Shades of Night (Sparrow Falls Book 1)

by Justine Sebastian

  Wes pushed himself up on his elbow and frowned down at him. Nick smiled, showing him all of his teeth and Wes jumped. “I thought it felt weird when you kissed me,” Wes said. He tilted his head in thought. “When you bit me, too. Not that I’m complaining, but. Yeah.”

  Near the end of their fun-times, Nick had held the back of Wes’s neck clenched in his teeth, sharp incisors biting into the sensitive skin on either side of his spine. He hadn’t even thought about what he was doing; he’d just done it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Wes sure as hell hadn’t complained, he had seemed to love it and urged Nick on. Hell, he’d told him to bite harder. That was how Wes operated though. Nick, however, was not a biter by nature, but he was perfectly aware of the fact he had just fucked Wes like he owned him.

  He was pretty okay with all of that, too, at least until Wes had to go and find one of his missing teeth.

  Wes laid back down beside Nick, hand resting on his chest, breath warm where it ghosted across Nick’s skin. “You’re changing, Nick,” Wes said.

  “Shut up, Wes,” Nick said, laying his hand on top of Wes’s hand, folding his fingers over it, holding it against his body.

  Wes kissed the curve of Nick’s shoulder, lips lingering on the punctures there, brushing over the scabs and fresh, new scars. “I don’t think they’re all monsters, you know,” Wes said.

  Nick said nothing, just squeezed Wes’s hand tighter only to loosen his grip a second later so Wes could thread their fingers together.

  He had almost dozed off when Wes kissed the scabbed over puncture left by a massive incisor. “You’re not a monster,” he whispered into Nick’s skin. “I won’t believe it.”

  “Shh…”

  Wes hushed, thankfully, and moved closer until his head was on Nick’s chest right over his heart. Soon his breathing evened out and he was asleep beside Nick, warm and comfortable already in a way that made Nick want to claw at his skin. He only laid there though, wide awake again. He stared up at the ceiling and listened to the humming life of the world outside his trailer, so distinct and audible that he could have been lying in the yard.

  Wes was certain that monsters were real with the easy conviction of the true believer. Nick was not a true believer, not in the kind of monsters Wes was talking about anyway. He didn’t think such things existed, mostly because he didn’t want to and partly because he was almost certain of it. Even if werewolves did not roam the earth, Nick did know monsters walked among men every single day.

  He had kissed one on an overcast morning not too long ago and tasted the blood in his mouth.

  31

  After a late supper of chicken tenders and macaroni, Wes left for home. He was starting his new job at The Era Leader in the morning, a tidbit of news he had dropped on Nick while they waited for the chicken to finish cooking. Hylas had offered him a job after Wes came in asking about some of the local lore. He said he liked the cut of Wes’s jib. Nick wasn’t sure what that meant, but it seemed to make Wes happy.

  Nick walked him out to his truck and stood there like he had the night before when Nancy left. The silence lay thickly, suffocating in its completeness as Nick scented for anything out of place. All seemed well in his world, Nick the only anomaly in it. Since it was his place of residence, he supposed that was fine aside from the not-so-minor point of nothing being right lately.

  He sighed and went back inside after Wes was gone, shutting and locking the door behind himself. He stayed where he was, ear turned toward the door and what lay beyond it. He counted to one hundred and eighty four before the somnolent orchestra of night resumed its concert. Slow and hesitant at first, it quickly built back to the crashing roar it had been before Nick invaded it with his presence.

  His stomach rumbled at him and Nick patted it absently. He’d foregone supper the night before in favor of getting drunk off his face and he had thrown up anything that might have been in his stomach earlier that day. He’d been hungrier than usual lately anyway, always wanting to put something in his mouth and bite down on it. The first few days after he was attacked, after the sick feeling left him, Nick had been ravenous. Even though he had just eaten, he was still hungry; unsatisfied and craving something he couldn’t put his finger on. That unending, unfulfilled craving was the major reason he needed to go to the grocery store soon.

  There was a small package of ground venison in the bottom of the fridge that Nick had put out for his intended supper yesterday. Since he hadn’t gotten around to eating, thanks to fine whiskey and a sense of general unease, it was still there. He’d almost cooked that for him and Wes, but then he’d remembered he had no buns and not even sliced bread to put their deer-burgers on. Nick had then thought he would make dirty rice with it, but he’d noticed he was out of rice when he opened the pantry and so, he’d opted for the sad box of macaroni.

  Lucky for Nick, he had no qualms about eating plain old venison patties with a little steak sauce (which he thankfully was not out of) to dip them in. He took the package out of the refrigerator, set it on the counter and got a skillet from the cabinet beneath the microwave. He was thinking about seasoning it with a little Worcestershire sauce and liquid smoke instead of the standard salt and pepper to give himself a sort of steak burger flavor while he unwrapped the butcher paper.

  The smell of the raw meat hit him and Nick’s mouth flooded with saliva like a dam in his head had broken. He breathed deep and growled low in the back of his throat as he stared at the rich red of the venison. It wasn’t the sad pinkish strings of grocery store beef; it was redder, bloodier, a pink stain around where it lay in its nest of white paper. Nick licked his lips as he ran his fingers lightly over the meat, cold and damp, smooth as a lover’s skin. His stomach rumbled loudly, urging him on as he dug his fingers into the venison and scooped a wad of it up. He wasn’t thinking about what he was doing; the only thought in Nick’s head was that he wanted.

  He stuffed the meat into his mouth with a rumbling growl and swallowed it after barely chewing. The next bit he grabbed for, he took an entire handful and stuffed inside his mouth greedily. Handful after handful, the ground venison disappeared into Nick’s mouth and down his throat. He shivered and moaned at the taste as he swallowed the last of it then bent to sniff the paper and lick at the bloody smears left behind.

  His tongue rasping against the paper, only the faintest, unsatisfying tang of coppery blood in his mouth, snapped him out of his fugue.

  Nick stumbled back from the counter, hand going to his mouth in shock at what he had done. He stared at the empty butcher paper, scrubbing his hand back and forth over his lips until they burned from the friction. His heart thundered in his chest and he swallowed thickly, certain that any moment he would be sick. The thought of projectile vomiting raw deer meat all over his kitchen Exorcist-style elicited a weak lurch from his full belly, but that was it.

  “What did I do?” Nick said low under his breath.

  It was clear what he had done, but he still couldn’t quite fathom it. He barely remembered doing it; there were only jittery thought-images of shoveling the meat into his mouth, starving and wanting more-more-more. He had been so hungry and nothing satisfied him. He still liked the same foods, enjoyed the same snacks, but even after a proper meal, he would find himself foraging in the kitchen for something else to munch on. He could have blamed it on stress, but Nick wasn’t a stress-eater, he never had been. He didn’t really get stressed unless he had a lot of meth pumping through his system. Nick was laid back and even large quantities of shitty speed had not affected him as severely as it did those with a predilection toward being high-strung in the first place.

  He wasn’t hungry anymore though, his stomach was quiet, that squirming little itch in the back of his mind that wanted to feast had been silenced. He was full, content even, aside from his disgust and bewilderment at what he had done. It hadn’t felt like it was him eating the meat, that had been a stranger in his body. Like Nick Lange had stepped out for a moment and something
had possessed him, taken over, filled him with the hunger for raw meat and then slaked it in one fell stroke.

  For a few minutes, Nick had lost his mind.

  He stopped rubbing at his mouth to lick his sore lips then snatched the bloody meat paper off the counter, wadded it into a tight ball in his clenched fist then shoved it in the trash, pushing it under other rubbish to hide it from his sight. He licked his chops lazily and then shook his head as the recollection of the meat warmed his thoughts with pleasure. He felt languid. Sated. He felt filthy. Vile.

  What Nick needed most right now was a pill, a shot of whiskey then a shower to wash off the stink of meat and the stale scent of fuck that he found he liked clinging to his skin. It used to be something he thought neither negatively nor positively about, the odor of fuck was a hazard of his job and the only time he’d been in a real hurry to shower afterward was when it had gone badly. When he had been bruised and bloodied, his jaw throbbing in time to the other aches in his body. Nick wasn’t nasty about it, he didn’t marinate in the shit, but he wasn’t one of those people who hopped right out of bed and into the shower to wash the naughty off either.

  Now that was what he wanted, he wanted it all off, every bit of it. He wanted to scrub himself raw so he could wash away that gap of time where he had stood at the kitchen counter illuminated by the light on the hood vent of his stove and gobbled half a pound of raw meat like it was sweet ambrosia.

  “I’m sick,” he said after he’d washed his pill down with a pull from the dregs of the whiskey bottle. “A sick fucking freak.”

  Maybe he was more disturbed by what had happened to him than even he had thought. His denial was manifesting in other ways, making him act out in a strange fashion; turning him into Mr. Hyde when he thought he was nice and cozy as Dr. Jekyll.

  Nick wiped at his mouth again, caught the lingering scent of raw meat on his fingers and licked them before he could stop himself.

  “Fuck!” he snarled at the empty air as he stalked down the hall. He stuck his index finger back in his mouth anyway, the taste faint and old, but still somehow comforting. Like a reward for a job well done.

  He stood in the shower until the water went icy as it ran across his skin and made it prickle with gooseflesh. Nick stepped out of the shower and caught himself with a jolt as he started to shake himself off. This was insane, all of it was fucking crazy. It was Wes and Nancy getting into his head, their wild theories banging around in his subconscious and becoming suggestions due to their insistence, the way they bombarded Nick until he almost believed them. Not because he thought it was true, per se, but because they were so earnest about it.

  There was a clean towel folded up on the back of the toilet and Nick grabbed it with fingers that shook. He began drying himself off with brisk, scrubbing motions of the towel against his skin. He pressed his face into the folds of fabric, breathed in the odor of the fresh scent detergent he used; a good, clean smell, nothing flowery or over the top. He walked out of the bathroom naked to get clean clothes from his bedroom, his mind already on the rest of the whiskey and maybe another pill.

  He was using again, Nick thought that might be pretty damn official by this point, but it wasn’t meth and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t let it get out of hand this time. As soon as things calmed down, he would swear off the pills and cut way back on his boozing. He never had been much of a pill-popper to begin with though his default setting for years had pretty much been to answer the question of, Do you do drugs? with As often as I can.

  Dressed and feeling better about the world in general thanks to the painkiller, Nick headed back to the kitchen for his whiskey and bottle of pills. He was thinking that there wasn’t a lot left in the bottle Tobias had sent him. Thank God for back-ups; there was a nearly full fifth of Jack in the cabinet over the refrigerator. Nick was preoccupied as he walked through his darkened trailer, the soft glow from the hood vent light the only illumination in the place. Nick found his night vision had improved impressively of late; he walked around in near-darkness more often than not without being fully aware of it until he really focused.

  He was getting the bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet, attention shifting to it as he leaned against the fridge to reach the bottle that had been pushed back almost too far for him to reach. Nick was tall and he had a long reach, but the refrigerator was complicating what should have been a simple task. Stupid refrigerator. He took a deep breath and leaned forward again for another try when he stopped, hand still reaching, grabbing nothing but air.

  There was a strange scent in his home, filling it up now that he had noticed it. Pine sap and loam, rich soil. The gritty, metallic tang of dried blood.

  Nick turned slowly, settling quietly on the soles of his feet. He had been making plenty of noise. It was really too damn late for stealth, but he crept forward anyway and through the opening that passed as a doorway from the kitchen to the living room. A long, open countertop separated the two and Nick’s couch was pushed almost flush against the edge of that counter where it protruded into the living room. The smell was even stronger there and he breathed in, slow and careful, exhaling quietly.

  Two disks silver as coins on the eyes of a corpse turned toward him. They looked like floating, flickering lights moving in his living room, but it was animal eye-shine.

  “Hi, Nick.”

  The white of Crash’s smile cut through the darkness and hung there; a sharp, sideways crescent moon as insane and beautiful as the Cheshire Cat’s grin.

  Nick took a lurching step backward in surprise then forced himself to be still. The same old rule still applied: Show no fear. He was afraid though, right down to his core he felt it shaking his insides to slush.

  “How did you get in here?” Nick’s voice was soft and rasping, the words sticking in his throat.

  “The good old-fashioned way,” Crash said as he stood up from the couch. “Through the front door. Locks like yours are such flimsy things anyway. All it takes is a twist of the wrist and a touch of elbow grease then voila!”

  “Then you can leave the same way,” Nick said.

  Crash giggled and shook his head, eyes dancing and shining, silver flaring to a bright glare when the angle of his head was right. “No, silly,” Crash said. “I came to see you, Nick. I had to see you.”

  “You’ve seen me. Now leave.” Nick cut his eyes to the side, seeking out the phone on the kitchen counter. It was sitting in a puddle of light from the hood vent, but the little red light that showed the phone was active was out. Of course it was; Crash wanted them to have plenty of time alone and phone calls were interruptions. Nick’s fear turned cold and slimy at the thought.

  Crash sighed and stepped toward Nick; two quick, dancing strides and he was almost within reach. He stood in the light that reached into the room then, as beautiful as ever. His smile reached his fevered eyes and set them alight; his teeth too slick, his eyes too glassy. He had taken his mask off entirely; the face Nick was looking at was what truly lurked beneath Crash’s exterior. There was the mean, hateful side of him that Nick had believed was it, but he understood that he had been wrong. That side—that face—was only one facet to the monstrous thing that was Crash.

  “I can’t leave,” Crash said. “Not now. Not ever. I need you, Nick. I tried to tell you, tried to be nice about it, but you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I understand fine,” Nick said. “You’re sick in the head and picked me to stalk. Oh boy.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, Nick.” Crash growled it at him as he raked his fingers through his hair, teeth fastened onto his bottom lip so hard it looked painful. “God, you don’t get it.”

  “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Nick said.

  He shouldn’t poke at Crash so, but he couldn’t help himself. The longer he stood there, the angrier he became. Such anger was easy, Crash had planted it there and carefully tended it as the months had passed. Nick, fool that he was, had given him a chance and for a short time had thought he’d
been mistaken. That had turned on him though and when it did, it bit him.

  “You should listen then.” Crash moved closer, rocking forward on his heels to look at Nick. “I’ve waited forever to find you and now that I have, you don’t want me. That won’t do. So I fixed it, Nick. I should’ve thought of that before, but sometimes even I’m a little slow on the uptake. I think it was because I was just so taken with you, you know? You’re everything I ever thought you would be, I could tell it from the get-go.”

  “Yeah, you smelled it on me.”

  Crash beamed at Nick as he bounced his head up and down on his neck, nodding so vigorously it looked like it hurt. “We’re perfect for each other,” Crash said. “You’ll see. We’re alike now. Well, no, not quite, you’ve got a lot to learn about what you are, but I’ll teach you. You don’t need any of them anymore, my love. Only me. We can be a family. No… No. You and me, we can be our very own pack.”

  “You are fucking insane,” Nick spat.

  “No! No, I am not!”

  Crash’s outburst was abrupt and loud, trailing off into a low snarl as Nick flinched back. He moved so quickly that Nick didn’t have a chance to get out of the way. One second, Crash was standing a few feet away, the next his hands were on Nick’s shoulders, pressing him against the wall. His mad eyes bored into Nick’s; even lost in shadow he could feel the weight of Crash’s stare digging into his brain to ferret around.

  He smiled again and up close, Nick saw just how sharp his teeth really were. Two on top, two on bottom. He wondered how he had never noticed that before and thought maybe he had, but hadn’t given it much thought. Now he and Crash had the same teeth, white fangs made for biting. An unpleasant tickle of understanding fluttered at the base of Nick’s skull and he cringed at the implications.

  “You’re my mate, Nick.” Crash said it softly. “That one thing we all look for and seldom ever find.” Crash clapped softly and bounced on his feet. “I found you though, after all this time.”