“He wants it to say this?” There is doubt in this man’s emotions, giving him a starchy taste I don’t care for. “Kinda weird, right?”
“Look, I don’t fuckin’ know. All I know is that a cheeky extra two grand bonus is gonna look nice in my wallet.” This one tastes a bit desperate.
“Hurry this up, before we get caught.” The fear wafting off this man tastes savoury on my tongue and I decide a late-night snack might just be what I need to calm down before seeing my human. What better way to solve a problem for Joanna than to simply remove the root cause?
There is a rattling of cannisters, quickly followed by paint fumes. I watch for a moment; graffiti has never been my interest, but I will not stop art in action. I move closer to the hoarding, my sands slipping from my limps and my form slowly shifting until I am taller, my arm too long, my mouth too wide, my eyes too dark. My sands grate against my body in anticipation of such a bountiful meal.
“She seemed nice enough the one time we met. A bit flat looking, but she’s not a bitch.” The doubtful one arches his arm in a wide sideways arc.
“Yeah, but we don’t know what Cole’s like. Man’s forking over six big ones to send this message.” The desperate one shakes his canister and covers his mouth. He will not have a mouth for long. I plan to tear his lips and tongue from his body before I end him. How dare he even speak Joanna’s surname?
“Yeah, because the two guys before disappeared.” So the fearful man has an ounce of sense about him. That is right, little human. Be afraid, believe the rumours of a disappearance, for you will be joining them soon.
“Those two fucks got fired, c’mon I wanna get home. I’m fucking exhausted.”
Sands rip through my jacket, silenced over the canister rattling and the noxious paint spray. My spines crackle at my back, flexing and reaching for the fear I taste in the air. I move away from the shadows and finally understand what’s being created on the hoarding around the office.
“Bitches get stitches,” I read aloud, my jaw cracking around the words and echoing in the service alley. “How eloquent.”
Fear spikes, a rush of it as their heart rates increase and they whip around to look at me. I cannot help but grin. My spines rattle and flex across my back as I move further into the light. The fear morphs into terror, such delicious terror. It covers the smell of paint and construction with its meaty, savoury delight.
“Who the fuck are you?” The desperate one demands, a canister raised like it can be used as a weapon.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fearful one edging away.
“Oh, no, wretch, you are not going to want to miss this.” My sands lash out, wrapping around his torso and coiling around his neck. “Now explain to me what you are doing.”
“Look, man, we just needed the cash.” The doubtful man drops his canister, and they all jump.
The leader of the trio sprays me with paint, but it is too late for him. His fear, along with one already in my clutches, has enticed my sands too much. They lash out like vipers, keen to sink their fangs into the prey before them. I watch as they both writhe and jerk under the intrusion. My sands pierce into their ears and noses until their eyes are covered in black. Their screams are silenced as their brains scramble. Blood soaks into my sand, and I can feel their souls being absorbed into the mix. My sands drain and soak up their essence with ease until their bodies go limp.
In a dream, I can control this better. It’s painless. My sands can sink into my prey while they sleep. I enter their dreams to bring their worst nightmares to the front of their subconscious mind. Dreams are short bursts, REM as it has come to be known. It adds a balance to how much I can feed, usually. I feel the shift in their neurons as the brain tries to move on to the next memory to categorise. I move on when they are ready to move on.
When they are awake, though, the fear is right there on the surface, begging to be consumed.
The doubtful one is all that remains. His stench has morphed into one of terror, reaching into delirium and urine. He trembles against the paint-stained hoarding.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it was just supposed to be easy cash. A-a-a sign-on bonus, he called it.” He keeps apologising as I creep closer. Depositing his useless accomplices on the ground next to him. He shrieks as my sands slither across his body. “I’m sorry, please, man. I don’t even know the bitch.”
My clawed fist pierces his chest before I can stop myself. I cannot even bring myself to be angry. The slippery grip on my control vanishes once he utters that vile word. I drag in a ragged breath as I watch shiny fluids coat his front and his mouth slackens as he chokes on his own blood. It is not enough. It. Is. Not. Enough.
My spines sink back into my body only to be pushed into every crevice of this filth’s corpse. He bursts like an overripe grape. Viscera drenches me and the surrounding area. My sands flow back into my being, shucking off the useless waste before retreating into my human form. I take a deep breath and remove my lenses. My clothes are ruined, but I tuck the frames into my breast pocket, anyway. I do not need them for poor eyesight; they simply mask the way my eyes shift upon occasion.
I shake my hands free of as much muck as possible and gingerly pluck my phone from my inner jacket pocket.
“Mr. Ravenscroft?” Arlo’s voice is quiet, and I can just hear Ramón behind him.
“I’m having dinner by the armoury. Join me?” I take a deep breath again, more winded than I expected to be. “Bring the sewer rat with you.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be right there.”
My hair has fallen loose from the weight of some hunk of flesh. This is typical. I swipe it away and stare at the graffiti.Bitches get stitches.Someone is targeting Joanna. That assault four weeks ago was not being in the wrong place at the wrong time or interrupting a robbery. Someone is out to get my queen, and I will find out who.
It takes nearly two hours for the three of us to clean up. Arlo easily disposes of the bodies, and Ramón knows how to remove the blood from the surrounding area. Neither of them commented on the graffiti that I attempted to cover up. The paint refused to stick after the solvents were applied to clear up the mess. We departed quickly after that, them through the tunnels and me creeping along the shadows until I was able to make it home. It was late enough that the neighbourhood was asleep.
I suspected Joanna would be asleep, but as I ascend the stairs to our bedroom, light seeps from under the bathroom door. I can barely feel her through the bond. My mate is closing in on herself, believing whatever that idiotic, soon-to-be-dead man has said to her. The blood that coats my clothing has gone stiff, and I am in desperate need of a shower, but I am frozen with indecision. It’s not whether or not Joanna would find my hygiene distressing, but whether or not I should intrude on this moment. We spent the afternoon and early evening together. Does she need more time to herself?
“Augustine?” Her voice carries through the door, and I open it without a second thought, eager to answer the call of my queen.
