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To defeat a monster, you have to be twice as monstrous. To love a monster, you have to share your soul. —Lana Myers
Better three hours too soon than a minute too late. —William Shakespeare
Hell is empty, and all the devils are here. —William Shakespeare (The Tempest)
“My angel made sure he’ll never hurt us again,” she says, and a sickly coldness washes over me. “My angel saved me. She’ll always watch over me. She is right now.”
She watches me, a small smirk on her lips, as though she’s daring me to say something here and now.
I suspected Lana to be the one who killed that son of a bitch, but that’s insane. I’m too close to this case, not thinking rationally.
Did Logan coach her on how to act? Or is she really that fucking stupidly unafraid?
“But I can’t. I can, however, strip you of all that pride you hold so dearly. All that power you think you have. Then I can kill you.”
She’s the cat and he’s the mouse. The man who has terrorized Boston for so long, and now DC, is just a toy on her strings. Who the fucking hell is Lana Myers.
Two devils in one room. How did this happen to me?
“But I don’t prey on those weaker than me. I don’t prey on the innocent.”
“I’m the girl who takes on the darkest of men. Men who’ve done things dark and twisted to the weak. Men who preyed on the innocent. Men who thought they killed me when I was weak. Just like the women you’ve killed.”
“You’re like me,” he says, more surprise in his tone than fear or malice. “No,” she says quietly. “I’m so much worse and better than you. I’m the thing the monsters in the dark fear. And now I’m even the Boogeyman’s nightmare.”
Lana Myers, or whoever she really is, survived something so dark that she needs revenge. But Logan is sleeping with her. He’s falling in love. And she’s a fucking psychopath.
“Then you wanted to kill him. He’s too good to die. He’s everything opposite of us. His light still shines. I hope they have fun with you in hell. You sentenced yourself there the day you targeted the only thing that makes me feel as though there’s still a soul inside me left to be saved. The only thing I love more than revenge.”
Just like that, I have my answer. And I watch with her as the Boogeyman dies by his own knife. At the hands of a woman. The hands of a victim. In a way, it’s poetic justice.
Normal girls are hard to understand, because I can’t remember the last time I was normal. Normal girls spend too much time reacting to their actions. They take for granted the air they get to breathe, because they’ve never been deprived of those painless breaths. Me? I’ve already walked through hell, so I’m desensitized to all else.
Like every stupid fucking idiot in the movies, I showed my hand of cards, let the words roll out of my mouth to a man I knew would never be able to tell a soul. I totally did an evil monologue, for fuck’s sake!
My lips twitch, but I say nothing. Hadley is keeping my secret if she’s spreading the lie to her friends. But why?
It’s ironic the media lost interest in the hero side of me in favor of the dark side of me. Just goes to show how twisted and ugly this world can be.
But I’m not the devil, Anthony. I’m the angel who has come to take you all to hell.”
“You sent those roses to terrorize her. Mind fuck her even. The guy carved an actual word into her arm while she was conscious, and he damn near killed her and Elise before Lisa managed to get a few shots off.”
A tiny little mind fuck, as you like to call it. That’s all. I spared her, if you really think about it. We both know I could be a lot colder.”
“I love you too, Lana Myers,” he says so softly. And in that moment, I’m completely his. There’s no revenge; there are no deaths staining my hands. I’m just a girl in love with a man who’s destined to hate me when he learns the truth. And it’s devastatingly tragic; more so than any Shakespearian play ever was.
“That motherfucker really does know what happened. He could be fired and possibly even serve time for impeding an investigation like this.”
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? —William Shakespeare
Romantics always believe in revenge, because romantics love harder, suffer loss more painfully, and hold onto a grudge that has shattered their hearts. Their hearts are of the greatest importance, above all else—body, soul, or mind.
My body grew stronger and my mind turned calculated when I lost my soul to avenge my heart. I guess that makes me a romantic.
“I have psychopathic tendencies, but I’m not a psychopath,” I say on a sigh. “I’ve told you this.”
“I can’t kill them all,” I say with a shrug. “But terrorizing them will remind them to never hold their silence again when the innocent are screaming for help.”
“Voltaire said, ‘Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities.’
“I’m back, motherfuckers,” I say quietly as we pass the town hall. “And I’m going to make your life hell before I paint your town red.”
“Sheesh! We’re in the middle of Fucking Madhouse Hollow, on the edge of the woods, and you give a girl a heart attack?! Not cool, Bennett. Not fucking cool,” says the redheaded girl who knowingly drove the killer into town.
There’s a reason I picked Myers as a surname.
It’s everything I need and more. He’s everything I wish I could be. A hero. A hero loved by a monster.
“Where would you go?” I ask her, deciding I don’t want to see her sad. “Anywhere in the world?” she asks. “Anywhere.” “I’d go to Greece with you.” And this is why I’m so fucking obsessed with her.
