Page 19 of Mortis

His response was a snarl, and He stormed deeper into the kitchen. I watched helplessly as hands that looked like mine, yet no longer obeyed me, yanked open a cupboard door with enough force to tear it from its hinge. The wood splintered, and the door hung crookedly for a moment before He batted it aside. It struck the opposite wall with a crash.

He tore through the room like a tornado. Cupboards were emptied, drawers were overturned. Food rained onto the floor, only to be crushed beneath our hooves moments later. Cutlery flew through the air and embedded itself in the walls. Tankards and drinking glasses were hurled aside with reckless abandon. Each shattered spectacularly, and with every crash, I felt His satisfaction.

See? He preened.

The emotion radiating from Him was almost smug. As His gaze swept across the destruction, I found myself pitying whoever would eventually have to clean it.

You are too slow, He continued. Far too slow for a creature facing a deadline.

Then He thrust our nose into the air and inhaled.

The scent trail. Of course, He’d found it too.

Abandoning the ruined kitchen, He followed it deeper into the building. The smell led us to another door, this one made of metal. Stronger than the wooden barriers I’d encountered thus far, it possessed a far more substantial locking mechanism as well.

Still no wards. No sigils. No protective enchantments whatsoever. But it was undoubtedly an improvement. Had the owner of the establishment been present, I might’ve complimented their progress. I would also have suggested applying the same level of security to the front entrance. Particularly if they lacked experience in witchcraft or the demonic arts.

The scent of death lingered beyond the metal barrier, stronger now. Closer. The prey was waiting on the other side, and with the end of our bargain drawing near, He wasn’t about to let something as trivial as a mortal-made door stand in His way. With little more than a casual touch, He forced the door open, and it slammed into the wall with enough force to shake the room. Something crumbled. Fragments of plaster, perhaps. Neither of us paid them much attention.

At first glance, the room revealed very little. There was no body displayed like a feast awaiting consumption. No shelves lined with preserved organs. Only a gleaming metal slab positioned at the centre of the room. A sink was attached to one end, while tiny holes dotted the surface. Drainage, perhaps. Beside it stood a complex machine fitted with numerous tubes, and a smaller table covered in silver instruments.

He stepped closer, and through His crimson-tinted vision, I studied the strange collection. Even from a distance, I could tell the tools were sharp. Dangerous. I imagined them gliding through flesh as easily as a blade through warm butter.

I had believed this place existed to prepare the dead for their final rest. Now, I found myself wondering whether it was designed for torment instead.

In Hell, such a room would be considered a playground. A place of inspiration. For a brief moment, I considered taking one of the instruments with me. Mammon was always searching for new ways to inflict suffering. It would make a thoughtful gift.

Assuming, of course, that He did not claim my body first.

Our nose twitched, and immediately, His attention shifted. Against the far wall stood two tall silver containers. Unlike the cupboards in the kitchen, they held no mortal food. The scent made that abundantly clear.

These contained food made from mortals.

Abandoning the instruments of torture, He crossed the room with eager purpose and tore open the door of the nearest container. Inside rested three metal trays. Simpler versions of the slab in the centre of the room. They were stacked one above the other, with enough space between them to hold a body. The middle tray was occupied.

Finally, He purred.

Our heart quickened. Saliva pooled beneath our tongue. He dug our claws into the occupant’s shoulder and dragged it from the compartment before letting it drop unceremoniously onto the tiled floor. Slowly, He lowered our body to the ground and studied it.

The corpse belonged to an elderly woman. Her skin was pale and paper-thin, yet it appeared soft beneath our fingers. There was little flesh left upon her bones, age having claimed much of it long before death had arrived. I hoped it would be enough to satisfy Him. Enough to prove that we need not resort to slaughter whenever the hunger returned.

More importantly, the glow of her soul remained visible at the base of her throat. It was no longer brilliant. Death had dimmed it. Yet enough light remained for it to be valuable.

A suitable offering for Mammon.

Deadly claws slid gently through her wisps of grey hair before tracing the contours of her face. Our hand settled against her mouth, and the tip of a black talon rested against her front teeth. Slowly, He leaned in until our chest brushed hers, and our lips brushed her ear.

“Your soul will fuel our master’s greed.”

The words were little more than a whisper.

A promise.

Then He gripped her jaw and forced it open. Thin metal wires hidden within her mouth snapped apart, and the skin around her lips stretched taut. He rested our mouth against hers in the kiss of death and inhaled. The soul emerged from her throat in a stream of pale gold light. As it passed through us, I tasted the essence of her life. Kindness, patience, and compassion. Decades upon decades of quiet goodness. A life spent loving others until her heart could no longer beat.

Yes.

Mammon would appreciate this offering.