.

Outside it’s snowing again. White clumps of melting ice drift down the glass pane and I’m glad that I’m indoors. I turn off my phone and plan to get some work done.

Around five I call it quits and brave the weather. I leave the library and catch the F-train back into Queens. It takes another forty minutes to arrive in Briarwood, but I get lucky and manage to snag a seat. I continue to study my flash cards while the train rattles its way through the bowels of Manhattan and over the streets of Queens.

I switch on my phone again and am relieved to not find any messages from Akasha. I check in with Lynn and she tells me to meet her at one of her favorite hole-in-wall Thai places in Queens. We’re going to dodge the Manhattan commute and keep things local tonight. I can only stomach one trip into the city per day, especially during the winter months. Rain is coming down in raw, cold sheets as I emerge from the subway station. I make a mad dash for my apartment building which is only a block away from the station. It’s impossible to not get wet, even though I’m moving pretty fast.

When I reach the entrance, I go stock-still.

Someone is waiting for me below the front awning.

Akasha.

Her dress is soaked and pasted to her beautiful figure, leaving little to the imagination. There’s a trace of anger in my voice as I address her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

A sob escapes from Akasha's throat and I realize tears are mixing with the melted snow on her face. She is hugging herself and shaking in the icy downpour. A pitiful sight.

Seeing her vulnerable like that dampens my anger and I feel like a shit for going off on her. I pop the door open and say, “You better come in before you catch pneumonia.”

She faces me from behind a curtain of cold tears and nods. I hold the door open for her and she brushes past, her wet skin grazing mine. The contact is electric. Alarm bells go off inside my head, but I choose to ignore them.

Ten minutes later, Akasha sits in my kitchen, a towel wrapped around her soaked shoulders. A teakettle heats on the stove and I’m about to make some tea for us.

I eye Akasha with trepidation as I notice the curves outlined under the wet material of her clothes. For a second, Akasha’s eyes fix on me, catching me in the act. But from the way she smiles, it seems she doesn’t mind being inspected. Letting her up here was a bad idea.

“I like your place,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“You live with a roommate?”

I nod, perhaps a little too quickly. “Yeah.

“Where is he?”

“Cyrus is still at work.”

“I guess there's no one here to interrupt us.”

“There's nothing to interrupt.”

Akasha rises and the towel drops to the floor. I can see the outline of her breasts under her wet T-shirt and this confirms what I’ve suspected since I first saw her outside my building – she’s not wearing a bra.

“I wonder what Lynn would think if she found me here?”

There’s an edge in my voice as I respond. “How do you know my girlfriend's name?”

“Relax. She doesn't know about us.”

“What are you talking about? There’s no ‘us’ to know about.”

“You could've fooled me the other night. I loved the way you kissed me.”

She takes another step toward me. The water makes her clothes cling to her shapely figure in a primal way. This is getting out of hand.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Mere inches separate us. It would be so easy to reach out, tear those clothes off and take her right here and now. I know she wants me to, but I can’t do this to Lynn.

Akasha presses her body into mine. “I know you feel the same way,” she says. “I can see it in your eyes. Why fight it?”

Why? Because there’s an amazing gal out there who cares about me. And I don’t want to break her heart. I can’t risk my relationship for the sake of a fleeting experience with a hot but emotionally unbalanced girl. I grow resolute. I’m not going to succumb to temptation.

“Listen, you better leave. If you need me to call you a cab, I will.”

I see the stunned look on Akasha’s face and I’m worried. Is this what happened with Josh? Did he push her away after he realized she was bad news? Did he pay the ultimate price for his rejection?

“Who do you think I am?” There’s an undertone of menace in her voice. “Someone you can just kick out once you're done with me?“

Her gaze is distant and it feels like she is reliving some other past, talking about another guy, another relationship. How often has this been her story? One-night stands that started hot and heavy but ended with her being shown the door?

That does it. I snap. My anger is fueled by fear. Something is wrong with this girl, and I can’t stop thinking about Josh’s dying gasp and the terror in his eyes as he mouthed his final message – her name.

The reason I contacted Akasha has gotten lost in the course of this seductive game, but I won’t lose sight of it again. “I tried to be a nice guy, but you don't seem to get it. I have a girlfriend. I don't know what your problem is, but I want you out of here. Now.”

Her eyes narrow into slits and become intense, blazing with emotion. Beads of perspiration bloom on my face. The heat in the apartment appears to be rising.

Then the moment passes and the same vulnerability I saw earlier, in the rain, creeps back into her face.

“Don't you like me, Mark? Just a little?”

Before I can come up with the proper response, the fire alarm goes off. The sound is sharp and shrill. I search the kitchen for a sign of smoke or anything else that could have set off the alarm. I don’t detect any visible cause.

I rush over to the alarm. Seeing no other choice, I pop out the battery. The noise dies down.

I whirl back to Akasha...

But she is gone. It’s a small apartment so it doesn’t take long to be sure she isn’t hiding somewhere.

I open the front door and poke my head out to peer down the now empty hallway. There is no sign of Akasha.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE THAI RESTAURANT LYNN PICKED IS a hole-in-the-wall in the true sense of the word. The décor is forgettable and the place is cramped and crowded. Small individual tables are so close together we might as well be dining at a communal table. I like meeting new folks, but not while I’m on a date with my girl. But the food makes up for the inconvenience. The joint is a fave among hipsters, artists, musicians and students – in other words, poor people like ourselves who appreciate delectable chow at bargain prices.

Lynn is enjoying her dinner and babbling away about her day. She suddenly pauses.

“You haven't heard a word I said.”

I offer her a guilty-as-charged smile.

“I'm sorry, babe. I'm not myself today.”

“Don't worry about it. I can't imagine how hard this must be. I was hoping a night out might get your mind off what happened...”

“And it did,” I say perhaps a little too quickly. “Thanks again, honey.”

I take Lynn’s hand and am leaning forward to kiss her when the candle on our table lights by itself. There’s a flare of light from the other tables as their candles flicker to life in unison.

My perplexed gaze roves around the restaurant and I spot Akasha standing at the entrance. Her face is a blank slate, but the jealousy in her unblinking eyes is all too clear.

I jump to my feet. Lynn stares at me, startled.

“What's wrong?”

I don’t offer an answer but instead turn away from the table. This must end now. With quick strides I cross the restaurant and close in on Akasha.

She spins and rushes toward a nearby doorway.

I pick up the pace.

So does Akasha.

Moments later, she vanishes through the door.

I’m right behind her.

I burst through the door and find myself in a dank hallway. At the far end, Akasha disappears through another door into the ladies’ room.

“Akasha... Wait!”

I reach the door, hesitate for a second and overcome my social conditioning to enter.

“Akasha...”

A young woman, hair dyed blue, leans over the wash-basin. Working on her makeup, she peers up at me with visible irritation and drops her black lipstick. It rolls on the floor.

“Dude, what are you doing here?”

I attempt a weak apology.

The disconcerted punk chick doesn't stick around for an explanation and rushes out of the bathroom. She doesn't even bother to scoop up her lipstick.

I take a deep breath and scan the room. No windows or other exits. Akasha must still be in here.

My attention shifts to the two stalls and I listen intently. The only sound is my breathing.

“Akasha?”

No response.

Surprise, surprise.

I approach the first stall. It turns out to be empty.

I pause. My face is coated in perspiration. It’s not just from my little sprint. Did someone crank up the heater in here? I wipe the sweat from my face and turn to the second stall.

Is Akasha waiting behind the door?

“Akasha, I know you're in there...”

Still no answer. Okay, keep playing this game if you must.

I push the door and it swings open, revealing another empty stall.

I catch my dumbfounded reflection in the bathroom mirror. Where did Akasha go?

I comb the room but there’s no explanation. Now I’m spooked.

Defeated, I’m about to retreat before some other female enters the washroom when my eyes fall on the exit. A message has been scrawled on the door with the same lipstick the punk-lady dropped a minute earlier.

It reads: “WHY WERE YOU MAKING OUT WITH THAT WHORE?”

I swallow hard and realize Akasha is becoming a problem.

***

I pull up to Lynn's apartment building and kill the engine. Sleet pelts the windshield and streams down the glass. For a moment we just sit there in silence.

“What happened back there at the restaurant? Who were you running after?”

“I thought I saw someone I know.”

Lynn’s brows furrows into a puzzled expression. She’s not buying my story.

“I've never seen you act like that before.”

An awkward beat. The new distance between us is palpable.

I can tell Lynn wants to probe further, but she backs off. She knows me well enough not to push me into a corner.

“You sure you don't want to stay over?” Lynn asks, changing the subject.

“Got to get up early tomorrow and cram for that anatomy quiz.”

Lynn seems to understand this but is unable to hide her disappointment. She verbalizes what has been eating away at her for the last few days. “Everything is cool between us, right?”

“Of course,“ I say automatically.

Lynn doesn’t seem convinced.

“Mark, I'm here for you if you need me.”

“I know.”

Another beat. We hug.

“You sure you don't want to spend the night? I want to be with you.”

“I’m with you. Just trying to avoid all distractions before the quiz tomorrow.”

Maybe you should try avoiding Akasha?

“You better get an A, Dr. Valentine. I can be a high-maintenance girl.” She plants a quick peck on my cheek, gets out of my car and walks up to her apartment building. I stay until I’m convinced she’s safely inside.

***

It’s past eleven when I park the Honda near my Briarwood pad. I get lucky and find a spot a few feet from the main entrance. My life is a bit of an emotional rollercoaster at the moment, but it seems my parking karma remains solid.

I approach my place and almost expect to find Akasha waiting for me again but the front lobby is deserted.

As soon as I’m in my apartment, I slam a Red Bull and attack the books. Unfortunately, the energy drink only buys me thirty minutes before my concentration wavers and my eyes grow heavy. I decide to catch a power nap. I allow myself only thirty minutes. Setting an alarm on my phone, I close my eyes.

When I open them again, a quick glimpse at the clock reveals it’s 4 a.m. I’ve been out for four hours. So much for the alarm! I sense shadowy movement in the darkness and conclude I’m not alone. I lie on my bed, senses alert, heart hammering away, uncertain what to do next. A sound from the corner of the room draws my attention.

I bolt upright, adrenaline surging. Wide-awake now. My eyes bore into the dark and I make out Akasha looming at the foot of the bed, gazing down at me.

“Why don't you like me?”

She is crying now. Tears slide down her cheeks and hit the floor in what seems like slow motion. They ignite like napalm upon contact. In a sudden flash, I find myself surrounded by a ring of fire. The flames flicker hungrily.

I’m shocked to discover that my body is paralyzed as the roaring inferno tightens around me. I want to scream for help, but solely manage a croak. This is what must have happened to Josh.

And it’s about to happen to me.

My prediction comes true a beat later as the fire engulfs the bedspread. Within seconds the pillows, comforters and sheets are engulfed in roaring flames.

As the blaze devours my flesh, I let out a piercing scream...

***

My eyes snap open and the scream becomes a gasp for air as I jerk awake. I’m covered in sweat, my T-shirt sticking to me like a second skin. My eyes tick back and forth, scanning the room.

There’s no fire.

No sign of Akasha.

I shake off the last vestiges of sleep and it all sinks in. It was just a nightmare.

I take a deep breath, wishing I was at Lynn’s place where I could roll over and cling to the reassuring physicality of another human being. But the bed, like the room, is empty.

It’s barely five o’clock. Great. I have a quiz in a few hours. Might as well just stay up and hit the books.

I climb out of bed and stagger toward my bathroom. I flick on the light and squint under the harsh glare. I lean over the sink to splash water on my face. My body is trembling, still affected by the horror of the dream.

I peer up at my reflection and freeze.

The mirror reveals a disturbing sight. The blackened outline of a hand’s imprint has burned itself into the doorjamb behind me.

I turn and inspect the handprint. The charred wood is still hot to the touch and leaves black marks on my fingertips. A wave of dread washes over me and this time I know it’s not a dream.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DAYLIGHT STREAMS INTO MY BEDROOM, A sharp reminder that I overslept. My ambitious plan to get some studying done in the early hours of the morning never materialized. Despite my experience in the bathroom, I managed to fall asleep again. A soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out cold. Maybe the world has become too much to handle. Sleep offers a much-needed refuge from the horror.

Now that I’m awake, reality comes crashing down on me with a vengeance. Besides this whole Akasha weirdness, quizzes are coming up and papers are due. I’m going to have to catch up somehow.

I get up and stagger to my desk. The plan is to take a quick glance at the news before hitting the shower, but I end up on Facebook perusing Akasha’s page. I notice that something about her profile has changed.

While I’m bad with names, I have a knack for remembering numbers and dates. I guess it’s just the weird way my brain works. Ask me to identify some actor by name and I couldn’t answer to save my life, but I can quote you the weekend grosses of the latest blockbuster movie.

This allows me to pick up on the change in the profile. Akasha added a new friend since I last checked. She now counts 40 friends, not 39. I wonder who the lucky guy might be.

As I scan the list, I ask myself who’s becoming obsessed with whom.

The newcomer is a smiling black man whose name is David Smith. He appears to be in his mid-twenties, as far as I can tell, and I’m struck by a disturbing thought.

I Google Akasha’s new friend and get three hits for multiple news stories posted within the last few hours. David Smith perished in a fiery wreck on Queens Boulevard after losing control of his vehicle. I view the news-footage with shaking hands and realize the accident happened three blocks from the Starbucks where I met Akasha the other day.

***

The plan is to skip my quiz. I know Lynn will be worried, so I send her a quick text promising to explain everything once I see her. The news of Robert’s death shakes me to the core. The fact that he died in a fire and ended up on Akasha’s friend list can’t be a coincidence.

I study the list and a chill dances up my spine. One by one, I type the names of her friends into Google. A terrifying theory is soon confirmed.

First is Mike Wells, a handsome fellow in his late twenties. I try not to get sidetracked by details and skim the man’s profile. I punch in his name in my Google search box and it doesn’t take long to find what I was dreading to discover. Mike’s picture smiles back at me from a news article. His cheerful disposition stands in sharp contrast to the text. “Young man perishes in MYSTERIOUS FIRE.”

After six more names and a series of similarly fiery deaths, I’m ready to call it quits. Each story is nearly identical to the last. The only differences are the changing pictures of the dead and slight variations in the facts of the case. Forty men have died in unexplainable fires over the course of the last ten months.

She got you all, I think.

And I know who might be next in line.

To save myself, I need to find out more about Akasha.

My eyes turn to one of the news stories open on my screen. The victim in question is Robert May, a junior CPA fresh out of college. Young kid, his whole life ahead of him. Just like the rest of the dead men. But something is different about Robert’s tragedy. Something about his story stands out. His girlfriend was with him when the fire broke out. Jennifer Heitz sustained third degree burns all over her body, but she's still alive.

There's a survivor.

CHAPTER NINE

WHITE SNEAKERS PAD DOWN A STERILE corridor. A nurse escorts me down the institutional hallway of the NORELL BURN TRAUMA CENTER. The heat in the building forces me to unzip my jacket.

“We keep the temperature inside the facility at eighty-five degrees,” the nurse explains. “Once the skin is compromised, burn victims are incapable of maintaining the necessary body temperature for internal organs to function properly.”

“What are the survival rates?”

“Thirty percent succumb to infection. If they can make it through the first sets of skin grafts, their odds improve. Jennifer is one of our success stories. After six surgeries, she should be able to leave the center within a month or so.”

We round a corridor and reach Jennifer’s hospital room. The nurse nods, giving me the go-ahead to enter. I told them I was a college friend of Jennifer’s who heard about her tragedy. They agreed that seeing a friendly face would be good for her, but told me to be prepared. Jennifer’s terrible third-degree burns have drastically altered her appearance.

I wonder once again what I am doing here. How will Jennifer react to my visit? I wouldn’t be surprised if in the next few minutes a bunch of security officers descend on her room and drag me out of here. I hope Jennifer gives me enough time to plead my case before she sets the dogs on me.

I push the grim vision aside and concentrate on the figure sitting in the corner. Facing the window, Jennifer wears an athletic hoodie with the hood up. From this angle, she makes me think of an urban monk.

“Jennifer, you have a visitor. An old friend from college…”

“I have no friends. Not anymore,” the woman in the chair says, without turning around. Outside, snowflakes flutter steadily. The nurse shoots me a “good luck, kid” look and leaves us alone.

I’m unsure how to proceed. How do I bring up Akasha? I’m not a trained interrogator and me being here feels like a bad idea. Before I can say anything, Jennifer speaks. “It's funny. Everyone’s so excited that I'm about to leave this place, but I doubt the world is ready for me. Six surgeries later and my face is a cheap Halloween mask.”

“I'm sorry.”

Still without turning, she says, ”I don’t recognize your voice. Who are you?”

I come clean – the truth shall set me free.

“My name’s Mark. I need your help, Jennifer.”

She tilts her head toward me. Even though I steeled myself for this sight, I still have to stifle a gasp. The face inside the hoodie is an ugly tangle of knotted scars. I perused pictures of her from before the accident, and it’s heartbreaking to see her now. The fire leveled her nose and retracted her eyelids. Her former beauty slashed and burned away, she reminds me of a well-preserved mummy.

“How could I possibly help you?” she asks, her lidless eyes staring out at me from the cratered face.

“My brother died in a fire a few days ago. I don’t think it was an accident.”

Her stare never wavers, her full attention fixed on me. This is my chance and I grab it.

“I think someone murdered my brother. The same person who set the fire that killed your fiancé and nearly killed you.”

“Akasha...” Jennifer says, and I realize I’ve come to the right place.

“Who is she?” I ask.

The question hangs there. Jennifer is withdrawing from me. She shifts her attention back to the window. On some level I’m grateful not to be looking at her face any longer, but our connection is crumbling. I make a final attempt to reach her.

“Please, is there anything you can tell me about her?”

After a long moment, Jennifer responds. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

My heavy silence answers her question.

“Leave her before Akasha destroys you both.”

“Who is she?”

No answer is forthcoming. Jennifer doesn’t stir.

“Jennifer, please talk to me...”

She finally responds. Raspy words slip ominously from her destroyed lips with a chilling air of finality.

“Love is like a flame. It burns you when it’s hot.”

CHAPTER TEN

I WAS HOPING JENNIFER WOULD TELL me more after that cryptic statement but she clammed up. Damn, my whole visit turned out to be a bust. She did provide me with one insight – I’m not the only who might in danger. Akasha could come after Lynn. The thought terrifies me. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her. I conclude that I’m done with this amateur investigator shit and go straight to the cops. An hour later I find myself in a bustling squad room. But now that I’m sitting across from Detective Peterson and feel his scrutinizing gaze on me, I feel like I’ve made a mistake. In his mid-forties and clearly the world-weary kind of cop, he doesn’t suffer fools easily. At the moment he is trying to decide if I belong in the drunk tank.

“Okay, to sum it up,” he says, checking his notes. “Your brother and a bunch of other burn victims hooked up with a femme fatale on Facebook and she killed them?”

Dammit, I know how it sounds.

“And this cyber-sex version of a black widow killer is now after you?”

“She’s been stalking me and my girlfriend! Who knows what this crazy bitch is going to do next?”

My raised voice doesn’t earn me any respect from Peterson. “You might want to turn it down a tad.”

He peruses some police department records on his laptop. The first file contains pictures of Josh and his burned-up bedroom.

“According to the fire department, there was nothing suspicious about the fire that killed your brother. It was an unfortunate accident. Case closed.”

“They didn't have all the facts.” Detective Peterson’s patience might be running low, but he’s not the only one. “What about the other forty guys?!”

“Right. The friends list. So if this girl kills all her cyber dates, why did she spare you?”

It’s a good question, one that I’ve been asking myself for the last few hours. Why am I still alive? What separates me from all her other victims?

“I don’t know,” I say, and that’s actually when the answer hits me. I was spared because I didn’t give Akasha what she wants. Josh and Steve (and all the others, I presume) slept with her. I didn’t. My loyalty to Lynn triggered Akasha’s obsessive, stalker-like behavior, but it also could explain why she hasn’t burned me.

Yet.

I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut about this epiphany. Peterson must already think I’m doing drugs. I can imagine what his response would be: “So this psycho chick is stalking guys who don’t put out?”

Sounds crazy. But so does everything else about this case, as Peterson keeps reminding me. How does a nineteen year old woman torch dozens of men over a period of months without ever leaving a trace of forensic evidence? How does she manage to set up elaborate accidents or trigger fires that don’t spread?

For an absurd instant I’m reminded of Pyro, one of the characters in the X-Men movies, and wonder if Akasha might be a pyrokinetic mutant. Damn, I read way too many comic books for a man my age! But what other explanation is there? What am I really dealing with here? I don’t have any concrete evidence, but I know what I’ve experienced. And Akasha’s hit list is right there on Facebook!

Peterson stops his stare-down contest. I guess he’s convinced I’m not high, which makes me either delusional or a skilled prankster. Either way, he wants me out of here so he can move on with his day and work real cases.

“You’re free to file a complaint if you like,” he explains, “but without any forensic evidence, witnesses or motive, there's not much I can do.”

That’s it. Case closed. Time for a donut. I can’t even blame the guy.

I should let it go and leave, but I’ve come this far and can’t turn back. “Alright, two people might be a coincidence, but how do you explain all of Akasha's Facebook friends being dead? Check her page if you don't believe me.“

I’m not imagining the scowl on Peterson’s face, but he is a thorough, officious guy willing to see this through to the end. Without even trying to hide his skepticism, Peterson logs into Facebook.

I can’t help but be curious — what does a cop post about? Status update: “I booked a killer today – life is good.” Before I can steal a glimpse at his Wall, he locates Akasha’s page.

“Take a look at her Facebook friends...”

The words die on my lips. Akasha’s friend list has changed. It now contains a mix of men and girls. And that’s when it hits me. She “unfriended” her victims! Nothing links them to her Facebook page now.

“She changed her profile, added new friends,” I stammer. “There must be a way to check that...”

I trail off. Something in Peterson’s expression is different now. Where earlier I could only pick up his impatience, I now recognize a new emotion — suspicion. His next question catches me off guard.

“You sure this is the girl you met up with?”

“Yeah.”

Peterson nods pensively and says, “Let me show you something.” He indicates for me to follow him, and I oblige. You don’t want to argue with the NYPD. We step outside the bustling office and arrive in an adjacent hallway. Peterson moves to a wall filled with the headshots of missing teens, mostly females. Each passport-style photograph is accompanied by pertinent details. Peterson points at one of the pictures and my breath hitches.

It’s Akasha. She’s got her own missing poster. My mind reels as I try to process this new piece of information.

“Akasha Samona,” Peterson says. “Missing for ten months now. No one in her family has seen or heard from her.”

“I’ve met up with her twice in the last week alone.”

The words earn me another skeptical glance from the detective, and his frustration boils to the surface. He’s wondering what kind of game I’m playing. For a moment, he indulges me, probably hoping I trip myself up and reveal Akasha’s whereabouts. I’ve gone from potential victim to nuisance to suspect in the space of a few minutes.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

“Why would I be lying to you about something like this?”

I can see that he’s itching to speak his mind, but he keeps it together. He’s a professional.

“Normally when someone goes missing for this long, they either don't want to be found or something really bad happened to them.“

The chilling implication sinks in.

“You think she’s—”

“We fear the worst.”

He takes a step closer and I have to repress the urge to back away. “Any idea where Akasha might be at the moment?”

“I only talked to her online before she started showing up places. I don't even have her number.”

I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me.

“You run into this girl again, you call me immediately. Understood?“

I nod, the words barely registering. I can't take my eyes off the poster, mind consumed with one burning question.

What happened to Akasha?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’M SHAKEN BY WHAT I LEARNED at the police precinct. In a trancelike state, I make my way to the nearest subway station and head back into Manhattan. I’m supposed to meet Lynn at the library and she expects an explanation for why I skipped out on today’s crucial quiz, especially when my grade-point average is borderline. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to tell her.

My thoughts cycle back to Akasha. I replay our recent encounters in my mind and all throughout, Peterson’s words haunt me.

“Normally when someone goes missing for this long, they either don't want to be found or something really bad happened to them.“

A theory is forming in the back of my mind. My rational view of the world is fighting the idea, though. It can’t be...

By the time I reach downtown Manhattan, a new message waits for me. The text isn’t from Lynn.

“Met your girlfriend. You could do so much better.” Horrified, I call Lynn right away. No response. I ring again and leave voicemail. I send two texts. Still nothing. The eerie, uncharacteristic radio silence continues.

What have you done, Akasha?

I know Lynn won’t be waiting for me at the library. My best bet is to head to her apartment in Astoria and hope that’s where I’ll find her.

For a terrible moment I worry that Akasha has harmed Lynn. Jennifer’s destroyed features surface in my unwilling but fertile imagination.

As I hit the road, I try to push my fears aside but fail miserably.

I arrive at Lynn’s place. After letting myself in, I suddenly breathe easily when I realize she’s home. Alive and unharmed.

My relief is short-lived.

She’s been crying and her mascara runs down her cheeks in black streaks. Resting before her is an open laptop that’s logged into Facebook. I’m dismayed to see that she’s studying Akasha’s profile...

Before I can utter a word, she cuts me off. “Your new friend looked me up today. She couldn't stop talking about you.”

I step closer and inspect Akasha’s Wall. I’m horrified to find a number of tagged posts written under my Facebook handle. Posts that I never left.

I scan the first one.

I had a great time yesterday. I keep thinking about you.

“Sounds like it was a pretty special evening,” Lynn says.

The other posts are even more damning. They’re so obviously fake that it’s almost comical. Does Lynn think I’d leave a trail of digital breadcrumbs behind if I was actually cheating on her? Judging from the fury in her eyes, the answer is a resounding yes. If our roles were reversed, I’d react in the same manner. She isn’t approaching the situation rationally. Her emotions are in control and nothing I do or say will convince her of my innocence.

Anger rises in her voice as she continues, “If you don't want to be with me anymore, then break up with me. But don't play games.”

“I swear, I didn't write any of those comments.”

My lame defense must only make me sound guiltier, but it’s the best I can do. I’m in shock myself.

“You want me to believe this girl hacked your Facebook account and sent these comments to herself?” Lynn is taking the words out of my mouth. Once again I wonder how Akasha managed to pull this off.

“I don't know how she did it, but I never wrote those messages.”

“Are you saying you didn't meet up with her the other day?”

It’s a loaded question and I reply slowly. “I did, but here’s why...”

This is all Lynn needs to hear. I realize she’s already made up her mind about this, and who can blame her?

“I know it looks bad, but it's a long story. I needed to talk to her about Josh...“

“I can tell you two did a lot of talking.”

“Lynn, please...”

“Just tell me one thing, and don't lie. Did anything happen between the two of you?”

My little make-out session with Akasha flashes through my mind, and I hesitate. I’m a terrible liar. My wavering gaze confirms my guilt. Fighting back tears, she says, “I think you should leave.”

“Lynn, let me explain... This girl is dangerous. Josh is dead because of her...”

Instead of helping my cause, this comment only makes things worse. Lynn glares at me, her tears making way for a growing rage. “Stop it. This is pathetic. I thought you loved me, Mark. But I guess I was wrong. Just get out. Please!”

I’m about to plead with her when Lynn’s hostile stare stops me cold. Her pain is too fresh and raw for her to listen to my crazy tale of spontaneous combustion and hit lists. This round goes to you, Akasha.

As I step out of Lynn’s place and head back to the street, I try to console myself by saying things could be worse. Akasha could’ve tried to harm Lynn physically. In a way, Lynn backing away from our relationship might keep her safe — at least in the short term.

I debate my next move.

Part of me is tempted to walk straight into the nearest bar and get loaded. But nothing will be gained from numbing my mind. Forty men died because of this girl, and I need to find out why.

For the moment, I roll with the punches. Something crazy is going on here and I’d better get to the bottom of this mystery before it’s too late.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MY CAR SNAKES ITS WAY DOWN a winding road. The temperature has dropped and it’s snowing again.

I pull up to a middle class, one-family house. A massive snowdrift weighs down the structure. Ominous icicles sprout from the edge of the roof like razor-sharp teeth.

I park my beaten-up Honda and approach the property, which is enclosed by a wooden fence. The only sound comes from my shoes as they crunch the hard-packed snow.

I reach the door and ring the doorbell. Waiting in silence, I watch my breath mist in the cold.

Approaching footsteps grow audible. The door opens, revealing Akasha's mother. Mrs. Samona. I located her Flushing Queens address on the Internet while reading up on her missing daughter.

I’m a little surprised that I’d never heard about Akasha’s case, as her disappearance made all the local news channels. Of course, this is New York City and people disappear on a daily basis. Media coverage of shootings, robberies and assaults present a ticker tape parade of life in the Big Apple. After a while, the stories blur together and one can’t keep track of the steady stream of human tragedy.

Akasha lived with her parents until she disappeared ten months ago. As I take in the mother, I understand where Akasha got her striking looks. Mrs. Samona is middle-aged but well kept. Thanks to diet, exercise and genetics, she has launched a full-out assault against her advancing years. Akasha’s mom wears stylish athletic wear and despite the season she sports a dark complexion, courtesy of a tanning salon.

“Mrs. Samona?”

Mrs. Samona studies me for a beat. There’s heat in her gaze, an air of sexuality.

“You must be Mark Valentine. Please come in.”

I called ahead, so she knows why I’m here. Or she thinks she does, at any rate.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting on the couch. The sexual tension in the room cannot be denied. The way she eyes me, smiles, keeps squeezing my hand... For a moment I have a vision of Mr. Samona popping into the living room and suspecting the worst.

Akasha’s mother pours herself a glass of wine. Must be time for an early happy hour. She offers me a glass and I quickly decline, but she insists. I promise myself I will only nurse the drink.

“You wouldn't believe the health benefits of red wine,” she says.

I take my obligatory sip and say, “Thank you, Mrs. Samona.”

“Call me Jane.” She smiles. “So how can I help you?”

“As I told you on the phone, I'm a journalism major and I’m doing a piece on missing teens.”

The best cover story I could come up with on short notice, it sounded plausible to me at the time but now I’m not so sure. Fortunately, Mrs. Samona doesn’t seem to question my reasons for being here, and I internally sigh in relief.

“So you want to write about my daughter?”

“I'm trying to give the story a human face.”

Am I laying it on too thick?

“Akasha would love this. She has a tendency toward the dramatic. A trait she inherited from her father.”

“What do you think happened to her?”

This is a tricky question and I’m venturing into dangerous emotional territory. Fortunately, Mrs. Samona clearly doesn’t believe anything bad befell her daughter, or at least the armor of her denial doesn’t allow her to go there right now. “She ran away. To spite me. But she'll be back.”

Mrs. Samona drains her glass and pours herself another one. I begin to see the cracks in the chipper façade she’s constructed for herself. “This is just her way of telling me that I was a bad mother. I know my daughter.”

Do you really?

“You tried tracking her down?”

“Her dad hired a private detective to search for her. He hit pretty much every strip club on the Eastern Seaboard. I hope they threw in a few free lap-dances for his efforts.”

I’m beginning to realize that her callous attitude masks a frightened woman who isn’t quite sure that her daughter is all right, after all.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Samona. I mean, Jane... I was wondering if I could look around? To get a sense of who Akasha was...” I break off, cursing inwardly. Fortunately Mrs. Samona – Jane – is too buzzed to register my slip-up or take offense. Instead she says, “Her room is upstairs at the end of the hallway, to your right.”

I wait for Mrs. Samona to escort me to Akasha’s room, but she just keeps gulping down her wine.

Awkward.

I guess she is giving me free rein to explore the house.

I get up and head for the nearby staircase. A minute later I’m standing in front of Akasha’s bedroom. Pushing the door open, I feel like an intruder.

Like I shouldn’t be here.

I soak in my new surroundings. The bedroom is exactly what you’d expect from a rebellious young woman. Dark art and posters of edgy rock stars abound. I comb the bookshelves and spot various tracts on Eastern religion, anarchist politics, bios of cutting-edge musicians.

I zero in on the computer sitting on a small desk. I touch the keyboard, half expecting Facebook to pop up automatically. But the screen remains blank.

I continue searching the room and notice a framed photograph on Akasha’s nightstand.

It shows Akasha with a girlfriend who’s wearing a Starbucks uniform.

Shit, I recognize this Starbucks... This is where I first met Akasha. Someone scrawled a message over the picture with a black Sharpie: Friends forever, Liza.

I make a mental note to ask Jane about her daughter’s friend Liza.

Beside the bed I find a journal filled with dark drawings and weird writing. I don’t expect to discover any earth-shattering secrets within, but hopefully it’ll give me a better sense of Akasha’s character.

It doesn’t.

After a few pages, the drawings and cryptic writing end. I realize that it’s more of a creative book of poetry or lyrics than a diary.

My attention now shifts back to the desktop computer.

I plug it into the nearest outlet and bite my lip while I wait for the computer to boot up. Then I inspect iTunes, iPhoto and various other applications that might contain information about Akasha. I learn that she likes Goth music and hard rock – surprise, surprise, she’s an edgy chick.

I open iPhoto. Now it starts getting interesting. Akasha liked taking pictures of boys whom she had the hots for. Some were taken stealthily during first dates, others at the mall, strolling through parks, hanging out at Starbucks. It looks like she used her cell to sneak these pics.

Kinda freaky.

Anxiety coils up my throat as I study the most recent set of pictures. According to the date, these photographs were added in last few days! How is that possible if she’s been missing for months? The subject of these new pictures is...

Me.

An assortment of digital pics, class photographs and even shots of me spending time with Lynn. What the fuck?

My mouth goes dry as I take in the text that accompanies the final picture...

Tell me you love me, Mark.

The message hits me with the jolting power of an electric shock. For a split second I can’t shake the sensation that Akasha is here in the room with me. I violently unplug the computer and jump back from the machine. My mind is reeling. How could those photographs exist? Did Mrs. Samona lie to me? Did Akasha come back? Or did she remotely upload the pictures to her computer?

I must get out of this room. Out of this house. Away from the madness that has invaded my life. I want things to go back to the way they were before I met Akasha. I quickly snatch her journal and take off.

As I storm back down the stairs, Mrs. Samona says, “That was quick. Find everything you needed for your story?”

I nod and quickly leave the house. Outside, it’s finally stopped snowing. The looming snowdrifts and frosted trees glitter with ice. Somehow their shapes are now imbued with a sinister quality.

As I stomp across the white expanse, the long winter shadows are heavy and the Samona home slowly recedes behind me. Suddenly I pause, beads of sweat bursting on my forehead.

As if the temperature has just gone up thirty degrees.

I unbutton my jacket and remove my hat. A splashing sound draws my attention. With each step I take, the snow beneath my feet grows more watery. It’s melting at incredible speed...

I stop dead in my tracks as I pick up another noise.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. Slowly, I turn...

My eyes lock on the icicles hanging from the Samona house. The ice cracks and flexes...

Right before my eyes, the snow on the roof evaporates and sheets of water cascade down the side of the house. The small waterfall is a surreal sight.

I stare open-mouthed as it dawns on me that I’m now standing in a giant puddle. Part of me wants to start screaming.

LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

Instead, I jump into my car and take off.

I know exactly who I need to talk to next.

I must return to the place where this madness started.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WHIRRING FRAPPUCCINO MACHINES GREET ME AS I walk into the Starbucks where I was supposed to meet Akasha for the first time. I join the line of caffeine addicts and quickly spot the woman I’m hoping to find – Akasha’s friend Liza, whose picture I saw in the journal.

Pierced, with a streak of red dyed in her hair, she strikes me as the type of girl to attain besties status with Akasha. Liza hands a middle-aged man his change and then her eyes find me.

“How can I help you?” she asks.

I tell her.

Fortunately she is open, maybe even eager, to talk about her friend. I use the same story I did with Mrs. Samona – I’m doing a piece about missing teens. It makes my purpose for being here seem more noble and selfless, like I’m trying to make a difference in the world. I hate to lie to people, but I need answers.

Liza informs me that she’ll be off work in fifteen minutes. I order a coffee and find a table. I take a deep swig of my scorching hot brew and burn my tongue. I welcome the pain. It reminds me that I’m alive.

Fifteen minutes turn into half an hour, and time slows. My eagerness to pick Liza’s brain grows with each passing second. I try to distract myself by checking my email but fastidiously avoid Facebook. As I scan my favorite news apps, the irony is not lost on me that all this started with an app. Blaze. Shit, Josh, why couldn’t you stick to the good old-fashioned bar scene?

Thinking about my brother drives the loss home. I’ve pushed a lot of my emotions aside but as I wait here for Liza to join me, they sneak up on me full-force. Finally Liza arrives, iced tea in hand. She is still wearing her work uniform as she sits down in front of me.

“So you're writing a story about Akasha?”

The lies continue.

“Yes, I was hoping you could give me a sense of what she was like. I understand you and Akasha were pretty close.”

“We were best friends,” she confirms. “We had something in common — crazy parents. Only difference is, her folks are loaded and I'm supporting mine.”

This revelation is communicated in such a casual, offhand manner that it’s easy to ignore the weight behind the words. We’ve barely started this conversation and I already feel sorry for her.

I produce Akasha’s journal. Liza wipes a few tears as she leafs through the pages. Akasha may be destroying my life, but this girl still cares for her. I ask Liza about the photographs I found on Akasha’s computer. Liza is more then eager to explain.

“Akasha had a tendency to date guys who weren't available,” she explains. “Bad boys, dudes with girlfriends, married men. She’d obsess over people who could never love her back. She’d always get her heart broken.”

“Would she meet some of these dates on Blaze?”

“Akasha loved that stupid app. She was addicted to the attention. She’d hook up with guys and then wonder why none of them called her back after getting what they wanted.”

I consider this. It certainly explains Akasha’s rage.

“Their first date would always be at this Starbucks. I was her lookout. My job was to swoop in and save her if the dude turned out to be a weirdo or some loser who had posted a fake pic.”

“Where do you think she is now?”

“Her mom believes she ran away. That she’s living some crazy party life in Miami or stripping her way across the country.”

“You don't believe that?”

Liza takes a deep gulp from her drink.

“I was Akasha's best friend. If she was still around, she’d be in touch.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“I think she met the wrong guy.”

She doesn’t come right out and say it, but the message is clear. She thinks Akasha is dead.

I immediately dismiss the idea. I’m a physical therapist student. I believe in science. Ghosts don’t have a place in my perception of the world.

“Who was the last person Akasha met on Blaze before she vanished?”

“He was some Manhattan lawyer. He picked her up in his BMW. Pretty hot in a late-thirties, GQ kind of way.”

“Could he be…”

“When Akasha first went missing, cops came to talk to me. I told them about the lawyer. Guess what they said? They already checked out that lead and the attorney, I think his name is Darryl or Derek, turned out to be a dead end. Know why?”

The question hangs there for a moment, but I can guess the answer.

Liza leans closer, her face masklike as she speaks. “Darryl died in a freak car accident. Lost control of his Porsche, hit a median and the gas tank blew. He was burned to a crisp. They had to identify him with dental records.”

A chill travels up my spine. Followed by a question. Was Darryl/Derek Akasha’s first victim?

“Want to hear the best part? The creep had a wife and kid. Akasha sure knew how to pick them.”

I spin these new facts around in my head, hoping to make sense of the senseless.

Liza takes a final swig of her drink and rises. “Sorry, but I need to get back to work. It was good chatting with you. Email me when the article hits the Web.”

Liza turns away. I stare after her, pensive.

If Darryl had something to do with Akasha’s disappearance, the knowledge of her fate died with him. I’ve reached an impasse and have no idea what my next move is.

***

The icy road unfurls before me, as perilous as my own future. I view a news report of Darryl Kelly’s accident and recognize the man. He was one of Akasha’s 40 friends before she started friending new people. Was he her first victim?

At this point I only have one lead, and it’s a longshot. Darryl’s younger brother Adam works as a freelance editor in Manhattan. I already made up my mind not to approach Darryl’s wife. She’s been through enough already without me digging up a possible infidelity in her late husband’s past. My plan is to pay the brother a visit and see if he can be any more helpful than the other people I’ve interviewed.

My chirping cellphone derails this train of thought. I scan the caller ID. It’s Lynn. My heart misses a beat. I’m both relieved and anxious as I press the answer button and Lynn’s voice fills my car.

“Mark, I need to see you. We have to talk.”

The voice is businesslike, determined. She must’ve rehearsed this call numerous times. “Let’s meet at the diner across from your place in an hour?”

“Sure,” I say robotically. Her mission accomplished, Lynn ends the call without further comment.

My mind is churning. I was hoping Lynn would break the silence and reach out to me, but this chilly communication has unnerved me further. Has Lynn made up her mind about me? Is she about to officially dump me? I take the fact that she is coming to my neighborhood as an ominous sign. Sounds like she’s making sure I don’t get any funny ideas about spending the night at her place. She finds my man cave endearing in an anthropological way — she prefers to experience it from a distance. Sleepovers tend to happen at her place, where we don’t have to worry about Cyrus disturbing our privacy.

Anxiety spreads from deep inside the pit of my stomach.

I can’t let Akasha tear us apart.

I can’t lose Lynn.

Doing my best to manage my growing unease, I turn the wheel and head to Briarwood.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AS I PULL INTO THE DINER’S parking lot I know I’m running about five minutes late, but Lynn isn’t there yet. This seems out of character for her – not only is she incredibly organized (to an almost scary degree), she’s rarely late for appointments.

I seat myself at a comfy booth in the ‘50s style diner and inhale the scent of sizzling comfort food that wafts through the air. The corned beef and hash is amazing here, but my frayed nerves have robbed me of my appetite. This isn’t a date, and I prefer to receive bad news on an empty stomach. I order a Diet Coke but after two sips of my artificial treat, I switch to a Bud Light. I don’t want to be drunk when Lynn shows up but I need something to take the edge off while I wait.

Thirty minutes and two beers later, I conclude that Lynn has had a change of heart. I pay my check and walk across the street. The cold air diminishes the alcohol’s effects but I still have a buzz going when I step into my apartment. I have the place to myself and the loneliness immediately makes me melancholy. Lynn has been such a big part of my reality for so long that I feel lost without her.

Goddammit, I want my old life back.

Who knows what made Lynn blow me off, but I don’t take it as a good sign. I slip off my jacket and decide to take a shower. Moments later, a stream of hot water is warming my frozen limbs. I’m been out and about all day and this winter weather is getting old – I miss Florida. I close my eyes and bask in the soothing sensation. That’s when I hear a familiar voice.

“Mark…”

Startled, I open my eyes and find Lynn standing behind the shower curtain. The plastic distorts her form. I pull the curtain back a few inches and realize she’s naked. My body immediately responds to the sight of her lithe, shapely figure. God, she’s beautiful! I’m flooded with relief. Lynn is back and that’s all that matters.

Wordlessly she steps into the shower and joins me under the hot stream. Steam wafts around us. We hug and I don’t want the moment to end. What does it mean? Is all forgiven? Has Lynn figured out that Akasha was lying?

“I’m telling you, Lynn, this girl set me up.” The words sound lame the moment they leave my lips, but I have to explain my actions.

I can’t allow Akasha to tear us apart.

I have to fight for the woman I love.

Suddenly, I realize that the shower is becoming hotter...unpleasantly so...

I run my hands down her bare back, bury my face in her smooth shoulder. Lynn leans forward to kiss me and I gladly accept. Our lips find each other and lock with hunger.

My ardor cools in a hurry.

Something is wrong.

The woman I’m making out with doesn’t taste like Lynn. I once kissed a girl in high school who was a chain smoker, and this is about ten times worse. It feels like someone emptied out an ashtray in my mouth. As I pull back, my gut clenches with terror and a knot forms in my throat.

It can’t be...

The woman staring back at me isn’t Lynn, it’s Akasha. Eyes fixed on mine, she whispers, “Do you love me?”

I slip in the wet tub and fall backwards. Pain flares up my shoulder as my 180-pound frame hits the fiberglass edge. Hard.

Dazed, I squint through the steam and water and realize that I’m alone in the shower.

Was it all in my mind?

I dismiss the thought. I know what I saw. And touched.

Suddenly the showerhead turns toward me and the hot-water knob turns by itself. Instincts take over and I react without thought. I snatch the shower curtain and pull it off its hooks to shield me. It’s not a moment too soon as a jet of boiling water blasts down on me. The heat singes my fingers and the super-heated tangle of plastic is painful to the touch, but at least it’s deflecting most of the suddenly scalding water.

And then the sizzling spray dies down, becoming a mere trickle.

I gasp for air and scramble out of the tub. My naked flesh smacks against the cold floor tiles. My body has turned crab-red, skin inflamed from the hot water’s assault. I leave a wet trail on the hardwood floor as I stumble into the kitchen. My gaze locks on the gallon of mineral water sitting on the kitchen table. Without hesitation I pour the bottle’s soothing contents over my body. I remember my first aid training. Cooling the burn reduces swelling by conducting heat away from the skin.

Dread bubbles up and I let the truth reach the surface of my mind.

I’m being stalked by a dead woman.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I DO MY BEST TO CONTAIN my increasing anxiety. Akasha’s advances are growing more insistent and I sense that time is running out. As I get dressed, I receive a call from Lynn.

“I’m so sorry I stood you up,” she says, and I know she’s fighting back tears. “I got off the train and was all ready to head to the diner—” She breaks off. “I was scared of what I would do if I saw you.”

I read between the lines.

Lynn’s plan was to end our relationship. But she couldn’t go through with it. This gives me hope. Hopefully we can fix this and put it all behind us. But first I must resolve my Akasha problem.

I know I’m grasping for straws here, but I decide to reach out to Darryl’s brother Adam. Adam works as a freelance editor at Visual Aid, a post-production house that cuts commercials and movie trailers. I look up his work number and make the call. The receptionist picks up after a couple of rings and with some prodding, she tells me that Adam quit several weeks ago. I look up his home address online.

Adam lives in Greenwich Village – editing must pay well. I arrive around five o’clock just as a cold, gray day becomes an even colder night. As I walk up to the majestic brownstone, I feel like a peasant visiting royalty. A week ago I was thinking I’d have my own sweet pad somewhere in Manhattan, down the road a bit. Now I’m not sure I’ll see tomorrow.

I’m reaching out to ring the buzzer when an elderly lady emerges from the front lobby, about to take her Cocker Spaniel for a walk around the neighborhood. She’s in her own little world and before the door can close, I slip into the hallway.

A few minutes later I’ve located Adam’s apartment. I press my ear against the heavy oak door. Based on the muted shuffling of feet and the low drone of the TV, I can conclude that someone’s home.

I knock on the door.

The television turns off and someone approaches. I go over my pre-rehearsed spiel in my head. Adam and I share something important in common – we’ve both lost our brothers to Akasha. I’m banking on this connection to make Adam talk, assuming he knows anything. The lock snaps back and the door swings opens, revealing Adam.

He wears ragged sweats and heavy bags ring his hollow eyes. It looks like he hasn’t shaved, or even bathed, in days. I catch a glimpse of his apartment behind him and it mirrors his sorry state. Empty boxes of takeout and crushed beer cans litter the dwelling. I’m still debating my next move when I notice the burn marks on his hands. They’re identical to the ones Akasha left on my neck a couple days ago.

I’ve come to the right place.

My presence unnerves Adam and he shoots me a suspicious look. “Who the hell are you?”

I avoid the question and cut to the chase. “We need to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

I had planned to be subtle about this, but instead I just come out and say it. “Akasha.”

His expression goes from annoyed to outright hostile. But I press on. “Akasha Samona vanished six months ago. I know she was dating your brother Darryl...”

“News flash, pal — Darryl was married, and he’s dead now. You don’t look like a cop. So why bug me with this shit?”

He leans closer. “I told the cops everything I know, which isn’t much. Now get the fuck out of my face.”

I remain frozen in place.

“What are you waiting for?! Get the hell out of here before I kick your ass!”

I’m about to comment on the burn marks but decide against it. Instead I grab his arm and push him into the apartment. He’s a big man but too drunk and surprised to put up much of a fight. I’m not sure what has gotten into me. The pressure, anger and loss of the last few days must have made me snap.

I’ve lost my brother.

I might be losing my sanity.

But I’m not going to lose Lynn.

I can’t allow Akasha to go after my girl. Adam is hiding something and I will make him talk. One way or another.

I slam Adam against the wall. He catches his bearings, pissed now. He takes a swing at me but his punch is alcohol-sloppy and misses. I fire back, landing two quick punches that topple him onto the couch. My eyes land on a small fire extinguisher resting on the couch. Looks like someone is taking his safety seriously.

A moan escapes Adam’s mouth and he rubs his jaw, spits blood on the floor. After two punches, my hands feel like they’ve been pounding a brick wall. It’s been quite a while since I’ve been in a fight.

“What the fuck do you want, man?” Adam asks, half confrontational and half afraid.

“Akasha was seeing Darryl when she disappeared. Tell me what happened.”

Adam only glares at me.

My rage detonates and I pull the collar of my jacket back, exposing burn marks identical to his.

“She's been coming after you too, hasn't she? That’s why you quit your job. Why you’re trying to hide in a bottle. What did you and Darryl fucking do to her?”

Still no response.

My anger drains and turns into desperation and fear.

“Talk to me, goddammit.”

Adam lets out a deep sob. “She can't hurt you! She can't hurt anyone anymore.”

My eyes bore into him and I say, “Tell me everything.”

Adam does.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE WORDS COME HALTINGLY AS ADAM dredges up a past he prayed would remain forgotten.

“Darryl was getting antsy during Megan’s pregnancy. Their sex life was suffering, and he started looking at other women. I always told him getting married so young was a mistake.”

“He started meeting women on Blaze,” I say.

“It’s my fault. He saw me using the app, meeting new girls all the time. I guess one day he downloaded Blaze and hooked up with someone.”

I process this. Darryl had money, a cool career, a beautiful wife. But it wasn’t enough.

“How often?”

Adam shakes his head.

“I don’t know. It happened a lot. Darryl was out of control. It became an addiction, I think. Don’t need to be a shrink to know he was trying to destroy his marriage. I told him he was playing with fire, but he wouldn’t listen.”

He pauses and downs a shot of Jack Daniels before continuing. “He would take his dates to our parents’ house in Long Island. Mom passed away a little over a year ago and the place has been empty ever since. We were thinking of putting it on the market, but it needs a lot of work...”

Adam’s voice trails off for a second before he says, “Darryl’s wife was eight months pregnant and he was meeting women online and taking them back to our parents’ house. He turned the home we grew up in into his personal fuckpad.”

His voice trembles with anger. “I knew it wouldn’t end well. One night I got a call. Darryl was freaking out on the other end, begging me to come to the house. He refused to go into detail on the phone, but I knew something terrible had happened. The panic in his voice...it wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard before. God, how I wish I’d never answered the phone that night.”

Anger is making way for another emotion: deep remorse. Tears well up in Adam’s eyes. Suddenly I’m not so sure I want to hear the rest of the story. But no turning back now.

“Your brother had murdered Akasha.”

The words slip out because by now I know Akasha must be dead, and I’m tired of Adam dwelling on the details. I want...no, I need to know what happened to the woman who has turned my life into a waking nightmare.

“Darryl didn’t say a word when I pulled up. He just walked into the house. I followed him into the living room and that’s where she was. Sprawled out on the floor, her neck twisted... I just knew she was dead.”

I can vividly picture the scene in my mind. I can almost see Darryl’s panicked, ashen features and the numb shock Adam must’ve experienced when he first laid eyes on the woman on the floor.

“Why did he kill her?” I ask.

“He said it was an accident. He was trying to break it off with Akasha. He told her he had a wife and kid.”

Maybe he should’ve mentioned that before he contacted her online, I think, but keep my mouth shut.

“Akasha threatened to tell his wife everything. That’s when he snapped. He gave her a shove, she lost her balance... Hit her head on an end table.”

“Why didn’t you call the cops, if it was an accident?”

“I told him he should. Darryl said nobody would believe him. He figured they’d take one look at a high-paid lawyer with a baby on the way and a dead nineteen–year-old in his living room... A jury would send him away for good.”

A valid argument. Unless some sophisticated forensic team could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Akasha’s death was accidental, Darryl would face an unsympathetic legal system.

“What then?”

“God forgive me... I decided to help him destroy the evidence.” Adam wipes away the tears that keep welling up. I know he wants to stop talking about this – reliving that night must be torturous – but I need him to finish his story.

“You became an accomplice to murder.”

“I figured she was dead already. We couldn’t bring her back, couldn’t change what happened. What was done was done. I kept thinking about Darryl’s wife, the baby on the way... Lot of fallout, man. Didn’t want to see more lives be destroyed in the process.”

Adam stares a hole in the carpet, shaking his head. “I felt responsible, you know? I introduced Darryl to that stupid app. If it hadn’t been for all my bragging about banging chicks...”

I don’t want to hear apologies and excuses. “What did you do with the body?” I ask, curtly.

“I told Darryl we’d take care of it, and we did. We buried her in the woods a few miles from the house.”

I imagine being dumped into a shallow grave, the world unaware of what happened to me. Just another missing person in a long line of missing people. I know I’d want my story to be told and for the truth to come out.

Will Akasha stop seeking retribution if we find her body? Will she accept that she’s dead and move on to whatever’s next?

I notice a strange look of determination in Adam’s eyes. Then it hits me — he hasn’t finished telling the story. There’s one final part of Akasha’s dark tale that remains untold. Having come this far, he wants to go all the way and get it off his chest.

“Something else happened that night,” I say, to prompt him.

“I was worried that someone might find the body and be able to identify Akasha. After we put her in the ground, I went back to my Jeep and got the emergency gas tank.”

Dread spikes inside me. I’m about to receive the chilling final piece of the puzzle.

“Darryl dumped the gas all over her body. I was going to use my lighter, but I quit smoking a couple months earlier. There were some matches in the glove box, though...”

Adam takes a deep breath. “Darryl was too much of a mess at that point, so it was up to me. This was a cold, windy night. The first couple of times, the match didn’t stay lit. You know what they say — third time’s the charm.”

Once again I can vividly picture the scene. I see the match catching fire as if I’m standing next to Adam. I see it falling into the open grave. Flames ignite on Akasha’s gasoline-soaked body...

“She went up almost instantaneously.” Adam lets out a heaving sob that shakes his whole body. The next words come sudden and sharp. “All of a sudden she was screaming! I can still hear her. Oh my God, I swear we thought she was dead…”

Adam’s hands are trembling now and his face has turned to marble. A shudder ripples through me as the full horror of what happened that night is finally revealed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I’M BEHIND THE WHEEL OF MY Honda, Adam riding shotgun. Darkness hangs over the forest as I wind my way up the tree-lined road. As we press deeper into this heavily wooded area of Long Island, there is little left to say. The bizarre happenings of the past few days now make sense to me. I finally understand why all these men perished in fires. In death, Akasha controls the element that took her life.

Suddenly Darryl breaks the silence in the car. “I'm so sorry... I never meant to hurt anyone...”

Part of me wants to punch him, but I suppress the urge. Adam can’t stand it anymore and asks, “You think this is going to change anything?”

Good question.

“I don’t know,“ I say. “Maybe once the world knows the truth, the killings will stop. Maybe Akasha will find peace.”

“If I tell you where she’s buried, I’ll go to jail for life.”

“Can you live with yourself, knowing that she’s out there killing anyone who answers her personal ad and is foolish enough to sleep with her? Every one of her victims will be on your conscience.”

Adam shakes his head. He senses that I’m offering him the next best thing to absolution.

“I can see why she went after Darryl, but why the others?” Adam asks. “They didn’t have anything to do with what happened that night.”

It’s a good point, and I’ve already given it some thought. “Akasha always got involved with men who weren’t emotionally available. She was looking for love in all the wrong places. Married men, guys in relationships... They’d use her and discard her. But not anymore. No one will ever love her and leave her again. Let the world beware.”

“So why did Akasha spare you?”

I just shake my head. I refuse to share my theory with Adam. What separates me from all her other victims is that I never slept with Akasha. Men betrayed Akasha after they’d gotten what they wanted. Death is allowing her to take revenge. But maybe there are rules she has to play by... I don’t know, but one thing I’m certain of — had I been seduced, I’d be dead now. Just another name on her ever-growing list of Facebook friends.

In a fatalistic voice, Adam declares that we’re here. I slow down and kill the engine. We get out of the vehicle and breathe the night air. The snow-laden pines seem alive, sickly moonlight casting a spooky glow on everything.

As we creep deeper into the woods, boots crunching over the ice, I let Adam lead the way. The beam of my flashlight flits through the darkness like a lost soul. The shovel dangles from Adam’s hand and rakes the snow.

Terrible secrets seem to lurk in this forest. We’re about to unearth one of them. Tonight history is repeating itself, except in reverse. Last time it was Adam and his brother burying the evidence. This time it’s up to us to uncover the truth.

Adam stops and raises his arm, pointing at a fat tree. “We buried her over there.”

I stare at the vista before us and realize I’ve seen it before. These are the same trees and icy landscape on Akasha’s Facebook cover page. All along, her profile offered clues to her final resting place, but no one was able to put it all together.

I nod and say, “Start digging.”

“Please, don't make me do this.”

My withering gaze silences Adam. He stabs the shovel into the snow-covered mud and begins the dirty task ahead.

Half an hour later, Adam is standing in a shallow grave surrounded by a mound of ice-hardened soil. With an expression of mingled disgust and sadness, Adam steps back from the grave. I move closer.

The moment I spot the skeletal remains at the bottom of the hole, a chill claws its way down my spine. Up until this point it’s all been words alone. Here is the reality of what happened. This is why Akasha’s spirit isn’t at rest.

Blackened bones protrude from the frozen earth like jagged teeth. A charred skull stares back at me.

“Akasha...”

I would swear the stench of burning meat is thickening around me, but it must be my imagination.

Adam regards the remains with deep regret. “I'm so sorry,” he mutters under his breath, seeking forgiveness for his crime.

Perhaps God is listening, but I have the feeling Akasha isn’t. I’m caught off guard as a flash of light illuminates the dark grave. It takes all my self-control not to turn and start running. As my eyes focus I realize what is emitting the strange glow. It’s Akasha’s iPhone.

Logic dictates that the battery must be dead and this is why no one was able to track the phone here. One bony hand clutches the smartphone that now glitters with unnatural life. Despite my revulsion, I snatch the phone and realize it’s logged onto Blaze. Adam and Darryl buried Akasha with her cellphone. Has it become a way for her spirit to leave the prison of her final resting place and roam the world beyond?

As I try to wrap my head around it all, Adam whirls and takes off into the night. For a second I just stand there, too stunned to react, but I shake off my paralysis and tear off after him.

I storm through the foreboding forest landscape, Akasha’s cell phone clutched in my hand. Part of me wonders how it could be working without power, but this doesn’t seem more fantastical than anything else I’ve experienced recently.

I charge through the thick undergrowth, stumbling over icy rocks and jumping over banks of snow. My breath comes in adrenaline-fueled bursts as I chase after Adam.

The forest is flooded with the Honda’s headlights. I spot Adam, a grim silhouette etched blackly against their glow. His words reverberate through the night. “I never meant to hurt anyone!”

The tone of his voice worries me, and my concern is validated as I step closer. Adam is holding a jerry can in his hand. Before I can attempt to stop him, he douses himself with gasoline. The acrid-smelling liquid soaks his winter coat and pants, streaming down his face.

“Stay back.”

I do, understanding Adam’s intentions. All I can do is appeal to his crumbling sanity. I can’t allow him to succumb to the guilt that has tormented him for all these months. Adam hurls the emptied gas can in the snow and extricates a lighter from his pocket.

“Adam, please don't.”

“I was just trying to help my brother. I had no idea she was still alive. You gotta believe me!”

I take one more cautious step toward Adam.

“Adam, stop — I do believe you.”

“I've been dreaming of her. Every night I close my eyes and see her burn.”

“Everything’s gonna be alright...” I say the words even though I’m not convinced. I take two more steps, arms up and palms open.

“I'm sorry,” he says with grave finality and I scream, “DON'T!”

Adam isn't listening. He is beyond my reach.

Beyond help.

He fires up the lighter.

“NOOO!”

Night is turned into day as Adam transforms into a human torch. Flames engulf him the same way they devoured Akasha and her victims.

I recoil in shock.

As the fire melts the flesh off Adam's body, his screams of agony echo through the haunted forest. A forlorn plea for forgiveness that will go unanswered.

I avert my gaze, unable to further bear witness to the horror. Mercifully, Adam’s death cries stop and his burning figure slumps forward. The only sounds now are the fire as it consumes what’s left of his body.

Still reeling from the shock, I remember the phone in my hand. The screen has changed. Skype is on and offers me a view of an apartment I’m all too familiar with. It’s Lynn’s place as viewed through the webcam of her desktop computer.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I NAVIGATE MY CAR DOWN AN icy street, driving as fast as I dare. Getting pulled over or causing an accident won’t do Lynn any good. Before leaving Akasha’s gravesite, I used Adam’s phone to call the cops. I told them about Akasha and where they could find her, then promptly hung up.

I made sure to wear my winter gloves to avoid leaving any fingerprints. I’m hoping the cops will think Adam called to confess before he killed himself. There should be nothing linking me to the scene. At least I hope so. Either way, I have more important concerns at the moment. I need to reach Lynn before Akasha attacks her. I fear that I’ll be too late, but I have to try.

The drive into Astoria feels like an eternity. I keep checking Akasha’s cell, but it has gone dark. What does that mean? Is it a good sign, or a bad omen? Does she know I found her grave and am now in possession of her phone? What are the rules of engagement for ghosts?!

These are the insane questions that cycle through my mind as I whip down the road, hands clenched white around the steering wheel.

I arrive at Lynn’s four-story apartment building just as one of the windows explodes. A fireball bursts out, dispersing into the winter night.

OH MY GOD!

A handful of workers and customers from the fruit and vegetable market across the street look up with shocked disbelief. The fire is spreading. While they gawk at it, I park the car and jump out, rushing toward the burning building.

I pass through the main entrance but am met by a wall of fire in the staircase. Thick smoke stings my lungs. There is no way to make it up to the second floor and reach Lynn’s unit.

Or is there?

Panic growing, I retreat to the street. There might be another way. I move along the side of the structure with dark urgency. Smoke plumes from the windows. Weakening timbers screech under the fiery assault.

I round the corner and zero in on the fire escape. Moments later, I’m climbing the rusting steps. As I reach the second floor, out of breath but driven by desperation, I pray I’m not too late. I find the window, wrap my jacket around my balled fist and punch through the glass. Shards slice through the fabric but I ignore the pain. As I brush pieces of glass aside, I’m hit by a cloud of cloying smoke. I bring up my coat’s collar to cover my nose and mouth, slide the broken window open and climb into the building.

Inside, a howling world of fire awaits me. Flames and smoke are everywhere, the heat searing.

“LYNN, WHERE ARE YOU?!”

I surge down the hallway. My body hums with adrenaline. Every fiber of my being is urging me to run the other way, but my girl is trapped in this building and I’m not leaving without her.

“Lynn, can you hear me? LYNN!”

I close in on Lynn’s unit, eyes ticking back and forth, trying to penetrate the columns of smoke. Tongues of red and orange flame roil over the ceiling, crackling as they spread with supernatural speed.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the roar of the blaze. “Mark...”

I whirl and spot my girlfriend further down the corridor. Smoke inhalation has taken its toll and she’s fighting to stay conscious, but she’s otherwise unharmed.

Two quick strides later, I’m next to her. I give Lynn a quick hug before I grab her hand and pull her along. Her breathing lurches raggedly – who knows how much smoke is in her lungs already. She keeps staring at the burning staircase ahead. Akasha is nowhere to be seen, even though this must be her doing. A crumbling noise draws my attention. The staircase is collapsing. Oh no. I hope that everyone else in the building got out.

I back away from the conflagration, mind racing. We’ll have to retrace my steps and use the fire escape.

Good idea, except for one tiny problem. A wall of surging flames now blocks the way I came from. We’re trapped, the relentless ring of heat closing in around us.

I clutch Lynn to my chest. She is trembling with mortal fear. She knows all too well what is about to happen. Death is approaching fast.

A figure grows visible at the center of the inferno. Akasha. Her body is burning, flames swirling around her. Her hellish gaze finds me and she surges toward us, almost as if she is made of fire herself. Her eyes sparkle with a dark yearning as she approaches. One second she is as beautiful as she was in life, another she is a map of bubbling burn scars. Her haunting visage changes back and forth with each step she takes.

I want to run, but escape has ceased to be an option. I must face Akasha.

“I know what happened to you,” I say.

I hold up her flashing cellphone. Is it her link to our world? I am tempted to toss it into the fire – would this defeat Akasha? – but hesitate. If the blaze that ravaged her body couldn’t destroy the phone, I doubt that a burning building will do the trick. Truth is, I don’t have a plan. How do you stop a ghost?

Akasha draws nearer, my words falling on deaf ears.

“I know about Darryl. How he lied to you... Just like all the others.”

This latest revelation elicits a reaction. Akasha slows her advance.

I forge ahead. “I know how they would promise you love but always leave you afterwards. Akasha, I know what Darryl and Adam did to you.”

Akasha grows still. Encouraged, I continue. “The cops already know what happened. Soon the world will learn the truth. Your story will be told. You can be at peace.”

A frozen moment. The fire rages around us. In a matter of seconds it will envelop our flesh and force us to suffer the same terrible fate Akasha was forced to endure.

“Akasha, please. We’re innocent.”

Akasha’s features grow masklike again. The old yearning and fury returns. Her blazing gaze daggers into me. A carpet of fire marks her continued approach.

Despite my best efforts, I wasn’t able to reach her. I swap a glance with Lynn, then meet Akasha’s stare again.

“You want me, don't you? If you can have me, will you let her go?”

“Do you love me?” Akasha asks, her voice blending with the roar of the flames. It’s more of a demand than a question.

Seizing the opportunity to save Lynn’s life, I say the words Akasha has been waiting to hear since the moment we met. But as I speak, my eyes never leave Lynn’s. My words may be directed at Akasha, but they’re meant for Lynn.

“I love you...”

Tears stream down Lynn's cheeks. She senses the finality of what is happening here.

This isn't just a declaration of love.

This is goodbye.

I turn toward Akasha and approach the fiery apparition before me. Tendrils of flame dance around us as we meet at the end of the hallway.

But Akasha’s attention remains fixed on Lynn's sobbing form... Somehow my words have achieved the opposite effect. Instead of lulling Akasha into the illusion that she has found true devotion, it has only made her painfully aware of what is really transpiring here.

I’m sacrificing my life to save the woman I love.

Akasha reaches for me but before her burning touch can roast my flesh, she lets out a piercing wail. A horrific sound filled with longing, despair and unrequited emotion. The wall of flame is sucked inward, balling into a giant fireball that suddenly extinguishes itself in a brilliant flash of light.

Lynn and I are left behind in the gutted ruins of her apartment building. The sirens of an approaching fire engine grow audible. I only vaguely notice that Akasha’s cell phone has disappeared from my hand. What does it mean?

I push the thought aside. The only thing that matters is that Lynn is safe. Our bodies remain locked in a tight embrace. As we cling to each other, it feels like we’ll never ever let go.

Love burns you when it’s hot.

But it can also save you.

EPILOGUE

IT WAS WELL past two o’clock in the morning and Greg had a serious buzz going. His normal routine was to hit a bar in Manhattan on a Friday night, but today he’d opted to stay local and hang out at a small joint in Forest Hills. The place was a bit hit-or-miss at the best of times, and tonight had been a big miss. Talk about slim pickings. The winter weather was keeping the hotties at home. The few girls he had tried to approach had shot him down pretty much on sight.

But there might still be a chance to salvage the evening... For the last month, Greg had been using Blaze. The app had led to a couple of casual hook-ups. He still preferred meeting girls in the real world, but Blaze could come in handy on a night when the bars and clubs failed him.

He drunkenly scrolled through the app to see who was online. The first few girls didn’t do anything for him and he kept swiping through their pics. He was about to give up when he came across a real looker. This chick was in a league of her own. Smoking hot with mysterious eyes. She seemed a little off, which generally increased the odds of her putting out in their first encounter. Then again, any girl looking for a date on Blaze at two in the morning wasn’t exactly searching for a soulmate.

He even liked her name. Akasha. Sexy and alluring.

He clicked on the “like” button and waited. An excited smile played over his face as a dialogue box opened between them.

Greg: “Hey there... what are you up to?”

Akasha: “Nothing much. Can’t sleep.”

Greg: “Want to come over to my place and watch a movie? I have wine.”

Akasha: “Sounds great.”

Greg smiled and typed in his address. His luck was turning. Despite the cold weather, this might still end up being a hot night.

THE END

OCCULT ASSASSIN BOOK 1 IS AVAILABLE NOW!

A FULL-LENGTH NOVEL ADVENTURE.

EXPERIENCE THE ORIGIN OF THE OCCULT ASSASSIN.

LEARN HOW MARK TALON MET SIMON CASCA.

After a decade spent fighting the enemy abroad and keeping his country safe, Delta Force Operator Mark Talon is ready to settle down with the love of his life.  But Talon’s world crumbles when his fiancée becomes the victim of a terrifying cult. The military man now has a new foe in his crosshairs, and this promises to be a very different war…

The person responsible for his beloved’s death is a Silicon Valley tycoon allied with the forces of darkness. Fusing cutting-edge computer technology with occult power, the enemy here cannot be stopped by bullets alone. If Talon is to be victorious in his mission of vengeance, he will need to master a new method of warfare — the arcane arts!

He must become…. the Occult Assassin.

ENJOY A SPECIAL PREVIEW

CHAPTER ONE

THE BLADE PRESSED against Steve Delaney’s neck, drawing a line of blood. He swallowed hard, tasting the salty beads of perspiration trickling down his face. How the hell had he gotten himself into this terrible ordeal?

His day had started off innocently enough. After a leisurely breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, he found himself behind the wheel of his Toyota Camry cruising the sloping, bustling streets of San Francisco.

In his old life as a restaurant manager his schedule was dominated by a soul-deadening seventy-hour workweek. Stress defined his life. Nowadays, as an EasyRides driver, Steve made his own hours and worked only when he wanted to. There were bills to be paid — God, they never seemed to stop — but at least he wasn’t a slave to his job anymore. The successful professionals among his friends all frowned at his latest career move and hoped that it would turn out to be a case of temporary insanity. To hell with them! Steve was enjoying the freedom and peace of mind that came with his new occupation.

Steve’s dash-mounted iPhone, which was running Google Maps, lit up. A pin flashed onscreen, indicating the location of a nearby rider. Immediately a countdown kicked in. Being the driver closest to the potential fare, Steve had exactly fifteen seconds to accept the ride or it would be assigned to another driver.

He tapped the ACCEPT button and twisted the wheel, heading east on the next street. A few minutes later, Steve slowed to a cruise and scoped the sidewalk for his pickup. When he reached the address given, he pushed the ARRIVE tab. This would signal to his rider to be on the lookout for his car.

A woman in her mid-twenties suddenly strode up to his vehicle. She wore jeans, a blazer and geek chic glasses. Steve figured her for an employee of one of the many tech-sector upstarts in the Bay Area. Her look seemed carefully designed to downplay her sensuality. With the right dress and makeup, though, this gal would be a real looker, he thought.

Steve flashed the lady a big smile as she got in the car. “Evening. How are you tonight?”

“Good, thank you.”

“Lean back and enjoy the ride. If you’re thirsty or hungry, help yourself to a bottle of water and an energy bar.”

Refreshments lined the back of the car. They went a long way in winning those all-important favorable reviews from his customers. Good reviews led to more work and in turn, more dollars in his pocket. Managing a restaurant had taught him a thing or two about the importance of online feedback in the Digital Age.

The woman closed the door. Steve floored the gas. According to the destination on his app, they were headed to Fisherman’s Wharf. Turning down Lombard Street, Steve continued to study his passenger in the rearview mirror. Like everyone else in this town, she seemed married to her smartphone and oblivious to her surroundings.

Upon closer inspection his initial impression stood confirmed — under the geek-girl veneer was a real hottie. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem like the chatty type, unless you counted instant messages. Steve searched his mind for a funny icebreaker but lacking inspiration, he decided to concentrate on traffic.

They soon reached the top of Russian Hill and turned left onto Hyde. Fort Mason, Aquatic Park and Alcatraz Island stretched out before them, offering a panoramic view spanning from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero.

Just ahead, a cable car clanged its way down the hill. Steve adjusted his speed and followed the rumbling tram at a safe distance. Tourists dangled camera-phones from their seats in the trolley, marveling at the stunning view while taking pics. Steve didn’t blame them. No matter how many times he took this final plunge down the hilly Hyde Street to the Bay, it never got old. Once again he thanked the lucky stars that had steered him away from his old job.

His good mood came to an abrupt end when he felt fingers grab his hair and violently pull his head back. Cold metal bit into his throat. A terrified glance in the mirror revealed a hunting knife pressed against his bobbing Adam’s apple.

Oh my God… this can’t be happening…

“Keep driving,” the woman hissed. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Fighting back his mounting terror, Steve did as instructed, his hands clammy despite the air conditioner.

“What are you doing?” he croaked.

“Shut the fuck up and keep your eyes on the road.”

She dug the razor-sharp point into his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

“Lady, I don’t carry any money on me,” he stammered.

“I said to keep your fucking mouth shut!”

This time the knife’s edge cut deeper and Steve received the message loud and clear. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his mind on the flow of traffic. What did this psycho bitch want from him?

“Do exactly as I say and you’ll be okay. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now lean forward and replace the phone on your dash with mine. Make sure the camera is pointing directly at you. Nod if you understand.”

Steve nodded once more. Like an automaton, he swapped the phones on his dashboard with one hand while the other steered the car. If he lost control of the wheel, he knew his last sensation would be the bite of the blade sawing through the soft meat of his throat.

Steve’s horrified features flickered onto the screen of the newly mounted iPhone. The camera was on, recording his fear.

“What are you going to do?” he asked the knife-wielding passenger.

“Did I give you permission to talk?”

The blade dug deeper and Steve bit his tongue before letting another sound escape from his lips. The image on the phone split into two smaller screens. The faces of another man and a woman appeared. Their circumstances were identical to his own. Behind them, someone’s hand pressed a knife to each of their jugular veins. Steve saw his terror mirrored in their haunted gazes.

Who were these people? This stuff happened in movies but not in the real world.

A fourth person joined the video call. The newcomer wasn’t another victim but appeared to be the mastermind behind the nightmare. He wore a robotic death mask straight out of some apocalyptic sci-fi horror film. A tangled web of transistors, cables and circuits pockmarked the mask’s texture like cybernetic acne. The figure’s bass rumbling, electronically distorted voice boomed through the moving car, reciting words in an ancient, alien tongue.

For a frozen moment, the victims onscreen exchanged haunted glances. They must be seeing me on their own screens, Steve thought. Then the knives drew their blade-edges across the other drivers’ throats.

Steve’s eyes widened as pulsating heat washed down his neck. His hands went for his gushing throat in a desperate attempt to quell the bleeding.

The other victims fought similarly hopeless battles on the phone’s screen. Tortured death rattles resounded through the Camry, underscored by the masked man’s singsong chant. This had turned into a videoconference from hell.

Steve’s foot grew heavy and mashed the gas. The Camry hurtled forward, out of control now. The car caught up with the trolley and crumpled into its back end with a ferocious shriek of twisted metal and panicked tourists. A couple of hapless cable-car riders lost their grip and were sent flying like ragdolls.

Smoke and steam plumed from the contorted hood of the Camry. Pitiful screams pierced the air and the stench of burning oil became overpowering. Steve’s head slumped against the steering wheel, his shirt and jeans drenched a dark scarlet. His dying, crimson-spattered face stared back at him from the cellphone mounted on his dash.

While his life poured out in a stream of red, a hand reached from the back of the car to collect her mobile. There was a metallic snap as the passenger unfastened her seat belt, followed by the screech of a car door being kicked open.

Steve shifted his dimming gaze, lips bubbling crimson, the people outside his spiderwebbed windshield now reduced to blurry outlines. Like ghosts they hovered in his fading field of vision until the darkness consumed them and the world turned black.

***

Less than an hour later, Steve Delaney’s murderer arrived at the Golden Gate Bridge. Head held high, her gait steady and purposeful, she crossed the majestic red bridge until she reached its center.

She tilted her head toward the railing, gusts of wind buffeting her hair. Cars whipped by, a pulsing flow of traffic between San Francisco and Oakland.

Soon two men joined her. They were dressed more casually — jeans, flannel shirts and Converse sneakers — but their blank expressions mirrored her own. One other damning detail linked these three individuals. Each carried a blade caked with a dead person’s blood. They’d made the sacrifice required of them but one final offering remained to prove their devotion.

Without even trading glances, the three killers scaled the steel railing together, their movements eerily synchronized. Before anyone could stop them, the trio had vanished from view, plunging to their deaths in the Bay below.

CHAPTER TWO

THE ROAR OF gunfire split the air and echoed across the arid Afghan mountain. Two members of the twelve-man team of special operators went down in a mist of red as Kalashnikovs unleashed a ribbon of lead.

It’s a trap, Mark Talon thought.

Instincts overruling fear, the Delta Force operator returned fire. Fueled by a burst of adrenaline, he bolted toward the ridgeline with his MP4 blazing. There was no distinction between himself and the weapon in his gloved hand; they had fused to become one deadly organism programmed to take out the enemy hiding in the steeper hills overlooking the pass. Sweat masked his face and his boots crunched over the rocky terrain. The white noise of incessant popping and hissing accompanied his ascent.

Like everyone on the team Talon was dressed like an Afghan, sporting the traditional local garb. The Taliban wasn’t fooled. They knew that under the facial hair and headdresses were American soldiers. Someone had tipped them off.

Talon cursed. He hadn’t quite trusted the guerilla leader-turned-informant when the man told them that Taliban fighters would use this pass to smuggle guns over the Pakistan border. Then again, it was hard to trust anyone in a country torn apart by war. Sometimes you had to take a gamble and hope it worked out. This time the risk had backfired and instead of catching the terrorists in the act, they’d walked into a goddamn ambush.

Making matters worse, they were babysitting some hotshot reporter who’d been embedded with the unit for the last eight days. Why couldn’t the politicians understand that a “shadow war” meant operating in the shadows? Cameras and journalists weren’t an option. No matter how attractive or charming they might be.

Michelle Rossi had turned into quite a distraction to everyone, including himself. A dead civilian wouldn’t go over well with the brass but if Talon was to be honest, his concern for the brunette journalist ran a bit deeper. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he was starting to like the reporter. Her safety was the first thing on his mind.

Three feet from Talon’s position a grenade tore up the ground. The six-foot tall, sinewy operator instinctively dove forward. The impact of hitting the gravel sent a jolt through his entire body, but the armor under his robe absorbed the brunt of it.

As he tugged down the scarf covering his face, heavy wool scratching his newly grown beard, Talon scoped the dark rocks that loomed ahead. Death was waiting in those outcroppings. How many good soldiers had the enemy already claimed?

Talon vowed not to be one of them as he scanned the rocks for the human-shaped shadows raining lead on his team. Responding to a flicker of movement, he squeezed the trigger of his weapon and a Taliban fighter collapsed in a string-cut sprawl. Another quick burst cut down the man with the grenade launcher hiding near him.

Two down.

Lead ravaged the hillside as Talon’s radio crackled and the voice of Sergeant Erik Garrison, his unit’s commanding officer, filled his ear. “Charlie Four, this is Charlie Six, air support is a no-go…”

Erik’s voice was drowned out as a mortar ignited ten feet from Talon’s position. Heat singed the air and shrapnel showered down on him.

He needed to move.

With that in mind Talon sprang to his feet, his bullets carving a path for him as he sprinted toward the next boulder. He distinctly made out screams. A moment later, the enemy fire stopped.

Face pressed against the cold rock, he listened. The pass had grown silent and for one illogical second he was convinced he was the only man left standing. Couldn’t be. He stole a look back but there was no sign of the team.

No sign of Michelle.

Fear rippled up his spine. Immediately he crushed the emotion before it could infect his brain and paralyze him. There was a perfectly logical reason for the quiet. The others were getting their bearings behind some rock, the same way he was.

Eyes alert, body coiled, Talon continued his advance up the hillside. He was heading for a string of boulders that lined the mountain like jagged stone teeth. To his surprise, the shelling didn’t resume. Could he have hit them all?

Staying low to offer his enemies less of a target, Talon circled the boulders and froze. Splayed out before him were the bloodied bodies of the combatants he’d taken out. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

These faces didn’t belong to the enemy. These were Americans.

His team members.

What have I done?

The arm of one of the dead soldiers shot out at him and clawed his leg, mouth gurgling blood.

A scream exploded from Talon’s lips…

OCCULT ASSASSIN BOOK 1 IS AVAILABLE NOW!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

William Massa is a screenwriter (Return to House on Haunted Hill) and script consultant. He has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now calls Los Angeles his home. William writes horror, science fiction and dark fantasy. Directing a movie one day is on William’s bucket list. More books are on the way.

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COVER ART/CREDITS

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Cover design by William Massa & Keri Knutson.

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As the daylight reigns and their numbers dwindle, a dark suspicion grows — could Dracula's murderer be hiding in plain sight?

A THRILLER WHERE THE MONSTERS ARE THE VICTIMS!

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SCIENCE FICTION HORROR. A JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS.

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SILICON MAN

A global pandemic has cut the human population in half. An android workforce fills the void left by the devastation. But some of the AIs have grown tired of being slaves. Some want freedom. An underground movement of runaways has sprung up and wages a shadow war with a simple objective — equal rights for artificial people.

Enter Commander Cole Marsalis, head of the AI-TAC first response team trained to deal with the rogue robots. Now he has been tasked with the ultimate undercover mission – infiltrate the android underground. But to do so, he will have to become that which he hates the most…

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GARGOYLE KNIGHT

When his kingdom is threatened by an ancient evil, a king is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice. If he is to defeat an army of monsters, he must become one himself! His victory carries a terrible price… An eternity frozen in stone.

Fifteen centuries later, the Celtic warrior is awakened when the world needs him most. A stranger in a strange land with his only guide a beautiful archeology student, he must battle his old adversary once again, all while struggling with his own darkness. For he is by day a man, by night cursed to become… The GARGOYLE!

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