He was still buzzing from the thrill of last night—watching the girl die and disposing of her body, seeing it fall into the water from Waterloo Bridge. At three fifteen in the morning, there had been no traffic on the bridge: no cars, no pedestrians. It had been an easy matter to haul her from the trunk of the car and drop her into the Thames. Traffic cameras might have recorded the incident, but Fin didn’t care. They would never recognize him, never see past the hoodie and the mask he was wearing. And the car he was driving, he’d stolen earlier in the evening. He was fireproof and was reveling in his anonymity. He was enjoying his connection to Erik and the Children of Hecate. Not that he believed any of that occult mumbo jumbo. But he enjoyed hunting for targets and the resulting sacrifices, and especially enjoyed being given the bodies to get rid of. There had been three so far, Kerry being the best. She’d still been warm when he loaded her body into his car.
