Read Online Dexter's Final Cut by Jeff Lindsay - Free Book Online

didn’t. You ignored me and now your eye will pay for what your eyes failed to do
.
    I closed my eyes again and tried once more to
see
it, picture the way it would be: to make her feel Me and understand how stupid she was not to know that I was there and seeing her and needing her to see Me and she does not and so I take her and I teach her and I work her through the terror, the pain, the passion of carnage, and I feel the slow approach to fulfillment until at last she understands and she is ready and so am I and I see that beautiful battered head with its golden hair and my arousal grows and I am ready for the finale—
    It must have been the roast pork. Combined with the extra-long workday, and the added stress of having Robert follow me around all week, the roast pork had simply worn me out. In any case, I fell asleep. But I did not fall into the timeless, dreamless darkness that usually rewards me when I close my eyes at night. Instead, the visions continued:
I stand there above the still-living body and look down at what I have done, and I feel such a sweet rising pitch of bliss and fulfillment and I kneel beside the body and grab a fistful of beautiful golden hair and yank the head around so it must look at me. And the face turns slowly to me and I hold my breath as the features become clear and it is a perfect face, unmarked and filled with longing for me, for what I am going to do, and as I look down intothe bottomless violet eyes I realize that this is Jackie Forrest, and what I am going to do suddenly begins to change
.
    And I put down my knife and look at her, look at the perfect curve of her lips and the spray of freckles across her nose and those deep improbable eyes and somehow her clothes are gone and I lean closer to her face and it leans up toward me and there is an endless moment of almost touching, almost completing something that is just barely out of reach—
    I opened my eyes. I was still on the couch, and the house had grown dark and quiet around me, but the image of Jackie Forrest’s face was still with me.
    Why had I thought of her? I’d been having a very nice daydream about perfectly normal vivisection, and she had shouldered her way in and ruined it with her demands that I put down the knife and try something more human. I didn’t want to have her kind of fantasy; this was not me, not Dexter the Destroyer. She was forcing me to become some new and freakish being, a creature that rushed into passionate seduction and reveled in actual human feelings and a longing for something that was as far beyond the reach of the real me as if it was on Mars.
    I know it was totally illogical, but I found myself vastly annoyed with Jackie, as if she had butted in on purpose. But to my much greater surprise, I found that I was still aroused in reality, and not just in my imagination. Was it from thinking of the victim—or from thinking about Jackie Forrest? I didn’t know, and that was even more annoying.
    There was just something about her that I found intriguing, even compelling. It was not that she was a famous actress—I’d had no idea who she was, had to be told that she was, in fact, a star. Celebrity had never interested me before, and I was quite sure it didn’t now. And I was certainly far too set in my wicked ways to be interested in any kind of dalliance that was merely sexual. When Dexter has a fling, his partner’s afterglow lasts forever.
    And yet there was Jackie, crowding the screen in my private internal television, tossing her mane of perfect hair and smiling just for
me
with a gleam of intelligent amusement in her eyes, and for some maddening reason I liked it and I wanted to—
    Wanted to what? Touch her, kiss her, whisper sweet nothings inher perfect shell-like ear? It was absurd, a cartoon picture, Dexter in Lust. Such things did not happen to our Dreadful Dark Scout. I was beyond the reach of mere mortal desire. I did not feel it,
couldn’t
feel it; I never had, didn’t want