Page 71 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I had never experienced a family dinner like this before. This was twisted, this was wrong, this was a nightmare. But as I took another sip of the earthy, tart wine, a small, part of me, a dark and broken part, felt like I was finally home.

Chapter 27

Maverick waltzed in and he was wearin' an old Pierrot clown outfit, the black and white stripes an eerie contrast in the dim light. He wasn't wearin' no mask. Instead, his face was painted into a clown face, similar to mine, with the black and white paint that made his eyes look like deep, dark moss filled pools. He moved with a strange, graceful ease, his body flowin' through the room like a ghost.

And behind him came Blythe. He was wearin' old clothes and a shirt with suspenders, the fabric faded and worn. But on his head, he wore what looked like a real bulls head, the bone bleached white and the empty eye sockets starin' out into the room. He carried a large club, thick and heavy, with barbed wire wrapped around it, the metal glintin' in the candlelight. His muscles were tight against his rolled-up sleeves, his arms corded with strength, a silent, deadly promise of violence.

As soon as they came fully inside, I felt it. It was like a warmth spreadin' through my chest, a feelin' of comin' home. It was like my people were here. I felt safe, even though they were the reason for my torment, my captors. But being left alone with the rest of the family, and them reappearin', it made me hopeful in a way that made no sense, but at the same time, made all the sense in the world. They were my monsters, my boys, and in that moment, I yearned for them with a desperation that was both terrifying and true.

I saw that Maverick was holdin' something in his hand, a large glass jar with something floatin' inside it. I couldn't tell quite what it was, the candlelight makin' it hard to see through the thick, warped glass. As he got closer, my heart stopped. It was a heart. A real, human heart, suspended in some kind of preservin' fluid, a large, sealed jar.

Maverick approached the head of the table, leaned down, and kissed the top of my head, his lips a soft, possessive press against my hair. He set the large glass jar down in front of me, the glass thumpin' softly against the wood. "A gift for my bride," he said, his voice a low, purring rumble. "I thought you'd like it."

I stared at the heart, at the veins and the tissue, a sick feeling risin' in my throat. "Where... where did it come from?" I asked, my voice a shaky whisper.

Maverick just laughed, a low, dark sound. "It's Duffy," he said, like he was talkin' about an old friend. "It only seemed right." He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Be my valentine?"

He filled his own glass with the dark, red wine, took a long sip, and sat down in the chair beside me. Just then, Blythe started to move. He approached the table slowly, his movements silent and sure. He ran his hand across my shoulders as he passed, the touch sendin' a deep, achin' warmth through me, a feeling of being claimed. He sat down as well, removin' the cow skull from his head and setting it on the table with a soft thud. There was still blood on his face.

His blue eyes met mine, and in that moment, I felt like he said something to me, something deep and true, but I didn't know what it was because he didn't say anythin' at all. He said it all with his eyes.

Then Knox approached me, his movements thoughtful. In his hands, he held something, a small, intricate thing made of bone and wire. "Also for the beautiful bride," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He set it down in front of me, his fingers brushin' against mine. "I always wanted a niece. We needed a new, beautiful face in the family. I made it for you. Hope you like it."

I took it, the bone cool and smooth against my skin. It was a small, delicate bird, its wings made of what looked like rib bones, its body a hollowed-out vertebra. It was beautiful and terrible all at once. "Thank you," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Knox looked at the boys, then back at me, and winked, a slow movement. "I like her," he said, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.

Just then, everyone shifted in their seats, a ripple of movement that made the air grow thick and heavy. Momma walked in.

Knox went to his seat, sat back, his body retreating into the shadows, and everyone acknowledged Momma, their heads bowin' slightly, a silent, respectful wave. I made eye contact with her and didn't look away. I remembered the filth she spit about me and my momma, about the women in my family bein' cursed and whores. Anger bubbled up in my chest, a hot, acidic burn.

Momma was wearin' a black lace dress, her hair curled and perfect, her makeup flawlessly applied. Her heels, sharp and dangerous on the dirt floor. She walked in with her chin held high, like she was the gift everyone could lay their eyes on, the queen of this twisted, broken court.

Momma looked around the table, her eyes, sharp and cold, takin' in every detail. They landed on me, sittin' in the large chair at the head of the table, and a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe, or just plain dislike—crossed her face. "I see my spot has been taken," she said, her voice smooth and sharp, like a shard of glass.

Maverick didn't even flinch. "Momma," he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. "Figured with tonight bein' what it is, it'd only be right she sat there."

Momma looked at him, then at Blythe, then at the rest of the family, a quick, dry laugh escapin' her lips. "Very well," she said, her voice drippin' with a condescension that made my skin feel gross. "I'll sit next to my brother."

She walked over to the table with a confident rhythm on the dirt floor. Knox stood up, a silent, loomin' presence, and pulled her chair out for her. He pushed her in, her back ramrod straight. Amos, ever the quiet one, poured her a glass of the dark, red wine, his movements steady and sure.

Then Maverick stood up, his chair flung back. He picked up a small, brass bell and rang it, the sound clear and sharp, cuttin' through the low murmur of the room. He held up his glass, his eyes sweepin' over the table, over the livin' and the dead, over the monsters and the mad.

"Well now," he began, his voice a low, drawlin' purr that seemed to pull the very air in the room taut. "Here's to the family. To this night when the veil gets thin enough to tear, and the dead come walkin' right on through. We're glad to have 'em join us for the big show."

He paused, his eyes findin' mine, a dark, possessive light in them. "And to our bride, Aurora. A pretty little wild thing, brought to us to seal the deal, to be the beatin' heart of our little show. She's the promise of the ritual, a sweet little taste of the sacrifices to come."

He raised his glass higher, his eyes moving from me to Sue's body, sittin' limp and lifeless in her chair. "And to Sue," he said, his voice a low, celebratory rumble. "May her screamin' be a sweet song to the ones we don't name out loud."

He brought the glass to his lips and took a long, slow drink, his eyes never leavin' mine, a silent, challenging promise in his gaze.

As everyone began to eat, a strange, quiet ritual began. They made small plates, a little bit of everythin'—the roasted pig, the strange, wilted greens, the dark bread—and set them aside at the empty places, for the dead who were joinin' them. Then the stories started, a low murmur of voices that seemed to blend with the scratchy music from the record player.

Emory, her voice a high, crepey thing that sounded both childlike and ancient, leaned forward, her eyes sparklin' with a dark glee. "I remember the trap door," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "In Maverick's house of horrors." She giggled, a sound like echoed terrors in the night. "He built it when he was just a kid. A big, heavy thing, right in the middle of the floor. He'd wait for someone to walk over it, and then... whoosh."

She made a fallin' motion with her hand, her eyes wide with mock surprise. "The floor would open up, and they'd fall in, right onto the stakes he'd hammered into the ground below. Sometimes, late at night, if you put your ear real close to the ground, you can still hear 'em screamin'. A little, faint sound, like a demon tryin' to get out."

As she told her story, she reached into a little bag she had with her and pulled out a handful of old, black and white party hats, the kind you'd see in old pictures. She went around the table, puttin' them on the heads of the skeletons, her movements quick and practiced. She put one on the skeleton in the corner, its bony fingers still wrapped around its weapon. She put another on Sue's head, the little paper cone sittin' crookedly on her matted, bloody hair. It was a party, a celebration, and the dead were the guests of honor.