Disclaimer: this story is a work of fiction. It is extremely violent, about a woman who is a killer-for-hire. There is also HOT sex, as this is an erotic story also, so… If this bothers you, no problem, just click on the X and leave. This is the sequel to Murder For Sale. By
Katia N. Ruiz
Spirit of Murder
Disclaimer: this story is a work of fiction. It is extremely violent, about a woman who is a killer-for-hire. There is also HOT sex, as this is an erotic story also, so… If this bothers you, no problem, just click on the X and leave. This is the sequel to Murder For Sale.
By Katia N. Ruiz
Ixtchel sat back on the chair, her head cocked to the side as she stared down at her new target. The man sat with his back flat against the wall, fear in his eyes and urine soaking the crotch of his jeans. She had made sure to investigate this guy, not wanting a repeat of what happened with her last target. Two women had managed to catch her by surprise, one of them getting past her emotional defenses, and that almost killed her. She would never let that happen again.
This time around, her employer was a young woman barely out of her teens whose stepfather had been secretly sexually abusing her since she'd been thirteen. Her mother never found out, and the young woman did not want to ever tell her the truth. She'd heard of Ixtchel through a woman in her Abused Anonymous meetings, and she had not wasted time in finding her.
The man's fearful grunts brought her back to the present, and her eyes focused on him again. Leaning forward, she whispered venomously: "You make noise, and you die slower." She reached out a gloved hand and brutally removed the duct tape she had used to cover his mouth.
He cried out in pain, but his cry died into a whimper at the warning in her cat-like eyes. He'd never been confronted by a woman as powerful as this one. She had easily ambushed him in his office and overpowered his impressive bulk, and when he'd come to, he was tied and gagged. He pissed on himself when she pulled out the very sharp looking curved knife and began playing with it, sitting down in front of him and staring at him with such a blank look of enjoyment on her face.
"Hilda," She drawled after a long time, watching him stiffen and stare at her with wide eyes, "Sends you her love. Any last words?"
"I- I don't understand!" He whispered, staring at the glistening knife, horrifically mesmerized. "Why would she do this?" He knew he'd pushed it too far the week before when he'd forced his stepdaughter to have anal sex. Afterwards, Hilda had looked at him with hate and murder in her eyes. This woman, whomever she was, just sat back on the chair staring at him with a kind of hunger in her scary eyes. If it hadn't been for the murderous look of her, she could have been an angel with light blonde hair and slightly tanned skin.
"You know why," Ixtchel snarled, growing impatient. "But it's not important; I just wanted you to be aware when I did this." She stood up and retrieved the duct tape she'd found in his utility closet, tearing off a strip and taping his mouth once again. She stared at him as he tried to scream around the tape, a small smirk in place. She leaned forward suddenly; knife extended towards the man's crotch and with a couple of flicks of her wrist, the point cut through the clothing and tore his genitals.
Wiping the blade against the cloth of his pants, she leaned back and watched him thrash about for a long time as he screamed against the tape. Standing up from the chair, she slowly stepped towards his writhing body.
"Jesus!" The FBI agent whispered, staring down at the bloodied mutilated corpse bent over on the desk. The viciousness of this particular killing was scary. Gray eyes took in all the details of the scene and she absentmindedly took notes. No part of his back had been spared. The man's clothes lay in shreds around his ankles and the long cuts on his back were deep and ran from his shoulders to his buttocks. There was a copious amount of blood on the floor, which had obviously rolled down his legs from between his buttocks.
"Agent Marlowe," a tentative voice asked from the doorway.
Agent Rhiannon Marlowe turned to her young assistant expectantly; she was glad to have a reason to look away from the grisly find. This murder had the markings of the same killer that had been sporadically leaving victims across the country. All the victims were men, except for the two women that were found a month before in a west Greenwich Village apartment after the stench became too much. What frustrated Marlowe more was that the killer never left any clues at the crime scenes. Whoever this person was, he or she was extremely intelligent and thorough.
Her assistant, Mary Tolstoy, had been given the assignment of interviewing neighbors of the small office while they waited for FBI coroners to arrive. "No one heard a thing," She reported, looking at the floor. Her breakfast had threatened to break free when she and Marlowe had first entered the office. The body had been discovered only because the door had been left wide open, as if the killer wanted him to be found right away.
Marlow brushed brown curls away from her face, releasing a long frustrated breath. "Did you call the coroner?" She asked, her voice a monotone.
Tolstoy nodded, pushing wire frame glasses further up her nose. "They should be here any minute." She said, picking up her cellular when it rang.
Marlowe nodded, carefully walking around the desk towards the window, wondering how this person could slip in and out without a trace. Hazel eyes took in the street, the seemingly normality of the day as people moved about, unaware that an incredibly brutal murder had occurred in their midst.
Tolstoy clicked her cellular closed and looked up at Marlowe. "This guy has a history of child sexual abuse." She said.
"Another one," Marlowe whispered. Every victim had had some history of sexual abuse or just plain physical abuse. The majority of the victims were spouse abusers, and some were actual convicted rapists. The two murdered women had been lovers in a sick and twisted relationship, according to family and friends; and were suspects in the murder of the mother of one of them, but there had never been enough evidence to go after them. Marlowe was brought back from her thoughts by the noisy entrance of the coroner's office.
Ixtchel stood under the hot spray of the shower, eyes closed and her head thrown back to let the water cascade over her neck and chest. Taking a deep breath, she shut off the water. Stepping out of the shower, she grabbed the towel from the hook and began to dry herself. She would go out tonight, and she would find a woman to possess, to get rid of the residual anger she still felt.
She had called her client, whispering only three words upon contact. "It is done." She'd said, and the young woman replied with a satisfied, though whispered, thank you.
Standing in front of her bedroom mirror, Ixtchel's eyes were drawn to the scar on her side and her arm. The still pink tissue on her side smarted when she touched it, but it was healing nicely. Upon leaving Rhanyel's apartment that fateful night, she had made her way to the house of a doctor who specialized in injuries obtained illegally. No questions were asked and Ixtchel left that night with 15 stitches and pills to fight infection in her wounds. Nothing though, would heal what was left of her heart.
Ixtchel pushed the stranger down onto the back of the couch, grunting as she pressed her hips onto her ass. She could feel the base of her dildo pressing back against her own heat as she rubbed herself against her. The woman was moaning her pleasure as she pushed back to meet Ixtchel's hips.
At the bar, when the stranger had noticed the bulge at Ixtchel's crotch, she knew she had to have Ixtchel; or be had.
Roughly, Ixtchel grabbed two fistfuls of miniskirt and yanked it down to her ankles. Taking a handful of long dark hair, she popped open the buttons of her Levis with her other hand, freeing the dildo. Without warning, yanking harder on the long hair, she shoved herself into welcoming wetness. Breathing hard, eyes rolling in her head, she fucked the woman like she'd never been fucked before. The woman was crying out onto the couch seat, her fingers clutching at them.
Ixtchel was in another reality, her eyes seeing Julia's back, Julia's hair. Her stomach muscles grew taut as she felt the orgasm building, and she pumped harder, the sound of wetness driving her on. Her eyes narrowed as the woman came, her muscles clenching against Ixtchel's thrusts.
Pulling out and leaving the woman sprawled over the couch, Ixtchel walked around it and sat down, slouching back. Shakily, the woman lifted herself up and walked around too. Meeting Ixtchel's eyes, she slid on top of her and impaled herself once again, throwing her head back and moaning. Her eyes closing, Ixtchel felt her breath quicken as the woman moved up and down above her. Grasping her hips, she yanked her down hard.
"I love it when you do me like that…"
Ixtchel's eyes snapped upwards, Julia's voice bringing her deeper into a sexual haze. "Julia," She whispered. "You're…"
"Dead, I know, " Julia twisted her hips from side to side slowly, driving Ixtchel crazy. "Thanks to you. " She leaned forward and kissed Ixtchel deeply, sucking on her tongue.
"What do you want?" Ixtchel whispered, sucking a breath through her teeth when Julia licked her neck wetly and bit her earlobe.
"You," Julia whispered, her hands grasping Ixtchel's hair as she moved harder and faster on Ixtchel, her moans gaining intensity.
Ixtchel threw her head back and panted; her body tensed, eyes closing as she came long and hard. Finally, the woman on top of her came again too, and leaned forward to rest on Ixtchel. "Who is Julia?" She whispered after a long time.
Ixtchel's eyes popped open. "What?"
"You kept saying her name over and over." The woman said, slipping off when Ixtchel's hands grasped her hips and pushed her away.
"She's no one." The killer rasped, standing up and moving away from her lover for the night. "Fix your clothes." She watched the woman do as she ordered, a look of confusion on her face. "What's your name?"
The woman looked offended for a moment, but the coldness in Ixtchel's eyes stopped any complaint she might have voiced. "Tara."
Ixtchel nodded, and adjusted the dildo, shoving it back into her pants.
"Where are you going?" Tara demanded, moving towards Ixtchel, stopping dead when Ixtchel's eyes flashed their warning.
"I'm going home." The words were a whispered warning.
"Okay." She watched the enigma walk out of her apartment, feeling her heart start beating again once the eyes left her. Fucking scary.
Days later, Tolstoy entered her supervisor's office to find her sitting with her head between her hands, elbows leaning on the desk. It was a late night; both women had not taken a break since getting the call about the body a few days ago. They'd been tracking the murders for some time, seeing the similarities in the Modus Operandi of this killer, frustrated that they didn't seem able to catch up him. They'd discussed the case at length, and had come up with some leads.
At first, Tolstoy had been confused as to how the two women could be connected to the same killer. But Marlowe understood that Tolstoy could only be so familiar with the case, since they began working together after the lovers were murdered. Marlowe explained that Julia Armando's father had a history of spousal physical abuse, but that the wife never brought charges against him. She had showed Tolstoy the file on his murder, and it was hard to miss the similarities in the scenes of the crimes.
He had been propped over the coffee table in his separate apartment, blood pooling around his knees from between his buttocks and a steak knife buried to the hilt in his head; his genitals had been shredded. Despite the differences, it was still obvious that the killer was one and the same. The wife had been the initial suspect for the local police, but the strength it took to drive that knife into his skull had to be intense, and the woman was obviously frail; so either she didn't do it, or she had some good help.
Family said that Julia Armando had been unnaturally devoted to her father. Not in a sexual sense, but still obsessive in nature. When his own mother had once told her he was unstable, not to believe everything he said about her mother, Julia had flown into a rage and had never spoken to her grandmother again. Julia had furiously sworn vengeance against her mother and the one who killed her father. When Marlene, Julia's mother, had popped up dead months after Julio Armando had been murdered, her family had instantly suspected Julia and her girlfriend, who was as crazy, if not more, than Julia. Of course, there was never enough proof found to convict them.
Marlowe looked up from the desk, sighing. "It all goes back to the first killing." She gestured her partner to sit down across from her.
Tolstoy sat, a questioning look in her eyes.
"I've been reading," the agent gestured to the file open in front of her. "The first guy had a daughter-"
"So have many of the other guys." Tolstoy interrupted.
Rhiannon smiled slightly. "Yes… I contacted an ex-sergeant from the 100th precinct in Portland, Oregon." She continued, looking over her scribbles. She proceeded to explain the situation leading to this first guy's murder ten years before.
John D'Agostino had been deep into drugs and alcohol, and his third favorite past time seemed to be torturing his wife and daughter. The guy was pretty well off, with huge trust funds set up by his father, who noticed his son would go nowhere on his own. When D'Agostino had been found dead by his wife and the house help interrogated, the maids had broken down and told them everything.
It seemed that the man would drag his wife and daughter into his office and made the girl watch while he violated the poor mother. Sometimes he had to tie her down to keep her in there, other times she would just sit there like a vegetable while he hurt her mother. When he was not making himself busy torturing his poor wife, he worked on the girl, oftentimes making her take drugs that he was experimenting with, to see her reaction. One particular maid recalled seeing the young girl tripping on cocaine, and once or twice Heroin, her father watching amusedly from afar.
It was a wonder that the girl never ended up addicted to any of the infinite amount of drugs he pushed on her. She wasn't totally unaffected, though. The growing madness could be seen lurking in her eyes, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Every single person living under D'Agostino's roof was under threat of death if they told anything. The man's wife, Fernanda, was like a ghost when she was seen outside her bedroom; silent, distant, pale.
And the girl, she was frightening. As the years passed, the girl became a young woman, strong and fit. She would lurk in the dark late at night, sometimes found sitting down in the dark hallway watching her father's bedroom door with a cold look in her eyes. In the mornings when they had breakfast, she would sit and stare at her father, the fury flowing around her like an aura. To the house help, it was like an animal was caged, waiting for the right moment to strike and tear its captor to pieces. But they never had reason to outright fear her, she never gave them a reason to. When John D'Agostino had been found dead, the first person the cops thought of was the girl.
"What did they find on the girl?" Tolstoy inquired curiously.
Rhiannon still had her head bent; studying the grainy family picture ex-Sgt. Devon had faxed her after their conversation that afternoon. The man was the only one smiling, his wife cowering under his arm, looking down at the floor instead of at the camera. Their daughter, about fifteen years old at the time of the photograph, stared defiantly at the camera; her blonde hair sheared short carelessly and falling over her forehead.
But the hair did not cover the eyes, and those made a shiver run down the agent's spine. "Nothing," She finally answered, leaning back and handing the photograph to Tolstoy. "The girl had been out to a movie during the time of the murder, according to the maids."
Tolstoy studied the photograph too, feeling a shiver at the darkness in the young woman's eyes. "She's scary looking." She said, looking up. "You think they were protecting her?"
"More than likely. The local police didn't fall for it, so they conducted an investigation into the murder, but there was nothing indicating that the girl had done it. She wouldn't talk, though. Calm as a damn saint she was when they questioned her, but not one word came out of her mouth." Rhiannon stretched and stood up, pacing slowly back and forth behind her desk. "The grandfather clamored for the police to leave his granddaughter and daughter in law alone. That they had suffered enough by the death of his son, and soon the investigation was closed. She left Oregon not long after and no one knows where she is."
"Interesting." Tolstoy said. "What's the daughter's name? I haven't seen it here yet."
"Ixtchel D'Agostino." Rhiannon whispered, brushing a hand through her messy hair. She was tired; this case was taking a little too much out of her. She was having a problem with keeping a professional stance. While at the same time she was glad that this scum of the earth was taken out of the picture, she knew she also had to catch this killer. She could be a danger to others, even though so far she had proven not to be. The only people hurt were the abusers, except for the two women.
Rhiannon suspected that the lovers had gotten themselves into more than they could handle. Her eyes narrowed as she thought. "The Lovers, they must have tried to exact their revenge on her." Rhiannon said aloud, and her assistant looked up at her curiously. "You see, this woman is not a danger to people other than these abusers. The Lovers, well, they were sick as hell, and it was a known fact that they wanted revenge for Armando's father's death. Maybe they caught up to her." She shrugged.
Tolstoy leaned back on her chair, pulling off her glasses and kneading the bridge of her nose tiredly. "Possibly," She said.
Rhiannon smiled sympathetically. "It's been a long day, why don't we take a break and go home to sleep?" She suggested.
Tolstoy nodded eagerly, closing the file on her lap and placing it on the desk. Both agents made short work of getting their stuff together and going to their respective homes.