Monstrous (Blood of Cain Book 1)

by J. L. Murray

  “Fuck!”

  “That's for what you said to the reporters about me,” I said, taking another drag, looking down at him. “I still owe you for what you said to the cops.”

  “How are you here? How the fuck are you alive?”

  I crouched down. “I'm not. Boo!”

  “I'm not hallucinating,” he said slowly. “Ellie saw you, too.”

  “You need to cut the crank, dumbass,” I said. “You look like shit.”

  “You look amazing. I mean, for someone who's dead.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You have my dad's car?”

  “I haven't touched it,” he said quickly. “I swear.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

  “I was too scared. After what happened with...after what happened. I didn't even tell your mom when she was here. It still has the same tarp from ten years ago.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “My mother was here? Recently?”

  He shrugged. “Couple months ago, I think. It was a few weeks after you...” He swallowed, his eyes welling, his brow furrowing. He was either scared or about to soil himself.

  “After I died.”

  He nodded slowly. “Shit.” He rubbed his face. “Shit, what’s happening?”

  “What did she want?”

  “Who?”

  “My mom, goddammit.”

  “Oh! She was yelling some crazy shit, Frank. Like, really weird shit, how I stole your body from the morgue. I thought she was batshit. She was always kind of funny, anyway, you know?” When I didn't answer he turned his face away, frowning. When he looked back, he looked scared again. “I guess she wasn't so crazy, after all. You're standing here. Somebody must have stolen your body and done some science shit to it, right?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Except no one stole me, Shawn. I stood up and walked right out of that morgue. And if you tell anyone, I'll kill you. Understood?”

  “I ain't telling no one, I swear.” A fragile smile spread across his face. “But it's pretty rad, right? I mean, you're back from the dead. That makes you immortal or some shit.”

  “Damn straight,” I lied. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “A favor?” His smile faded.

  “You see that car? The Honda?” He nodded. “Can you get rid of it?”

  “Is that all?” he said. “Shit yeah, I can do that. Easy.”

  “It's stolen.”

  “Whose car ain't?”

  “Just give me my dad's car and I'll leave,” I said. “And after you get rid of the Honda, you can pretend I'm dead again and it’ll be like tonight never happened.”

  “Frankie?”

  “What?”

  “I'm real sorry. About everything.”

  “Me too, Shawn.”

  As he led me around, towards the shop, I heard him exclaim under his breath.

  “What?” I said.

  “That's weird.” He squinted toward the shop. As we got closer the motion detector lights came on, flooding what used to be a yard, but was now knapweed and garbage. The lights revealed what Shawn had seen in the dark, and he watched, open-mouthed as a half dozen ravens exploded off the roof of the shop and into the trees.

  “I never seen ravens at night before,” he said. “I didn't think they were nocturnal.”

  “You learn something new every day,” I said.

  chapter four

  T

  he first time my father drove the '71 Dodge Challenger down our drive it was a mess. Thick, black smoke was billowing out from under the hood, accompanied by an angry metallic rattle. My mother was furious. It was the first time I remember her being angry at my father, though there would be plenty of that later. But my daddy had been so happy. Grinning ear to ear, he got out of the car, my mother still yelling about power bills and gas. He walked over to her and kissed her on the lips. Then he put his arm around me.

  “You and me, Frankie,” he said, “we're going to make this car beautiful.”

  “I don't know anything about cars, Daddy,” I said.

  “Me either,” he said, crouching so we were face to face. “But don't you want to learn?”

  I turned sixteen on the day we finished the car. I remember feeling sad because working on the car with my father was the most fun I'd ever had. I thought my time with him was over. He'd go back to spending all his time at the church, and Mom would pile on schoolwork, just as they had before. My sister wouldn't have anything to be jealous of now that the car was better than new, so she'd go back to playing tricks on me or pretending I didn't exist.

  “It's yours,” my father said, dropping the keys into my hand.

  “What?” I stared at the sunlight reflecting off the key ring that rested on my open palm. Looking up at him, I saw he was smiling, that twinkle of mischief in his eyes. That was the thing about the old Reverend. When his light shined on you, it was the best you ever felt. It was like sun on your face after a long winter. His light shined on me every time we went out and worked on that car. I'd felt what it was like losing that light. When his eyes glanced over you and away, it felt cold and empty. When he didn't know you were there and snapped at you when you spoke to him. It made your heart freeze in your chest. Hell was when my father was in a mood and it felt like he'd stopped loving me. But working on the car felt better than love. It felt like Heaven.

  “It was always yours, Frank,” he said, chuckling. People usually thought it was odd that I was named after my father. He was Francis and I was Frances, because my mother thought the e made it more feminine. He was Frank and I was Frankie. It was our joke to switch our names—he called me Frank and I called him Frankie.

  I smiled at him, not really believing what he was saying.

  “Frankie, don't tease. I can't even drive.” But I curled my fingers around the keys, feeling the weight of them in my hand, the sharp and smooth edges pushing against my skin.

  “Then I'll just have to teach you,” he said. “I bought this for you, Frank. It was something for us. Always was.”

  “What about Becky? Did you get something for her, too?”

  Was he really giving the car to me? I looked over at the new paint job. We'd gone with black, but it seemed darker than black to me. In the light, you could see little metallic sparkles. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

  His smile slid a little, but didn't fade. “Rebecca has your mother. Come on, now, Frank. You earned it. You put in the work, didn't you?”

  “I just helped you.”

  “Don't be modest. It's your car. Always has been.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I said, hugging him tight.

  He patted my back. “Don't even think about it.” That was something he said. Don't even think about it. He always said it goodnaturedly, as an afterthought. As if he didn't want the attention. But he did, he thrived on it. It worked well for him in the church, all those plain women in their long dresses, fawning over his sermons and making him pies. He loved the attention.

  I remember my mother sitting in the corner after services sometimes, watching him coolly, as if trying to decipher him. It seemed to me she hadn't always been cold, but her eyes were mean and icy by then. When the Reverend was all puffed up with pride and strutting like a peacock in front of these horrible women, she just watched him in her odd way. As if he were a knot in her yarn that she was determined to unravel. Or cut right out of the skein.

  My father took me out driving three times in that car. He would have taken me more, I guess. But it's hard to teach a girl to drive when you're six feet under.

  The car felt like it always had. Perfect. I waved to Shawn as I put the house that held so many good memories in the rear view of my father's old car and she purred under my hands. I knew Shawn lied about not touching it, he must have been maintaining it all these years.

  By the time I pulled up to the Pinecrest Bar and Grill, the gas gauge was on empty. I reluctantly turned off the engine and just sat, breathing in the smell of the seat
s, leather and dust and, if I concentrated, my father's cheap aftershave. I ran my hand over the dash, then the passenger seat, remembering my father holding on for dear life as I drove for the first time.

  “Try not to kill me, Frank,” he'd said lightly.

  I took one last deep breath and got out of the car. The tinny speaker above the bar door was playing country music. Not the stadium country they played everywhere else, but real country music. Waylon Jennings, I recognized, with a quick smile. I still listened to The Highwaymen when I was feeling lonely, the days when I was thinking about my father. In prison, when the loneliness got so heavy I felt it crushing my chest, I would sing Desperados Waiting For a Train. The first music I bought when I woke up, after I healed enough to walk without screaming, was Johnny Cash.

  I was usually rock and roll. But when I was ground down, when there was nothing but nightmares and horror, at my heart, I was country. And this music reminded me of my dad, the good times. My only good times. And it always made me smile, even when it was through tears. Or blood.

  The Pinecrest was just as I remembered. I could almost see a teenage me, dressed in black, playing pool with Shawn. A couple of tired-looking people sat scattered in front of the row of keno machines. An old woman with a bad blonde wig blew smoke at me as I walked by. There were a few people sitting at the bar, a young couple cackling drunkenly at a table by the jukebox. All faces turned toward me as I walked toward the bar, feeling their eyes burning into me. What would happen if they recognized me? What could they do?

  The bartender was watching me, like I was walking the Green Mile. I smiled at her as I sat down.

  “You're new,” she said, setting a cardboard coaster in front of me.

  “Yeah. But I have the feeling I'm going to be here for a while. You guys still do that chicken dinner?”

  She raised a dark eyebrow. She was about my age, Native American, wearing a flannel shirt and no makeup. She was gorgeous. Short hair framed her face.

  “You been here before?” she said.

  “Hey, I know you!” An old man a few stools over was fixing me with a fierce glare. His face was red, his nose a map of broken capillaries. His eyes matched his nose. An empty beer glass sat in front of him.

  “Oh, yeah?” I said, watching him.

  “Shut up, Artie,” said the bartender.

  “Don't marginalize me! I know her!” Artie sidled up, stumbling over his own feet, and sat down next to me. He smelled like an old ashtray.

  “Marginalize you?” The bartender looked at me, shaking her head. “What are you drinking?”

  “Kentucky bourbon if you have it,” I said. “Think I could get some food?”

  “Fryer's off, cook's gone for the day.”

  “Any food at all?” I said. “I'm fucking starving.”

  “I got some microwave pork rinds,” she said apologetically.

  “I'll take the rinds,” I said.

  “Listen!” said the old man. “I'm telling you, I know you. Are you just going to ignore me?”

  I turned to him, trying not to grind my teeth. “You know me, huh?”

  “I know you,” he said in a slurred stage whisper, “because I've seen you in my dreams.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Artie, that's terrible,” said the bartender, setting a glass in front of me.

  The old man's face split into a grin and he howled with laughter. I laughed too, but more from relief.

  “Wait, wait,” he said, recovering and turning to me solemnly. “Did it hurt when you fell? When you fell from Heaven?” He slapped the bar as he laughed and even the bartender couldn't help herself.

  “I think you won her over, Artie,” said the bartender.

  “I got a million of them,” he said.

  I looked at the bartender. “I'll buy Artie a drink, too.”

  “Well, that's some charity right there,” she said, grabbing Artie's glass and filling it with beer. “What's your name? You look familiar.”

  “Fra–” I started before catching myself. “Franklin. Gina Franklin.”

  “Gina. Well I've got something horrible to tell you.”

  I watched her for a second before I made myself smile. “Oh?”

  Something beeped under the counter and the bartender smiled. “Your pork rinds are ready.” She tossed a bag that looked like microwave popcorn on the bar in front of me. I laughed.

  “I've had worse meals.”

  “That's sad,” she said. “I'm Roo. Nice to meet you.”

  “Roo?”

  “Yeah, short for Rooney. That's my last name. I'm not telling you my first name.”

  “It's Delilah!” said Artie, setting his empty glass down hard on the bar, his elbow slipping. He bonked his face on the bar.

  “You're kind of a mess, Artie. Time to go,” said Roo.

  “Don't tell me what to do,” he muttered, but he grabbed his hat and his coat and shambled toward the door.

  “Where you staying?” said Roo. “Got family here?”

  “Not anymore. They live in Missoula now.” I took a sip of my drink. But she bought the lie, smiling.

  “City girl, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  The couple from the only occupied table wanted to settle up and Roo left to take their money.

  “Last call!” Roo shouted. The few remaining patrons groaned from the direction of the Keno machines. I downed my drink and opened the pork rinds.

  “You don't have to eat that,” Roo said. “I'm going to get some breakfast in St. Thomas if you want to come.”

  I looked at her and she shrugged, smiling.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just came from there.”

  “Go back,” she said. “You can stay at my place.”

  I watched her for a long time, then smiled back. I'd learned a few things in my short time back from the dead, and one of them was that you don't fuck the bartender. You make friends with the bartender, you tip them, you make them love you. But the second you fuck someone, they see you. And I couldn't chance Roo seeing me yet.

  “I'd better not,” I said.

  “I had to try.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Don't swing that way?”

  “It's not that,” I said. “I just had a weird thing with someone.”

  “Oh, messy breakup,” she said knowingly.

  “Sort of,” I said. “I kind of screwed him over.”

  “Him?” she said. “Both sides kind of girl, then?”

  “Whatever keeps me warm at night,” I said, grinning.

  “Well, the offer stands. Whenever you're interested in having the best night of your life.”

  “Thanks.” People were filing out, so I tossed some money on the bar, crunching down on the now-cold pork rinds. They were chewy and salty and almost felt like real food. “I need a place in town. Any suggestions?”

  “Lucy’s Campground always has vacancies.” She leaned forward. “Pretty sad, actually. The owner’s a real nice lady. Just found out she had brain cancer. The kind you can’t operate on. And everyone knows they're about to go under, so they won't ask a lot of questions.”

  I looked at her, surprised. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Maybe not to most people, but I got a thing for bad girls.” She winked at me before heading to the end of the bar, pulling out a plastic tub and putting dirty glasses in it. I slid off the stool and headed for the door.

  “Hey, come back tomorrow, Gina,” called Roo. “We'll fix you up with some chicken.”

  I smiled at her. “You bet. Thanks, Roo.”

  The door opened just as I was reaching for the handle and an old woman, stout with a weathered face and coke bottle glasses burst in, panting. Roo stopped and stared at her.

  “Julia?”

  The old woman stood there, breathing hard, her eyes going from Roo to me and back again.

  “Jules, you okay?” said Roo, coming over to stand next to me. “Did something happen to you?”

  The old woman shook her head, her mouth moving but no sound com
ing out. Her eyes were wide.

  “What is it?” said Roo.

  Julia closed her eyes, swallowing hard, took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, she seemed calmer, collected.

  “There's been another one, Delilah,” she said.

  Roo stared at her, her eyes slowly widening.

  “We have to report this one,” said Julia. “We have to go to the cops in Missoula. Or something. We have to do something.” Then they both turned to look at me.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “A gruesome death.”

  The two women shared a look before turning their eyes back on me.

  “How did you know?” said Roo, more curious than alarmed.

  I smiled. “That's why I'm here, Delilah.”

  “What, like some sort of cop?”

  “No,” I laughed. “Definitely not a cop.”

  Roo locked up and the three of us stepped out into in the empty parking lot. In the crisp air I could almost see my breath. In July. I'd forgotten how cold it got at night in the mountains. It felt good after the smoky bar. I looked up at the sky, points of light radiating down at us. The stars were never brighter anywhere else. Two ravens squawked as they landed nearby, looking quizzically at our little gathering. I lit a cigarette and turned to face the women.

  “No one else knows,” said Julia. “No one would believe us, even if we told them.”

  “Someone always knows,” I said. Roo was still looking at me strangely, almost impassively.

  “Who are you?” said Roo, crossing her arms.

  I took a drag of my cigarette, watching her, watching Julia. I dropped it on the pavement and ground it under the heel of my boot. The hell with it. Let the truth flow. I was on a roll. “You believe in weird shit?”

  “Like ghosts?” said Julia, frowning. “I see ghosts everywhere. It's making me crazy.”

  “Ghosts?” I said.

  “In the mirrors,” she said. “Real ghosts, right behind me. I turn around and nothing's there.”

  “I see them, too,” said Roo. “No one believes us except that crazy old lady, Beatrice.”