the late miss roberts and her many crimes

Routine Vices

She moved slowly through the packed bar, seeming to glide despite her knife sharp stilettos and short, tight dress. With black latex clinging to her skin and red lipstick applied perfectly to her mouth without a single smudge out of place, she looked like every drunken man's dream and every inebriated woman's secret desire, and just the right thing to please everyone in between. In short, Emma Roberts was beautiful. She was well aware of this and used it to her advantage, immediately setting her sights on a man by the bar, rumpled suit and a whiskey in his hand, who blinked when she greeted him.

"Hello, handsome."

"Excuse me?"

She grinned. "Handsome man. I'm talking to you."

The man's eyes widened in shock at such a woman speaking to him, his alcohol soaked mind whirring through what this could lead to. "Hello..." he managed, then stared at her quizzically.

"My name is Emma. What's yours?"

"It's Michael. Michael Allen."

"Well, Mr Allen, how would you like to come back to mine for a meal? The night is young, and there are a hundred possibilities for what we could do." She paused and raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you say... Michael?"

Michael stuttered out an agreement, already feeling stirrings of almost pleasurable discomfort. Little did he know that when Emma stared at him, she wasn't finding him attractive in the slightest – it was something rather different that she was contemplating. Emma called for a taxi and one arrived in minutes; she spent the short wait leaning on Michael's shoulder and trailing her long fingernails suggestively down his spine. During the journey to Emma's house, she shifted herself closer towards him, relishing the look of happy surprise on his face.

"I hope you're looking forward to my cooking, Michael honey." She purred, and he jumped.

"I'm sure it's great?"

"Cookery is my only vice, apart from attractive men of course." She giggled, a strangely childish sound coming from her, and Michael laughed nervously.

Emma tipped the driver and escorted Michael into her house, furtively checking to see that no one had noticed that she was not entering alone. She instructed him to take a seat at the dining table then left him so that she could prepare their evening meal. It took her only a few moments to find the spices she wanted – the meat was almost cooked, so all she had left to do was season it. Pulling the meat from the oven, she frowned to see a long blonde hair ingrained into the surface and an earring stud with the plastic melted onto the tray.

"I'm getting slack," she muttered, pulling them out and rubbing the spices into the meat. She sliced off two chunks, placing them artfully onto delicate crockery and bringing them through to Michael. By this point, he was clearly getting impatient and hoping for something more, but she could see that he was humouring her – perhaps he would expect more for having "put up with" her, or perhaps she had made the happy error of picking up a genuinely nice person. Despite this, she was pleased to see that he'd already got through three glasses of the wine she'd brought, and she was proud to see that he had gone for the bottle she pushed towards him – although he had no way of knowing this, he was actually helping her plan along considerably. She was interrupted from her reverie with Michael's sounds of enjoyment.

"Emma, this is wonderful. I've never tasted anything like it, what meat is this? It's not beef, maybe pork? Or chicken?"

Emma merely smiled. "You'll see. More wine?"

Michael nodded, and Emma could already see the telltale glaze over his eyes. As she watched, he slumped forward into his almost empty plate, splashing wine over the crimson tablecloth. Judging by the amount of drugged wine he had consumed, Emma calculated that she had three hours before he woke up. Emma then did her best to make sure that Michael waking up was not something that would trouble her (or indeed anyone else) ever again.

You see, Emma Belle Roberts had lied when she said her only vice was cookery. She had another, more pressing vice – murder. However, her two "bad habits" as she called them were closely entwined together. As she slit Michael's throat and allowed the blood to drain away into a bowl, she was already considering which herbs and spices she would use next, which fragrant dishes he could help her prepare, what wonderful meals she could create with him. She knew that she had found him just in time – the last one was running low and she was having to use the chewier, stringier parts that she despised. Michael would do just nicely to help to ensnare her next victim.

She took her time clearing away the plates, leaving Michael to bleed out at the table. Finally, she picked him up with a surprisingly little amount of effort for such a small woman and carried him into the garage, opening the door in the ground to drop him unceremoniously into the freezer. Looking down, she saw the remains of... Mia? Clara? Who cared? She was almost gone anyway, all that was left was bones and the parts of her not worth using. Emma had used this one up more quickly, she mused, and couldn't remember why – ah yes. In a bizarre twist of fate, the police had come over just as she was cooking to investigate the so called "Tarantula Killer" said to be operating in the area, and she'd been able to help them along with their investigation while offering them a delicious meal. They never realised that what they were eating was evidence. She had considered killing them, but knew that someone would come for her then for sure, so she was content to smile slyly at the irony playing out before her; it was truly beautiful knowing that she was the one they were searching for, and that they were unaware that they were consuming the girl they had come to find. Poor thing had been lonely when Emma found her and was happy to find someone who wanted to be with her, and had seemed so overjoyed when Emma kissed her lightly on the cheek and invited her home. Her confusion and split second of fear when she realised what was happening had been so sweet to see (and she was sweet to taste too, Emma added to herself with a wry smile). The personalities of her victims were really what saved this from becoming boring, she thought - it wasn't just the same thing each time, it was new and different with every death.

Ending her train of thought, Emma slammed the trapdoor shut, leaving the remains of Michael Allen in the darkness below.