Samara didn't know how to feel at the moment. Staring ahead from the back of an ambulance while a gurney passed with an injured serial killer and a third ambulance left to take an unconscious woman to the hospital for a quick blood transfusion, the amber-eyed woman continued to stare blankly as she recalled the events that led up to this moment in time.
Two hours prior, Thomas took her to his mansion – beautiful place with blue bricks and white framed windows – the inside of which did not disappoint. His foyer was decorated with Victorian-era paintings and a chandelier, but it was when he guided her upstairs did she become disquieted (well, even more so, considering she was walking in a serial killers' home).
Hanging in the halls were paintings. Each one grotesquely detailed and all painted with dark red paint.
"These are a few of my original works," He sighed. "I put body and soul into these."
Knowing what she does know about this man and his talent for murder and blood, Samara wasn't sure if he was being figurative or not. "I… can see that."
"You're the first person to notice my work." He suddenly stopped. "So maybe you'll be a better inspiration than the other one."
The brunette blinked, feeling her blood run ice cold at his tone. "What?" She whispered.
Thomas turned around, his brown eyes boring into her as a dead smile graced his lips. "The others were nice; pretending to like my art but wanting me to create something different for them. But you…"
He started walking towards her and Samara did the opposite, walking back and keeping aware of any walls or stairs around her. She knew this was a bad idea. But Sherlock wanted absolute proof to lock this fucker away, what can she do?
Swallowing her fear, the American hesitantly reached for her hidden pocket where the recorder sat along with her pepper spray, awaiting use. "W-what do you mean?"
She pressed the button at just the right time. Thomas grinned. "You can be my muse!" And lunged.
The amber- eyed girl yelped and wiped out her pepper spray, catching him in the eyes. The blonde man reared back and screamed in pain, Samaras own eyes watering from the residual spray. But this gave her perfect opportunity.
'Evidence. I need to find evidence.'
Her heart pounded as she dashed down the halls and called up Sherlock, the man answering on the second ring.
"I take it you didn't receive a confession. If he's giving you tea, don't drink it."
Panting, Samara wrenched open door after door. Bedroom. Bedroom. Bedroom! "More like he tried to lunge at me and use me as his muse."
"OH dear," Sherlock stated blandly. The brunette could just see him blinking once at the implication. "'use you as his muse'… That's not a real confession is it."
Samara heard John faintly in the background. "Sherlock, what's going on?"
But the girl giggled nervously as she continued her search. "Yes well, that's why I'm looking for his studio." Tea room. Game room. Bedroom again! "The likelihood of the girl being at least near his art studio -"
"Is absolutely probable, considering he'd have to be with his supplies and canvas. When you find the room, be sure to look for any hidden doors or false walls; he'd not have her in the open, but somewhere close by." He then turned away from the speaker, "John, be a chap and call Lestrade." Then back to the phone. "We're in the garden, but we'll break in soon enough – somehow; these windows are high quality, capable of withstanding damage and surely soundproof."
"Well isn't that a comforting thought."
An enraged scream could be heard down the hall, followed by glass breaking and heavy thumps. Whelp. That doesn't sound good.
"Not to leave you in suspense, but I have to go. Need to look for the room without any additional distractions."
"What? Sa -"
But she already hung up. She needed to do this. She needed to find that girl. She needed to put that bastard away, not for herself – but for the art community! He just gives artists a bad name.
Two drawing rooms, one tea room, and three guest rooms later, Samara finally found it. His art studio, decorated with easels, acrylics, pastels, oil paints, a paint-stained couch, blank and half-finished canvas' of all shapes and sizes.
Locking the door behind her, Samara started her search. The room was quite large and the brunette found herself jealous at this psychopaths' resources. If only her parents were rich bastards… Her thought process slowed when she turned to the middle of the room.
Something was there, covered with a white sheet stained with random drops of red. Walking over to it, Samara wiped off the sheet and felt her heart drop in disappointment; it was only a grotesque collage of wires and clock parts to take an arachnid shape.
Continuing her search, she jumped when someone started banging on the door. Based on the stream of threats of death and bodily harm, Samara was content in assuming that was Thomas.
Her search ended when she started to wonder about the bookcase across from one of the covered easels; it was ostentatious in design and only had a handful of books, none of them relating to art or art techniques– she'd easily get distracted if anything like that was in front of her.
Studying the case, the white dressed woman started feeling around before becoming irritated and simply pushed it aside till it fell over.
Samara had to squint her eyes when considering the dark hole in the wall but gasped at the sight before her.
It was the missing businesswoman. Her blonde hair was matted with blood and face a deathly pale shade. She was tied down to a bed and an I.V. was currently draining her of blood, slowly but surely. He wanted her to last, he wanted her to suffer. Samara felt sick to her stomach at that realization and acted with her only thought being 'please still be alive'.
Thankfully, the woman was. Her pulse was faint but steady.
However, just when Samara finished untying the woman and started pulling her out the hole, the door splintered apart, revealing an enraged, red-eyed Thomas, gritting his teeth as he squinted at Samara.
"You little bitch."
Not knowing what to do, the brunette dropped the blond and reached for the closest weapon at hand – a slim silver letter opener with a fleur de lis handle, a prop most likely. "And you're a sick bastard," She goaded for no reason other than to keep his attention on her. "Killing all these people – draining them of their lives – and for what? Painting?!"
"Beauty." He breathed walking over to her with a twisted grin. "Watching the light drain from their eyes, seeing the fear and realization that they aren't going to make it, having defiance slowly give way to helplessness is…. inspiring. Killing them – draining them of their life force so I could use their souls to not only create their likeness but use them for something greater. Even at their last moments, they never understood how significant it was. I thought that you of all people could understand that."
Samara gave a derisive sneer at that last statement. "Obviously my false charm gave you the wrong idea. The only thing I understood from that was your perverse interest in creating absurd art with misguided symbolism."
Just as she suspected, Thomas did not take her admittance at lying too kindly. The madman growled and dashed at her, allowing the girl to stab at his side, pull it out, sidestep him and stab him again without a thought.
The rich boy shouted at the sharp pain when she planted the knife in his shoulder and twisted it, but she gave no indication at hearing him. Instead, Samara swept his legs from under him and slammed him on his face.
When she realized what she'd done, Samara backed away in distress. Why did I just do that?
It was then that Scotland Yard came in and pointed their guns at her, Lestrade quickly taking over and after one look at her appearance – a bloody stained hand and self-horrified expression – he ordered the surrounding police to make the arrest and get the paramedics for their still unconscious victim.
"Samara." His voice sounded distant as her mind struggled to grasp what she was feeling. "Samara, what happened?"
"… He came at me," Her voice sounded small. Why did this all seem familiar? "He came at me and didn't know what else to do."
"It's alright Samara." When he attempted to place a hand on her, the woman flinched, flitting her wide amber eyes up at him. Lestrade stopped, lowering his hand and only gestured for her to follow him outside. "We found Sherlock and John around the corner, they're waiting for you outside."
"Are they now?" She answered dismissively. Her feet were steady as she walked, but her mind was on auto-pilot. What was she feeling? Is this what it feels like to be in shock? Her heart was still pounding, mind screaming at her to run, but all she can really feel was to laugh at the absurdity of her situation. "Oh yeah," The fog was starting to lift from her mind as she reached into her pocket, pulling out the recording device. Thankfully it was still playing. She handed it over to the confused DI. "Sherlock gave me this to record a confession. Hopefully, it might be enough to convict him."
Walking out the mansion, guided to that ambulance and watching how events unfolded today, John and Sherlock sharing their own versions of concern as they saw them wheel out the killer and hearing Lestrade's' explanation after that did she finally realize what she was feeling.
Samara, for the first time in a long time, felt alive.