fashion.” Branco flicked through a rack of costumes and checked to make sure they were still alone. “The death count is starting to get too high. The papers are calling on the police to do something about whoever is whipping all these young men to death.”
Dianta snorted. “As if Guaricana would ever let them harm us.”
Branco gave her a humorless smile. “We need just a few more men to complete our spell.” He stroked a hand over Dianta's face and whispered, “Immortality.”
A shudder ripped through Dianta's pin-up body. “Then we must be careful and keep her pure for a little while longer.” She kissed his hand. “If we play our cards right, we could be famous. We could do tours of the samba school where the murderess planned her killings.”
Branco held his hands out. “All of those poor men found whipped to death in the alleys will be her victims. The press will have a field day with it. And Guaricana will make sure there is never a question of her guilt. After all, she's the last person all these men have been seen with. The mysterious woman in the red dress.”
Dianta laughed and clapped her hands. “Perfect. We should have her start targeting wealthy tourists. The police don't give much of a rat's ass if the low-class locals disappear, but if we tell her to feed on only wealthy foreign tourists…well, they'll step up their efforts to find her.”
Strutting around Carmella, Dianta stuck her tongue out at her in a childish display of temper. “I had better start planning what outfit to wear when the news breaks.” She gave a theatrical sigh and clasped her hands together. “Such a tragedy. I knew something was wrong with our frumpy little seamstress, but I had no idea she was the biggest serial killer in the history of Brazil.”
Branco nodded and stepped toward Carmella. “I will strengthen the spell. It will remind her how worthless she is, how undeserving of attention and love. She'll avoid that DJ like the plague. Tomorrow night, we will send the succubus out again to hunt. Perhaps for the last time.”
Dianta sat down in the frayed lawn chair with a pretty pout, batting her fake eyelashes at Branco. “It would be so much easier if we could use a non-virgin.”
“Yes, but Guaricana's succubus can only take over a virgin's body. We need to keep her chaste until we are done with her.” Branco looked into Carmella's vacant amber eyes and began to chant softly.
Chapter Five
Head slumped against the glass, Carmella stared out the dirty window of the bus. People occupied every space, and she was lucky to have snagged a seat. Next to her, an older woman clutched her cheap purse and scanned everyone on the bus with suspicion. Identifying the greatest threat to her handbag, she narrowed her gaze at a young boy dressed in dirty clothes with greasy hair. The boy stared back at her, his face older than his years as he gave her a sullen look and a sneer. They continued to measure each other. He looked away first and cleaned his dirty nails with a pocketknife.
Turning away from the silent display of bus dominance, Carmella examined the passing buildings while she thought about her day. Most of it had been spent hiding from Sean's choreographers, Monica and Whitney. They were stunning, tall women who dressed with style and moved with a self-assured grace. She couldn't stand to be around them, to be reminded of her inadequacies. It would be like placing a lump of clay next to a blown-glass vase. No, a lump of manure.
Fatima stopped by to let her know Monica was looking for her, but Carmella pleaded a massive headache and asked Fatima to cover for her. She couldn't face them. They were amazing, world-famous dancers, and she was a washed-up seamstress. It was cruel of Sean to send them to speak with her. So she hid in the bathroom or behind her racks of costumes when she heard their voices. She felt like a coward, but the thought of having to perform for them made her sick to the
Dianta snorted. “As if Guaricana would ever let them harm us.”
Branco gave her a humorless smile. “We need just a few more men to complete our spell.” He stroked a hand over Dianta's face and whispered, “Immortality.”
A shudder ripped through Dianta's pin-up body. “Then we must be careful and keep her pure for a little while longer.” She kissed his hand. “If we play our cards right, we could be famous. We could do tours of the samba school where the murderess planned her killings.”
Branco held his hands out. “All of those poor men found whipped to death in the alleys will be her victims. The press will have a field day with it. And Guaricana will make sure there is never a question of her guilt. After all, she's the last person all these men have been seen with. The mysterious woman in the red dress.”
Dianta laughed and clapped her hands. “Perfect. We should have her start targeting wealthy tourists. The police don't give much of a rat's ass if the low-class locals disappear, but if we tell her to feed on only wealthy foreign tourists…well, they'll step up their efforts to find her.”
Strutting around Carmella, Dianta stuck her tongue out at her in a childish display of temper. “I had better start planning what outfit to wear when the news breaks.” She gave a theatrical sigh and clasped her hands together. “Such a tragedy. I knew something was wrong with our frumpy little seamstress, but I had no idea she was the biggest serial killer in the history of Brazil.”
Branco nodded and stepped toward Carmella. “I will strengthen the spell. It will remind her how worthless she is, how undeserving of attention and love. She'll avoid that DJ like the plague. Tomorrow night, we will send the succubus out again to hunt. Perhaps for the last time.”
Dianta sat down in the frayed lawn chair with a pretty pout, batting her fake eyelashes at Branco. “It would be so much easier if we could use a non-virgin.”
“Yes, but Guaricana's succubus can only take over a virgin's body. We need to keep her chaste until we are done with her.” Branco looked into Carmella's vacant amber eyes and began to chant softly.
Chapter Five
Head slumped against the glass, Carmella stared out the dirty window of the bus. People occupied every space, and she was lucky to have snagged a seat. Next to her, an older woman clutched her cheap purse and scanned everyone on the bus with suspicion. Identifying the greatest threat to her handbag, she narrowed her gaze at a young boy dressed in dirty clothes with greasy hair. The boy stared back at her, his face older than his years as he gave her a sullen look and a sneer. They continued to measure each other. He looked away first and cleaned his dirty nails with a pocketknife.
Turning away from the silent display of bus dominance, Carmella examined the passing buildings while she thought about her day. Most of it had been spent hiding from Sean's choreographers, Monica and Whitney. They were stunning, tall women who dressed with style and moved with a self-assured grace. She couldn't stand to be around them, to be reminded of her inadequacies. It would be like placing a lump of clay next to a blown-glass vase. No, a lump of manure.
Fatima stopped by to let her know Monica was looking for her, but Carmella pleaded a massive headache and asked Fatima to cover for her. She couldn't face them. They were amazing, world-famous dancers, and she was a washed-up seamstress. It was cruel of Sean to send them to speak with her. So she hid in the bathroom or behind her racks of costumes when she heard their voices. She felt like a coward, but the thought of having to perform for them made her sick to the
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