Page 18 of Wednesday
"How do you know that?" the other grunted, tossing dirt aside.
"My cousin works for the funeral home. Said they were required to bury the jewelry with her. It’s in there for the taking."
I scowled. Unbelievable. Before I could think better of it, I unholstered my taser and stepped from the shadows.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" My voice cut through the darkness and both men jerked upright.
One was tall and wiry, the other stocky with a patchy beard. Patchy Beard recovered first, straightening with his shovel still in hand.
"Cemetery's closed, sweetheart," he said with a smirk. "Why don't you run along?"
"I'm security," I said, stepping closer. "And you're trespassing."
The men exchanged glances. The tall one shifted nervously, but Patchy Beard just laughed.
"Look at her, Devin. One little girl. What's she gonna do?"
"I'm calling the police," I said, thumbing on my phone screen.
Patchy Beard moved shockingly fast. His shovel came up and across, slicing through the air between us. I jerked backward, but the edge caught my forearm, tearing through my jacket and skin and sending my taser flying.
Pain blazed white-hot up my arm. I staggered, barely holding on to my phone as I clutched the wound. Blood welled between my fingers. He came at me again, shovel raised for another swing.
"Shouldn't have done that, sweetheart," he sneered. "Now we got a problem."
The tall one, Devin, shifted uneasily. "Man, let's just go. This is messed up."
"Shut up," Patchy Beard snapped. "We get what we came for."
I backed away, my injured arm throbbing. Blood continued to seep through my fingers, leaving dark spots on my pants. I could feel myself shaking, the fingers of my wounded arm barely holding my phone. How much blood could you lose before it became an emergency? I looked around frantically before I realized the crickets had gone quiet.
The grave robbers did not notice the change at first. The subtle shifting in the shadows behind them, the sudden stillness of the night creatures. I felt some of the terror fade.
Patchy Beard took another threatening step toward me. "Now, you're gonna sit there nice and quiet while we—"
He never finished the sentence. Morrow emerged from the shadows like they had birthed him, his elongated form unfolding. In the moonlight, he appeared more monstrous than I had ever seen him. His eyes glinted with predatory focus, moving from the grave robbers to me and back.
“You’re bleeding, Carmen Ruiz,” he rumbled.
Devin broke first, dropping his shovel and bolting toward the cemetery gates. It did him no good. Morrow was far faster. It darted across the space between them, too fast to track. There was a horrific crunch, shrieks, and then gurgling.
Patchy Beard remained frozen, his face drained of color as he stared at Morrow’s back. A dark patch slowly spread across the crotch of his pants. When he finally tried to run, he tripped over his own feet, sprawling across Eleanor Blackwood's grave.
Morrow turned to him like a coiled snake. His lower face and chest were drenched in blood. Nothing like the small messes he usually made. His gaze skipped over the remaining grave robber to fix on me. Or rather, on the blood. He tipped his head back, letting his eyes fall closed as his chest rose in a deep inhale. When his eyes snapped open again they landed on the thief.
He launched himself at the man, taking him down in a tangle of limbs. Patchy Beard shrieked in agony before a ripping sound silenced him. I looked away, peering down at my bleeding arm. I probably needed stitches.
I painfully shed my jacket, planning to wrap it around my arm. Before I could, a shadow loomed over me. I glanced up. Morrow reached for my injured arm with one blood-drenched hand. When his long fingers wrapped around my wrist, I felt a jolt of electricity go through me. He lifted my arm gently, examining the gash that ran from wrist to elbow.
"Why didn't you run?" he asked, still staring at the blood. "They might have killed you."
"This is my cemetery too," I said simply. “My home.”
Morrow's head snapped up at that, eyes meeting mine with an intensity that stole my breath. For a long moment, neither of us spoke, the connection between us almost tangible in the night air.
Then his gaze dropped back to my wound, and I saw the struggle play across his inhuman features. His lipless mouth tightened, his jaw flexing as if fighting some internal battle. His grip on my wrist tightened fractionally.
The creature who had consumed Lawrence Emmett, the two thieves, and probably countless others over the centuries was fighting the impulse to feed on me. But I felt no fear. Only a strange, perverse fascination.
