“All good here?” he asked. “No trouble, eh, boy?” He rubbed the scruff of the hound’s neck. “Good. You stay out here and guard the place, y’hear?” Straightening, he pulled a second small key ring from his pocket and crossed the open space to the rotting back porch. Bullfrogs were croaking, insects were humming, and the warm Louisiana summer night smelled of the bayou. The kind of night he loved. If he didn’t have so damned much to do, he would have loved to sit on the ancient bench with the dog, crack open a cold beer, let the country air soak into his skin, and find himself some peace of mind.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Unlocking the door of the cabin, he felt the heat of the small interior. With the windows closed and boarded up and no insulation in the old pine walls, the cabin was an oven. Evidence of insects, wasps, and mice was visible on the floorboards.

All the better for the place to seem unoccupied, he supposed, and flicked on his flashlight to better survey the place. Boots creaking on the ancient dusty floor, he walked to the trapdoor and smiled when he noticed it hadn’t been disturbed, the lock in place. The only time the latch was open was when he was inside, doing his work, making certain everything was perfect. And it had cost him one twin.

But he still had the other. The weaker one who had proved a little more gutsy than he’d expected. He’d thought he could control her easily, but she’d proved to have a little fight in her, like her wilder sister, Zoe. He had known Zoe would be difficult. One always was.

They both needed to die, of course. Their birth times had passed, but he could still re-create the ritual. First, he would have to find that fucking Zoe and bring her back here. Then he and Myra would pick the appropriate date. That part was easy. And then he would wait for the exact time of her birth and kill her and her sister in the same manner as he had the others.

Dealing with the twins was a spiritual rite for him, almost religious in nature, though he didn’t consider himself a God-fearing man.

He unbolted the trapdoor, slipped the ladder down to rest against the floor, and braced the top rails against the edge of the opening. He tested the ladder with his weight and squeezed through the tight opening. As he descended, his body ached a bit where he’d been wounded. Carefully, he made his way down, rung by rung, as cool, earthy air hit his nostrils and the sound of quiet sobs greeted his ears.

She was scared.

Good.

He actually smiled, though his skin was so raw it was probably a grimace.