Starling (Southern Watch Book 6)

by Robert J. Crane

  It would have been impossible not to notice the slight tightening of Erin’s face at his comment, but she didn’t say anything. He suspected he knew what she was thinking though, and that was fine. He felt a little bad for her; he didn’t imagine what he was going through would even be possible without help from above. He reckoned he’d be reduced to nothing, a shattered pile, like glass you could sweep away with a broom, had he not been able to pray his way through. What was he supposed to do if he didn’t have that? Try and muscle through the grief alone, with a shattered will and the feeling he’d been carved in half?

  “Well, good,” Erin finally said, but her tone suggested otherwise. It was her somewhat condescending way of saying, “I don’t understand what you’ve just told me, but I’ll smile and nod politely like I do.” Arch was used to that by now, but at least Reeve had the grace to keep his own feelings about the matter hidden. He was probably feeling about like Arch was, but the question Arch had was … how was he muscling through?

  Or was he at all?

  *

  The woman had taken a while to die. Aaron Drake had stood over her all the while, after opening her neck a little more gradually than if he’d meant to kill her with maximum expediency. It had been calculated on his part because he’d wanted to sample the meat tinged with the soaked-in adrenaline, and the way he’d chosen to access this particular steeping method was by letting her bleed to death very slowly.

  So he’d sawed her neck open, teeth of the blade biting into pale skin, red welling up within. He’d cut all the way to her throat because he didn’t want to hear the screams. Instead, she’d made guttural, hoarse noises as she’d bled to death, a little bit at a time, over ten minutes or so before she lost consciousness.

  It hadn’t thrilled Drake to watch, but he’d watched it nonetheless. The gasping, slurping sound she made while trying to scream might have been disquieting had he viewed her as something other than a piece of raw food that was not yet ready to eat yet. As it was, he merely found it distasteful, but listened to her last attempts at words as her carotid artery and jugular vein pumped out over the course of several long minutes, sluicing thick, red, dark liquid down their respective sides.

  When she lost consciousness, he ended it quickly, raking the saw back and forth with all his strength until she was very definitely dead, her head nearly severed. Her eyes were slightly open, a little glassy, and Drake sighed, a little ripple rolling through his essence. He’d worn an apron, fortunately, for this was a very messy endeavor.

  He set to work immediately, using a knife he’d purchased specifically for the purpose. He’d let her keep her clothes on for her death, figuring that stripping her of her dignity wouldn’t contribute enough to the fear to make it worth the corresponding increase in flavor. Once he’d removed the chains, he shredded the clothes off methodically, the way a nurse might in an emergency room.

  Once the carcass was naked, he set to gutting it. He didn’t have any use for the stomach or intestines, so they all came out after he made the cut, carefully pulling back the skin of the belly and then slicing into the abdominal muscles, careful to avoid poking into the intestines. The stench was already powerful, but a simple error here would make it infinitely worse. He was gloved now, and cut the stomach out first. He pulled it, all the way down to the intestines, all out in one stringy mass. It was a modest challenge, slopping the organs into a wash pail at his feet, until finally he reached the colon at the end of the long string. He used a zip tie to bind it shut tightly, then severed it from the external exit at the anus, letting the last of the digestive tract slop uselessly into the wash tub.

  Next he removed the lungs, which really hollowed out the chest cavity. There were, perhaps, some things he could do with a lung, recipe-wise, but they seemed a pointless exercise in keeping the waste to a minimum. He didn’t feel the need to do that; he wanted the choicest cuts of meat, and when he was done with this one, now that he’d seen how easily it could be done, he’d simply find another prey and start again. No point in eating lungs or trying to make a human version of haggis when there were so many fish in the sea around Midian, as it were.

  Next, he began the process of skinning. It took longer than he would have thought. He removed the head entirely, not bothering to skin it. He dumped it in the tub with the other discarded parts, the glassy eyes staring up at him, barely open. He looked back at them in amusement, then draped the flesh he’d removed from the chest over them, to stop their staring. It was slightly unnerving, having your dinner look back at you.

  It took a long while to remove all the flesh from the body, but he was a surprisingly deft hand at it. He didn’t get it all in one long strip, but he did eventually get it all, leaving a mass of muscle and bone. He severed the feet and hands at the joints and tossed them in as well; too difficult to make much of anything with those. They stood in the pail at awkward angles.

  Then, he removed the reproductive organs. He couldn’t imagine a use for them, nor for the spleen, not any he’d care for, anyway. It took time and patience, but he carved them out. His fingers ached from the precision work, but it would be worth it.

  Next, he started to carve into the cuts of meat. He wrapped the liver carefully, then the heart. They had some real weight to them, as Drake held them in his hands, marveling at their freshness. These were things he could cook with—that he could make magic with.

  He flipped the carcass over, splotching blood onto the table. It was a messy business, butchery, but these were the sacrifices one made for truly high-quality meat. The smell was a little rank, a pungent aroma of irony meat that seeped into his nose. He ignored it and began to trim the backstraps, the tenderloin. These were the best cuts, and he took his time, was delicate with them.

  He was careful with the meat of the legs too. He severed the legs one by one, then divided each into upper and lower, placing heavy pressure on a larger knife to break through at the knees. He made sure to leave the bones in; they’d really add flavor when he cooked them. He wrapped one carefully in thick butcher’s paper and left the other bare. He had plans for this particular cut tonight. The one he wrapped in paper, he scrawled an “F” for “fearful” (not “female”) so that he would know when the time came for a taste test.

  It was methodical work, dressing and preparing the animal. The pieces he couldn’t quite remove whole were cut into meat for a stew. He broke apart the ribs, removing the spine as best he could and dropping the bone joints into the bucket. He knew, more or less, which pieces were the most flavorful, but this was a chance to refine his flavors, find the best uses for each in a way he hadn’t experimented before. He took the cuts he’d wrapped and put them into the quietly humming freezer across the basement room.

  Drake surveyed what remained. The pelvis, the arms. He cut off the buttocks—the flanks, rather—and tossed the bones. He cut the arms as he had the legs, wrapping them and putting both into the freezer and shutting the lid once more. Barbecued human wings, he thought with amusement. An interesting recipe to try.

  He scooped the rest of the waste into the wash basin and pondered it for a moment. If he’d been desperate, perhaps he might have come up with another use for these excess parts, a stew or something. Well, not the digestive tract, but perhaps the rest. As it was, he had no desire to eat any of it. It was all substandard, and he intended to dispose of it at his earliest convenience. He had a few ideas for that.

  He whistled as he attached a hose to the laundry sink in the corner of the basement, and then washed the blood down the drain. He didn’t care if a CSI lab found traces of blood in the future; human law enforcement troubled him less than demon law enforcement did. In a town this hot, surely the OOCs would have better things to do than worry about one demon killing a human or two at a time? He’d be safe unless he was caught with the pieces, probably, and he didn’t intend to be caught with either the remains of a human or a live one. Part of the key to that was appearing normal, not giving them reason to come look for you.
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  The crimson-tinged water ran red across the concrete floor, illuminated by the single bulb. It trickled into the drainage grate quietly, burbling as it washed away the traces of what Drake had done. He felt untroubled by the act; excited, actually. Not from the deed itself but from the anticipation of what was to come.

  When he finished, he shut off the water and placed the end of the hose in the sink to keep it from dripping everywhere. Once done, he grabbed the leg and a rack of ribs, and carried them upstairs atop the wash basin of disposable parts. It was heavy, but he didn’t want to have to make more than one trip.

  Once upstairs, he took care not to drip on the wood floors. It wouldn’t do to leave a mess up here. He carried the wash tub outside to the far end of the yard. He’d rented this house when he came to town, a little three-bedroom on the edge of a wooded area. He didn’t spend much time out here, preferring the great indoors to the great outdoors, but he’d looked around enough to know that beyond the high, wooden privacy fence behind the house was a tract of woods that didn’t get much traffic.

  Drake took the cuts he intended to use that evening and slapped them onto the table next to the preheated Kamado grill, its rippled surface shining in the back porch light. That done, he carried the tub to the far end of the yard and hefted it up, dumping the remainder over the fence. He had little fear it would be discovered, and suspected that by morning most of what he’d just disposed of would be gone, picked over by every manner of creature, from raccoons to vultures to worms. Possibly even some irribasha, slithering, wormlike demons that were drawn to the smell of blood and fear and sometimes even excrement. Other demon carrion eaters were likely around too, and if he was lucky, they’d take care of his disposal problem for him.

  He carried the tub back to the rear of the house and set it down with a clatter on the weather-stained concrete patio. The rack of ribs waited next to the grill, and he quickly added a spiced rub that he’d prepared before he’d gone hunting for the meat, putting a thick layer on it.

  The Kamado was puffing clear blue smoke out its top, that faint hint of charcoal. He wasn’t sure if he should use apple wood chips or mesquite—maybe hickory?—to give this particular meat a little extra flavor. He’d try each of them in turn, though not today. Today he’d try apple wood; he filled a large plastic cup with water and tossed a couple handfuls of wood chips into it to soak. He loved adding the wood chips; they popped and fizzled in the charcoal bed, filling the air with a heavy wood smoke for a few minutes as the moisture burned off, white mist piping into the air. Drake sighed in anticipation.

  He’d be cooking the ribs using the 3-2-1 method. The ribs, by themselves, with indirect heat for three hours at about 250 degrees. Then he’d take them out, smell their rich flavor, and wrap them in foil, giving them a little bath of apple cider. Two more hours on the grill then, and remove them from the foil. He’d need to sauce them up, top and bottom, and put them back in for an hour, opening the grill after a half hour and slathering them with his favorite sauce again to glaze. Three hours, then two hours, then one hour, and the ribs would come out delicious, juicy, and flavorful.

  His mouth was already watering.

  This was how they cooked it down here, wasn’t it? Barbecued everything. He would give this a try, experiment a little, see how he liked it. After all, what was the point if he couldn’t attempt something new and different? Tomorrow, he meant to try a more traditional preparation, a steak-like cooking of the flank and tenderloin, but for now, he’d embrace the local flavor.

  Drake stared down at the earthly remains of Nora Wellstone—he’d gotten the name from her driver’s license, dimly interested—and smiled. Yes, he’d embrace the local flavor—in more ways than one.

  *

  Erin’s hands shook slightly on the wheel as she drove home from Alison’s funeral, her pulse hammering, as it always seemed to these days when she drove. It had been bad since the crash, but ever since that demon had jumped into her mind …

  Well, that didn’t bear thinking about. She just kept her foot on the accelerator, maintaining even pressure and keeping control of the wheel. She was just driving.

  No big deal.

  She’d taken the long way home from Alison’s funeral, wanting to be alone with her thoughts for a spell, because she damned sure had more of them than she cared to carry with her, especially since it was nearing closer to bedtime and the last thing she needed was another sleepless night. She had just turned a sharp corner when she saw the car pulled over on the opposite side of the road, abandoned.

  She was in the police Explorer and steered it off to the side of the winding road, picking up the mic and cueing it. “This is Harris, over.” She figured she’d go through the watch channels rather than the more formal—and likely unmanned—sheriff’s office.

  “Harris, this is HQ, over.” That sounded a little like Casey Meacham to her, probably doing his shift as radio operator for them. “Go ahead, Erin.” At least he sounded somewhat professional.

  “I have an abandoned car on Faulkner Road,” Erin said, “about a mile past Derry’s farm. Need you to run a plate for me.” She gave him the license plate number, then waited.

  “Roger that,” Casey said, concentrating. “Ms. Cherry’s running it through the computer right now; it’ll be just a minute.” He paused, and his voice got a little lower. “How were the funerals, Erin?”

  Erin felt her cheeks burn a little at that, opening her door as she grabbed the big, heavy Maglite and clicked it on. It wasn’t all night yet, but dusk and the tall trees that lined Faulkner Road made it dark. “Hardly anyone there for either Donna or Alison’s. It was a real fucking disgrace if you ask me.”

  “Shit,” Casey replied. “I wanted to be there, but I drew this shift, you know? Guess people are getting tired of funerals, huh?”

  Erin bit back her first, angry reply. “Well, unless we get our shit together, they’re not gonna stop anytime soon.” She took slow paces up to the car’s window, shining the light in and keeping an ear out for any noise other than the whistling wind making its way through the trees.

  She stopped, staring into the car. The airbag had been deployed, the loose, white bag drooping down, deflated, looking a little like a used condom. She peered in, staring at the surface.

  There was blood on it.

  “Shit,” Erin said, keying the mic on her collar again. “HQ, we’ve got blood at the scene in this abandoned car. Whistle me up some backup, will you?”

  “On it,” Casey said tersely, the wash of static hitting her ear as he let loose of the transmit button.

  Erin hesitated, looking around furtively. Had she heard a rustle in the underbrush, or was that just the wind? She shone the light around, trying to catch sight of anything moving.

  Leaves danced as she brought it around, casting long shadows behind the trees at the edge of the road. The beam of light spilled ahead of her, giving Erin something else to focus on as she nervously dropped a hand to her pistol and drew it to low rest. Getting out of the car without the baseball bat had been stupid, reflective of her police training, not the current realities.

  She pointed the Glock down, finger running along the rectangular slide’s smooth surface, and brought the flashlight arm beneath the one holding the gun, wrists crossing together, sleeves brushing against each other. She kept the flashlight and gun pointed in the same direction at all times and swept around, making sure the path between her and her car was clear.

  It was. A few leaves scraped the shoulder of the road as they blew past, and she hesitated only a moment before taking action.

  She broke into a furious run, covering the distance between her and the car in seconds.

  When she reached the door, Erin swung the flashlight and gun around again. She threw the door open quickly, swinging the flashlight and gun around again to check her six.

  Nothing.

  She felt exposed, like eyes were on her. The thin edge of panic was wedging itself into her mind. It reminded her
of when she’d been in Rafton Park, and those demon bikers had rolled through right in front of her, following the trail along the Caledonia River. They had been a black swarm, ominous and loud, breaking the quiet with the mechanical whirring of their bikes.

  Here, nature was the only sound. She didn’t trust that though. She jumped into the driver’s seat and clicked off the flashlight without thinking, tossing it into the passenger seat. It clunked in the floorboard and she flipped the car lights on, slamming her own door shut behind her. It echoed in her empty cruiser, and she wheeled to make sure nothing had snuck into the back seat while she’d been out, ready to tear into her like something from a horror movie.

  Whew. It was empty, the caged rear compartment silent, light casting ominous net-like shadows on the seat.

  Something moved ahead, a shadow slipping behind the stopped car. It was there for only a second, disappearing before she could be sure it wasn’t her imagination.

  “Fuck,” Erin swore, snatching up the baseball bat so quickly that one of the nails snagged on the seat. A ripping noise filled the car interior, and she swore again. “Goddammit.”

  Now she wished for a knife, something small, compact. She fumbled for keys and started the car, not wanting to be caught out here without an easy escape in case whatever was out there really was more than her imagination.

  She should check it out, with the baseball bat, shouldn’t she? Someone was going to have to, sooner or later.

  Fuck that. That was dumb. What if it was a demon? The baseball bat was for a melee, but if she got jumped here, it wouldn’t necessarily be a melee. Demons were stronger than people, after all. The damned thing might end up taking away her bat and ripping her to pieces with it. Or its own claws, if it had them.

  “Let’s not do that,” she murmured. Backup would be coming, probably soon. If she needed to check things out, why not be smart about it?