Friends With The Monster
Albany Walker
FRIENDS WITH THE MONSTERS
Copyright © 2019 by Albany Walker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Art By Pixie Cover
Edited By Elemental Editing & Proofreading
Proofread By Tabitha Finch
Created with Vellum
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Also by Albany Walker
About the Author
Introduction
I accepted the monster inside me long ago, kept her fed on the lies that pass your luscious lips, feasted on your gluttony. But my favorite meal is that of wrath. That soul-deep vengeance makes me quiver with anticipation.
I’m a Sin Eater. If there are others like me, I’ve never met them, but I’ve met many other monsters—monsters that make you fear the dark, that make what you think you know about the obscure shadows lingering under your bed seem like a children’s fantasy.
Chapter 1
Do you ever lie on your back, gazing up at the stars, wishing you were someone other than who you are? Yeah, me neither.
Night has fallen. It’s my favorite time of the day, when the evening is filled with endless possibilities. I drag the heavy curtain back and open my bedroom to the sky. Tracing my fingers over the mottled glass, I feel the cool air outside pressing in.
I peer out into the darkness and take a deep breath. The heavy, yellow glow of the moon is just beginning to peek out over the top of the tall pine trees in the distance, illuminating the miles between me and civilization. Who, if anyone, will visit me tonight? I brush my palm over the silk fabric covering my abdomen, acknowledging the ache building behind it. If I don’t get any company tonight, I’ll need to head into town tomorrow to hunt my own meal.
I make quick work of pulling back all of the curtains throughout the rest of the house, making sure to leave off all the lights as I go, since many of my friends prefer the shadows. I closed everything up early this morning—as I do every morning—to block the sun from entering my home.
In the kitchen, I light a few candles and carry them with me to the west parlor, where I begin most of my evenings.
A floorboard creaks, and I freeze. Anticipation makes my breath catch, but it’s just the settling of my old house, crooning its worn-out song.
Disappointed, I curl up in a large chair with my candle flickering on the table beside me, casting an eerie glimmer on the walls.
I smile wistfully, remembering the first time a Will-o’-the-wisp visited me. I couldn’t have been more than a few years old. I was lying awake in my crib, staring at the shine of a small nightlight my mother had placed in my room.
The first Will-o’-the-wisp was a deep purple, almost dark enough to fool my eyes into believing it was only the nightlight or my imagination creating the dancing ball of light.
But the presence that came with the Will-o’-the-wisp could never have concealed itself from me. Heat uncoiled in my stomach at the acceptance I felt from the tiny creature.
I still remember knowing, at such an early age, I wasn’t like my family. I always felt a gnawing hunger aching in my stomach, yet no matter how many bottles of milk or jars of food my mother tried to feed me, I could not eat.
A breeze stirs my long, pale hair, pulling me back to the present. I turn my head to see the source of the chilled air and find nothing but empty space behind me.
A forlorn sigh falls from my lips just as I feel a caress from a rough hand skate over my cheek.
I swallow, and the steady thrum of my heart picks up as I inhale. He’s here.
The scent hits me first. It doesn’t smell of roasted meats or sweet desserts, but my mouth waters nonetheless.
I can already taste the heady flavor of rage swirling into my center as I drag in a deep breath. A low, appreciative moan unfurls from my chest as the ache in my belly subsides.
“You must eat.” My eyes snap open at the demand. He’s never spoken to me before. I always know when he’s here, but he never allows me to see him.
I spin in my chair, eager to catch a glimpse of the monster that makes me feel full, sated.
Only his presence lingers. “Why won’t you stay and visit with me?” I sink back into the chair. My eyes are heavy. I rarely, if ever, sleep at night, but I’ve just had my first decent meal in what feels like weeks. I may have been pushing myself too long, but I wanted to see my savior, wanted to taste the sins he carries.
Sometimes, I think I feel him watching me, but it’s like he’s only a ghost of himself, like he’s not fully corporeal. Only peering in at me through a window or door, but not any window or door I can open.
“I wish you would stay,” I mumble. He’s not my only mysterious visitor. I have other companions who hide themselves from me, too, one of whom only comes when I truly am sleeping. He sneaks into my house, leaving me little trinkets to tell me he’s been here.
I feel another caress on my cheek. “Soon,” he vows, but my eyes are too heavy to open.
I narrow my gaze at the creature in front of me. My glare should be enough to scare anyone, but the long-limbed shadow in front of me just holds my stare. “Uncle Skinny Legs,” I warn.
A rusty, rasping sound comes from him: a laugh, but no words.
“Fine.” I toss my cards on the table. “I’m out.” His long fingers trail forward and snag the marbles off the tabletop—his winnings. He slowly lifts the baubles up near his face and a grin splits his lips. His razor-sharp teeth are dripping with thick saliva.
“You don’t need to gloat.” I tuck my arms over my chest and pout.
Uncle clicks his tongue, giving me a censuring look that, even though I can scarcely make out his eyes, I know is there.
I drop my arms and the glower. “Fine, but I’m going to win next time,” I tell him confidently. He pockets the marbles into his chest. I have no idea if he has a coat, or if he absorbs the treasures some other way.
A thump upstairs has me looking at the ceiling. “Who do you think it is?” I ask, almost too eagerly.
Uncle stands. “You’re not leaving, are you?” I stand, too, and crane my head back to look up at his considerable height. He’s all long limbs. If he turned to the side, he’d barely be visible.
I already know my answer. He never stays long. He’s been visiting me almost as long as the Will-o’-the-Wisp have. Skinny Legs isn’t reall
y my uncle. I only call him that because I feel a familial bond with him that was always lacking with my family.
Uncle pats his chest over where he placed the marbles and gives me a slight bow before turning and disappearing wherever he came from.
Another thump from upstairs draws my attention. I grab a copper chamberstick that holds a taper candle and move into the long hall so I can go greet my next guest. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, a thrill of awareness skates down my spine. I can taste an essence in the air—agony. It smells of ripe strawberries, delicious and new.
I slink up the wide staircase, making sure to stay quiet as I do. It brings that sweet taste even closer, and my mouth waters. Damn, I must be hungry again. You’d think it would be easy being a Sin Eater, but I devour little lies like licks of a lollipop, yummy, but not at all filling. I don’t even really know if that’s what I am. With all the monsters I’ve met, none are like me, and none are sharing if they know others of my kind.
I open my mouth and pull in the tiniest bit of essence to taste. I roll the flavor over my tongue but can’t place it, other than the soul-shattering agony. It announces itself like it has its own billboard. There’s something achingly familiar yet also unknown to me, about whoever is up here.
Not everyone who visits me is eager to be my friend, so I stand here, as still as a virgin at her first lay, and as silent as a corpse. Well, most corpses anyway. Sometimes they’ll talk your ears off.
When another sound alerts me that whoever is here hasn’t left, I creep closer to my room, since that’s where the noise is coming from.
“Shit,” a masculine voice curses. I peer around the door, gauging if the entity will stay. Sometimes I scare the monsters, which is kind of scary if you think about it.
So, I don’t think about it.
The sight on my bedroom floor frightens me more than Uncle Skinny Legs or any of the other monsters ever have.
There’s a man sprawled out on my rug, half leaning against the footboard of my bed, holding his middle like it might spill out if he lets go. If the blood covering his hands and pooling beneath him is any indication, it just might.
Forgetting I have no idea who he is, I rush over to his side, setting the candle beside him and kneeling. “What happened to you?” I ask, pulling the throw off the end of my bed and balling it up to press it against his wounds. I take a second to look him over. His clothes are dark: black pants and what looks like a bulletproof vest over a long-sleeved, black shirt.
“Nothing too serious,” he slurs, as he stares at me. I glance down, noticing there’s something strange about the way he’s looking at me. He’s observing me like he knows me.
“It looks pretty serious if you ask me,” I scold him and push against his belly. His eyes close on a wince, but he jerks them back open. “Should I call a doctor? How did you even get out here?”
He lets out a shallow cough, covering his mouth. His hand was already bathed with blood, but the crimson liquid on his lips is new when he pulls his hand back, and I don’t think it transferred from his fingers.
I move back so I can stand, but he reaches for my wrist, his grip surprisingly firm. “I’m fine. No doctor.” He’s staring up at me. “I didn’t mean to come here. I’m sorry…” His words trail off as his grip loosens on my arm, and his eyes fall closed as he slumps to the side—passed out or dead.
A frantic panic fills me. I have no idea who this man is, but something inside me is rebelling at the thought of anything happening to him.
I brush his long dark hair away from his face, revealing several scars marring his features. He’s rugged, but achingly masculine. There’s a thick white line through both of his lips, disfiguring his mouth a bit, but it doesn’t detract from how handsome he is. He’s battle worn, and his scars show just how many conflicts he’s survived.
I palm his cheek and his face turns into my hand—not dead, then. A heavy sigh leaves his parted lips. “I’m still not sure that you don’t need a doctor.” I worry my bottom lip with my teeth.
With the edge of the blanket, I wipe the blood from his mouth, being careful not to scrape too hard since the scarring there seems almost fresh. No new blood leaks out of his mouth, so I take that as a good sign.
He makes a low groaning sound when I stand up. “I’ll be right back,” I promise, even though I don’t think he can hear me.
Rushing into my bathroom, I flip on the tap for hot water and grab a few towels and washcloths from the closet. I pause when I reach for the bucket in which I usually keep my decorative hand towels. Should I be worried about infection? I never get infected or sick, but this man…I shake my head and dump the towels out. I don’t have time to worry about that now—I need to stop the bleeding first. He can get antibiotics like a normal human being later.
I cautiously carry the water-filled bucket back to the room with the cloths gripped under my arm. He looks exactly like he did when I left him: his head lolling to the side, his chin slumped on his chest.
Kneeling beside him again, I pull back the throw over his abdomen. It’s too dark to see how mangled his stomach is, so I jump up and flick on the lights. My friends won’t come with them on, but I’m not sure they would with his presence, anyway.
“Damn,” I mutter, my knees slamming into the hardwood floor as I get my first real glimpse of the damage that’s been done to him.
There’s bruising forming along his jaw and cheek, and cuts and scrapes on every inch of him I can see, but the three thick slashes across his stomach seem to be the most urgent injuries. Reaching for his heavy black vest, I look at his face even though he’s out cold. “I’m going to clean you up. Don’t wake up swinging.” Under my breath, I add, “I’ll bite back if you do.”
He makes another sound, but I can’t tell if he’s trying to argue or if it’s just a pained moan. “Okay, here I go.” I unclip the first latch on his side and he doesn’t stir, so I undo the next and the next, until both sides are open. Now I just need to get it over his head. I hem and haw for a few seconds before deciding the garment has most likely seen its last war, then I run back to the bathroom to grab a pair of scissors. However, the black fabric over his shoulders won’t snip. No matter how hard I squeeze the scissors, the fabric just keeps sliding down the blade.
“Damn it.” I plant my hands on my hips and glare. “This might hurt,” I warn. Cradling his head with one hand, I drag the vest up and pull it over his head. He’s putting too much weight against his back, so it takes a little maneuvering to get it out from behind him.
I’m panting with exhaustion when I’m done. The dude is solid and heavy. I wipe my inner arm over my forehead. “You did a good job, buddy. Now we just need to clean you up and stop the bleeding. Sound good?” I know I’m talking to myself, but I’m kind of freaked out.
I reach for the hem of his thin black shirt. When I pull it free from his skin, the blood soaking it makes a slurping sound. “Ewww,” slips from my lips when I drag it away.
I shudder but force myself to continue. I reach a roadblock again when the shirt won’t stay raised above his chest so I can get to the wounds. “Hope you weren’t attached to this—not like it wasn’t ruined before anyway,” I comment, as I cut the shirt up the middle.
His torso is crisscrossed with scars, old and new, when the fabric splits open. “You must be a busy boy,” I mutter, finally grabbing a washcloth and dipping it into the cooling bucket of water.
The water is rusty red when I’m finished. I plop myself on my rear and wipe my brow with the back of my hand, taking in the form before me. Each cleansing stroke of the cloth revealed hard planes of muscle and tawny skin that looks like it sees lots of sun—and possibly even more battles. I glance down at my arms, which are pale in comparison. I rarely venture out in the day, choosing to sleep the daylight hours away. Plus, the evenings are much more suited to my appetites anyway.
Standing, I grab some pillows off the head of my bed after wiping my hands on my pajamas. I toss them on the floor
next to the man and brace his body to the side, so he slumps to the floor, flat on his back. I check his wounds, happy to see only a tiny trickle of blood seeping from the bottom slash—the deepest.
Lifting his head, I place the pillow under him and stand back, gazing down. I wish there were more I could do to get him comfortable, but I’m not strong enough to lift him onto the bed. Strength isn’t one of my many gifts—neither is healing, which would have been useful tonight.
After a short break which I use to change into clean jammies, I watch his chest move up and down in a steady pattern. Eventually, I gather all the wet towels and cloths to place in the trash. There’s no way I’m bothering to wash them. The blanket was a favorite, but I can buy another.
When I return to the room from downstairs, he’s stretched his arm out toward the door, and his head is turned in the same direction, as if he’s waiting for me. I dismiss those thoughts and lean in close, placing my palm over his chest to feel his heat and the thump of his heart against my hand. “I think you’re going to be okay, big fella. I don’t know how you ended up way out here, but you’re lucky you found me.”
He lets out a string of low words that I can’t understand, then he’s out cold again.
I should probably sleep in another room—hell, I should probably take myself downstairs—but I move over to one of my chairs. Dawn is coming soon, and this night has left me exhausted. I’m not really worried about him hurting me anyway, since he’s in no shape to hurt anyone. Plus, I’m certainly not without…defenses.
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