“Oy! What about you lot?” I call across the cold, cement-walled space, where two naked and chained mage bastards dangle upside down from meat hooks. “Hanging in there like little champs! If anyone deserves a break tonight, it’s you.”
Ithinkthey mumble in agreement, but it’s hard to discern the words amidst all their blubbering. The chains aren’t cooperating either, rattling as they are with every involuntary jerk and spasm, sending all the other rusty hooks into a squeaky symphony.
Ah, but I do love the Ryker building. One of our best investments, if you ask me. The old meat processing plant doesn’t havequitethe familiar coziness of my workshop at the manor, but it’s got all the original slaughterhouse machinery, including a few upgrades I made for the sake of efficiency.Somany fun and interesting ways to keep the party going—quite literally till the break of dawn.
I laugh. Truth is, we’ve only been at it about half an hour. We decided to stay in our human glamours for the occasion, so it took us a bit longer to get everything set up, and then we had to wait for the sedative to wear off.
All a matter of perspective, though. I’m sure our guests feel like they’ve already endured a week’s worth of torture.
Taking one last drag on the weed, I saunter over to the pair of most-certainly-notUSDA-certified beef slabs and stamp out the butt in Jacob Pomeroy’s belly button.
I adjust my hairnet—another treasure courtesy of the old plant—and give him a moment to process his new reality. There’s a good bit of howling involved.
When he finally settles down, I peek into the trough positioned beneath them and let out a low whistle.
“That’s alotof blood, innit? Shame it’s all going to waste.” I inhale deeply, closing my eyes in appreciation. “The scent of it, though. Truly intoxicating. Am I right, Augs?”
Rejoining me to inspect our progress, Auggie sighs and says, “It’s more of an acquired taste.”
“Acquired taste?” I scoff. “You know, everyone likes to go on about aromatherapy candles and essential oils, but formymoney, who needs overpriced, factory-made bullshit likeHomestead VanillaorSoothing Lavender Honeysucklewhen you’ve got raw fear and freshly spilled blood bringing your senses to life?” I take another big breath through my nose and grin, shimmying my shoulders. “Oooh, it’s downrighttingly.”
Auggie rolls his eyes and leans in with his camera, trying to get a good angle for his next series of shots.
When it comes to my work, I don’t normally allow photography—some things are best left undocumented, naturally—but I made an exception tonight. Bloodlust is unpredictable; I might miss a few clues in the heat of the frenzy.
With Auggie’s talent for lighting and keen eye for detail, he can capture the moments as they unfold, giving us all an opportunity to peruse the evidence later.
Like many things when it comes to our witch,thisrequires a team effort.
The flash pops a few times. Our guests wince at the bright light.
“What about you, Jakey?” I ask dangling corpse number one. “You feeling any tingles?”
Gasping and pale, he sputters, “I… I can’t feel my… my toes.”
I glance at Auggie and shake my head. “Mages these days, Augs, I tell you.Zerocritical thinking skills.”
“Why can’t I feel my t-t-toes?” he tries again, crocodile tears plopping into the blood trough below.
I crouch down in front of him so we’re eye level, bringing my mouth close to the ear I mangled when I first strung him up tonight.
“Because,” I whisper. Then, gripping his hair, I shout, “I chopped them off with a fucking meat cleaver, you twat!”
Rising up to my full height again, I punch him in the gut—punishment for being so bloody stupid. Knocks the wind right out of him, too.
He swings on the meat hook. Poor Auggie has to jump out of the way to avoid a direct hit.
“And you, Zo-Zo?” I move on to dangling corpse number two, Alonzo Florentine. “You feeling any of those tingles?”
“F-f-fuck you,” he stammers, finally offering a few words, which is a rather nice surprise. All we got during the warm-up was snot and tears. “You’re a d-d-dead man.”
“Oh, I can see that. Clearly.” I cradle his head in both hands, wrenching it up so I can look down into his eyes.
I try to imagine what he looked like a decade ago, before the facial hair and the defined jaw.
I try to imagine what he looked like as a young student mage, bright-eyed and eager to learn.
I try to imagine what he looked like on the night he assaulted my little scarecrow.
