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  Arson’s Captive

  V. F. Mason

  Copyright © 2020 by V. F. Mason

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Design: Sommer Stein

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Zack Salaun

  To the power of love.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Callum’s Hell Excerpt

  Also by V. F. Mason

  Acknowledgments

  Contact

  Prologue

  “Fire brings death to those who fear it… and salvation for those who thrive in it.”

  Arson

  Callista

  My eyes snap open as the smell of burned flesh penetrates my nostrils, awakening me from the haze I’ve been imprisoned in. With a gasp, I gulp for air only to cough loudly the minute it enters my lungs.

  My eyes twitch from the unusual sting and water, tears slowly falling down my cheeks while I try to make sense of my situation.

  What’s going on?

  It feels like a thousand drops of acid hit me all at once, placing me in a suffocating box with no way out. The ringing in my ears sends shivers down my spine, alerting me to the danger lurking all around me.

  Scrunching my eyes, I finally get a better look at my surroundings, and a horrified scream echoes in the space, adding to the dreadful picture.

  Fire.

  Orange flames mix with blue in a powerful duet, spreading farther and farther around the place, turning everything in their way to ash while I stand still, too stunned to do anything.

  Finally shaking away the shock, I tug on my hands, searching for a way to escape even though I don’t see one from where I’m pressed with my back to something hard.

  Frowning, I try again, but this time something sharp digs into my back.

  It’s then I realize my wrists are tightly tied with a thick rope, and I’m plastered to a wooden stake, right in the middle of what looks a lot like a basement.

  Rusty walls and cracked concrete surround me; it appears to be an empty space, which reeks of despair and agony. The fire has no problem sliding from the corners though, and the overpowering scent of gasoline is easily detected in the air.

  It circles around me, creating a bubble of dread and helplessness, reminding me that as much as I can be strong, I’m nothing against the powerful nature that has no mercy for those who stand in its way.

  He must have sprinkled the gunpowder in a precise pattern; otherwise, why is the fire not touching me? He probably finds it amusing—considering his love for everything ancient—recreating a scene similar to those displayed in the endless paintings at the mansion of witches being burned for the whole town to see.

  To rid them of the evil spirit within them, of course, because God forbid real monsters admit their insanity.

  “No, no,” I mutter, pulling at my restraints, but it’s useless, because they’re so skillfully locked around me; someone must be a master at this stuff.

  But then again, he is.

  A man who plays with fire like it’s his most expensive toy and cherishes it like it’s his beloved woman who forever holds his heart.

  “You bastard!” I shout into the air, coughing loudly again and trying to press my nose to my shoulder, hoping somehow to escape the smell—not that it does me any good.

  But if I pass out from lack of oxygen, I’ll die in this basement like all those poor women in the past and be just another name in his never-ending list of victims.

  Sweat slowly drips down my back and my forehead, my skin tightening from the warmth around me and hitting me with dizziness all at once. My dry throat desperately begs for water, and every word I utter seems to claw at my throat, hurting so badly I can barely speak through it. “Let me go!” Even though I shout, it comes out like a weak raspy hiss, although I’m not sure what I’m hoping for in this situation.

  The man is a monster who feeds on the misery of his victims.

  He’ll never let me go as long as I live.

  An amused chuckle sounds and manages to chill the heat of the fire around me while I catch my breath, fear spreading through me rapidly. “Callista, is that a good way to address me?” he asks, and I hear his footsteps grow close, but I still can’t see him clearly, because my vision is blurry from the fire.

  “I don’t care!” I hysterically inform him before wrapping my hand around my thumb, ready to use all means necessary to escape this hell.

  Even if it means bringing myself pain.

  He clacks his tongue and then steps closer, finally allowing me to see him through the orange haze. His gray eyes flash with familiar excitement, making me remember all the times he killed people in front of me. “Your stubbornness has its own charm, I must say.”

  “You are sick,” I reply, meeting his stare head-on and raising my chin, because he’ll never get my obedience or surrender.

  Never.

  He chuckles and shifts even closer, trapping my chin with his fingers and digging them into me so painfully I barely hold back a whimper. Any more pressure and he might break something. “But every charm has its limits. You just reached yours.”

  “What?” I ask, panic slowly sinking into my bones when I find something unfamiliar in his features.

  Boredom.

  No, no, no.

  The minute he gets bored… you are as good as dead. So entertain him well as long as you can. Otherwise, you will sign your own death warrant.

  “The game has come to an end,” he announces, flicking the lighter in his hands, and before I can beg for mercy—forgetting about my dignity—he drops it at my feet, and instantly the wood is enveloped in orange flames.

  “No, you can’t do this.” Surely he’s not that mad? Doesn’t my presence awaken an ounce of remorse in him, speak to something human inside him?

  But then, monsters don’t have that human side after all. Shouldn’t I have learned that after spending all this time in his company?

  His stare stays ice-cold when he lightly taps on my chin before stepping back, a smile curving his mouth that’s scary all on its own. “Can’t I? Keeping you alive was never part of the plan.” And with those parting words, he jumps through the fire, leaving me alone to burn to death.

  I try to scream after him, so he can turn around to see me plead for my life.

  But he doesn’t, and my cries become weaker and weaker until I understand he’s completely lost interest in me.

  Why bother fighting for my life when even the devil himself has given up on me?

  My
dark tale has come to an end.

  Chapter One

  “Boredom is the biggest source of torture.

  Thankfully, I found the solution for that.”

  Arson

  New York, New York

  Present

  Arson

  “It’s too silent here,” I inform the audience, looking through the mirrored screen above me then press on the remote, sighing in pleasure as the heavy rock beat slowly fills the space.

  Music of the gods, I’m telling you.

  For a second, I stand still, soaking up the energy as it swirls around me and fuels my blood with the much-needed anticipation that ignites my body like nothing else in this world.

  Done with that, I tie my hair in a bun at the back of my head and twist my neck from side to side, enjoying the cracking sounds echoing in the space.

  I walk toward the weapons table, smirking as I notice the latest sharp knife made out of the finest steel.

  Nothing but the best in my torture room where everyone forgets about pride and hope, as they are dumped into agony and despair that knows no boundaries.

  If I were into Greek mythology, I’d call myself Hades, but truth be told… no one in this world is fucking good enough for me to compare myself to.

  There is only one Arson, and he is one’s greatest nightmare, not a mythical creature whose power is long forgotten.

  Tracing my fingers over the stainless steel blade that reflects my countenance under the harsh light, I tap it with the pad of my finger and immediately earn myself a sting as blood slowly seeps out of me. “Excellent,” I praise the weapon and finally hear a whimper coming from behind me.

  Rolling my eyes, I glance over my shoulder and tell him, “There is no need for impatience, Rob. Everything good will come in time.” Instead of listening to my advice and shutting up though, the annoying noises become louder and grate on my nerves as the screams ring in my ears, one more desperate than another.

  Shaking my head from the memories that never go away but merely hide behind the curtains of my mind, I pick up the knife and spin around to face my latest victim.

  Or how I like to call them, little toys that require attention before their unavoidable death.

  He is chained to a metal stake right in the middle of torture room number five, wearing nothing but jeans. Sweat glistens on his chest. His black hair is plastered to his forehead and gives him a rather hilarious look with all the gel poured on it. His eyes widen at my stare, and he scans me from head to toe before tugging on his restraints while he mumbles something through the tape stuck to his mouth.

  I put my hand to my ear, pretending to listen to him. “What are you saying? Can you try that again?” I should get an award for all the warmth and concern coating my voice, which apparently gives him some kind of hope, because the fucker mumbles something louder, nodding frantically as if pointing at something by his feet.

  My eyes travel to the floor where a pool of liquid surrounds him, the smell of gasoline floating in the air, making my mouth curve in a half smile.

  I salute the audience watching us, knowing Kira will appreciate the gesture.

  After all, she prepared my victim so well for me, my best student.

  Too bad her favorite weapon is water; she could have done wonders with fire under my direction.

  “Nope, no luck. Let me help you,” I say, stepping closer and tearing the tape from his mouth, and that’s when the first cry of pain leaves him. The skin of his mouth is chapped, traces of it hanging on the strip I’m dangling in front of his face. “So, I’m listening.”

  He breathes heavily and rasps, whimpering with each word he says. “Please, help me. They kidnapped me and brought me here.”

  “They did?” I ask and glance to the mirrored wall, knowing full well they are watching my every move. I clack my tongue in displeasure, shaking my head. “How bad of them.” Noticing the blood dripping from his lips, I pick up the damp cloth by my side and wipe it away. “Let’s see if this helps.” He tentatively moves his mouth before licking his lips only to groan loudly, probably because of the salt embedded on the cloth, which only enhances his pain.

  A bit of advice?

  When a serial killer offers help, usually he is testing how much pain one can withstand for his amusement.

  But all these weak souls never listen, preferring to concentrate on their pleading as if they have the power to accomplish anything.

  If you want to survive in hell, learn to deal with the devil.

  Otherwise, he’ll burn you alive, because no treasure in this world except the suffering of the soul is good enough for him.

  “I have money,” he informs me, coughing a little before focusing his hazy stare on me, and I see his pulse beating wildly in his neck.

  Ah, fear is fueling his blood.

  Splendid.

  Since I stay silent, he continues to talk with hope lacing his tone, like he has finally found the solution for his problem. “Millions. Plus all my connections. Whatever you want is yours. Just please, let me go.”

  “Who brought you?” I ignore his statement, because the ridiculousness of it always pisses me off.

  If someone wants to kidnap you for ransom, he or she will let you know. But a serial killer, who truly wants to bring you the worst pain imaginable, cannot be seduced by wealth.

  Only the blood and terror of our victims have power to bring us satisfaction.

  “What?” he croaks, blinking in confusion, so I step closer and throw out another question, although this time my tone is harsher, so the fucker pays better attention. “Who put you here?”

  “Oh.” His brows furrow while he searches for the name in his head, it seems. “A girl. She has red hair,” he whispers and sniffs, “and black eyes.”

  Eveline.

  My eighteen-year-old student who has absolutely zero control when it comes to men and their deeds.

  Slowly, I straighten while both fury and calmness settle on me, plunging me into a feeling of doom and anticipation that are attached to me like a second skin.

  My fingers prickle and my vision becomes clearer. My nose once again detects the smell of gasoline, reminding me we are in my kingdom.

  And one of my subjects just brought me the biggest entertainment. “Ah, Rob,” I sigh, flipping the knife between my fingers back and forth. “Are you disappointed you didn’t get to play last night?” His eyes widen at the implication as realization settles in, because his dirty little secret is exposed.

  On the grand scale of things… I don’t care who I kill.

  When people are chained to the metal post in my torture room, all I see is a toy who has the power to temporarily amuse me.

  They don’t have feelings, emotions, lives.

  Killing is my hobby and the greatest source of my pleasure.

  But people brought to me by one of my students as peace offerings?

  Oh, they are the best gifts a man could ask for.

  Quickly, before he can even blink, I throw a knife right into his collarbone. His scream bounces off the walls, while the blood appears around the knife protruding from him. I throw another one, this time aiming at his gut, and another scream erupts, more intense than the previous one. “Take it like a man for once, Rob,” I chastise him, sipping my whiskey while the ice cubes clink against each other in the glass.

  Gazing at them, I think how it’s a perfect representation of what’s happening in the world. No matter how tough you are or unbreakable in your environment, the minute someone else drops you in another situation… you either die or adapt.

  Ice adapts, but most people can’t.

  One of the reasons why nature should always be admired—it has a mind of its own and knows better.

  We humans have the tendency to live in our fantasies.

  And in most cases, we pay dearly for it.

  “I don’t know what you want, but I didn’t do anything. Whatever they told you, it’s lies!” he pleads through the rapid gasps for breath while coughing
on blood, and my brows rise.

  How very typical and boring.

  Placing the glass down with a definitive thump, I trail my fingers across the table. “Would it help them?” I put on latex gloves, snapping them against my wrists, and slowly walk toward him, enjoying how his shoulders tighten with each of my steps.

  He frowns, taking a deep breath before asking in confusion, “Who?”

  Wiggling my index finger, I tut. “Don’t play dumb, Rob. If you’re boring, your end will be quicker. I want to kill even more when I’m bored.”

  He freezes, panic crossing his face as he shakes his head and mumbles something under his breath. I reach him, wrap my hand around the knife in his gut, and twist it to the right, digging it deeper into his stomach and touching the liver as well. He inhales swiftly, trying to wiggle out of my hold, but it doesn’t work.

  “It wouldn’t help them,” I conclude, leaning in to his ear as I take out the knife, letting his blood pour freely on the floor. He groans in pain, biting his lip while still trying to keep focus on me, even though his eyelids keep dropping, because his body wants rest from the pain.

  Too bad there is no such thing as rest in hell. “For fuckers like you, the temptation is too strong to resist. For anything.”

  “I won’t do it again. I won’t.” His reassurance is laced with fear, while I lean back and study his face.

  My God, by the hope still crossing his face, he believes all this talk can change my mind and set him free.

  I read a report on him earlier. Perfect family man. Lives in a suburban town with his two kids and a wife who claims he is the best man in the world.