The tendrils become hooks.
They sink into his skin in a dozen places at once, deep, tearing punctures in the meat of his thighs, his upper arms, the soles of his feet. Flesh rips open with wet, sucking sounds. Blood sprays in fine arcs that splatter my boots and warm my face.
He arches against the shadows, screaming louder now, a guttural wail that vibrates in my bones. His body thrashes, but the darkness holds him fast, pinning him like a specimen on a board.
“Are you seeing through your own lies you’ve told yourself?” I ask, circling him slowly, my steps deliberate in the pooling blood. “What is the truth telling you? What profound revelation are you having right now while you scream?”
He shakes his head, teeth gritted, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his face.
I step closer. With the tip of James’s knife, I hook under one of the gashes on his chest, prying the edge of torn skin up like lifting a scab. It peels back with a sticky rip, exposing raw muscle that twitches and gleams.
“Is the truth telling you that you’re afraid? That you don’t want to die? That all your philosophy was a pretty story you told yourself so you could feed the empty place inside you?” I press the flat of the blade against a fresh puncture on his inner thigh, twisting just enough to grind bone.
He bucks, fresh blood gushing hot over my hand.
“The truth underneath you is fucking boring.” My voice drops into a register that isn’t entirely mine. It’s layered with Daddy’s whisper, a chorus of cold stone and buried things. “But we’re still going to feed on it.”
James laughs again as he steps forward, shadows coiling from his fists like living whips. He grabs Red Hands’s right arm. His shadow-gauntlet solidifies into claws, hooking under the skin at the fresh puncture. He pulls, slow and deliberate, ripping a long strip of flesh down the bicep, over the elbow, to the wrist. Skin tears free with a sound like wet canvas shredding, blood pouring in sheets, exposing glistening muscle and the white flash of tendon.
Red Hands’s scream hits a new pitch, raw and endless, his body convulsing as James shakes the bloody flap like a trophy before tossing it aside.
I turn to his left leg. Starting at the thigh, I slice a shallow line to guide the peel, then dig my fingers under the edge. Iyank, peeling skin down in ragged strips, over the knee, along the splinted calf where the bullet wound weeps. Flesh parts with sucking pops, veins bursting, blood spraying.
Red Hands thrashes, his screams turning to gurgling sobs as Daddy, James, and I peel off his skin, layer by layer.
Eddie doesn’t join in, which I don’t fault him for. He’s not as dark and unhinged as the rest of us, but obviously he’s not trying to stop us either.
He knows what must be done. And he knows that this is how we must do it.
One thing I’ve learned about the detective—he loves to watch.
I take Red Hands’s chest next, straddling his lap. My knife carves the outline from collarbone to navel. The blade sinks deep, grating against ribs, blood bubbling up like oil from a well. I set the knife aside and use my hands, nails digging into the cut edges, pulling the skin back like unwrapping a gift.
It resists at first, then gives with a long, wet tear, peeling away in one thick sheet that exposes the quivering mess beneath. Muscle twitches, fat glistens, and blood floods down his abdomen in a warm cascade that soaks into the earth.
Sometime during all the carving and ripping flesh, Red Hands has passed out. Such a shame.
But he’s still breathing.
I stand, covered in his blood, and James comes up behind me, also warm and sticky.
He reaches around me and cups my pussy through my pants. I gasp as my body immediately switches from violence to need.
“Having fun yet, Prayer?” he murmurs into my ear.
Groaning, I rock my hips back into him and feel the huge swell of his cock.
“Detective,” James says and tips his head toward me while he massages my pussy. “I’ve got her nice and wet for ye. I havesomething I need to do first before our houseguest takes his last breath.”
Eddie glides to my side in two steps. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want. He grabs my wrist, which is slick with Red Hands's gore, and yanks me toward the stairwell, his grip bruising in the best way.
My back hits the rough wall by the stairwell, the breath leaving my lungs at the impact. I expect pain to spark through my still-healing body, but the fire roaring in my veins drowns everything else out.
Eddie is on me in a heartbeat, his body pressing mine into the wall, his mouth crashing down like he's starving. His kiss is all teeth and blood since I’m covered with it. It smears between us, tasting metallic on his tongue as it forces its way past my lips.
I bite hard enough to draw his blood too, mixing it with the rest. He groans into my mouth, his hands rough as they shove my shirt up, exposing my breasts to the chill. His fingers dig into the soft flesh, pinching my nipples until I arch against him, pain blending into heat.
"Sera," he growls, voice rough as gravel. "You fucking queen."
