Page 27 of Mortis

I wasn’t entirely sure where the sudden surge of confidence had come from. Who did I think I was? Muhammad Ali? Christ, I could barely fight my way out of my bedsheets in the morning, and here I was, demanding to speak to the evil half of a seven-foot, man-eating monster.

The whole thing was insane.

Maybe I was hallucinating. A gas leak, perhaps. Carbon monoxide poisoning felt like the only reasonable explanation at this point. If that was the case, I’d pass out eventually. Arlo would find me face down on the tiles in the morning, hopefully still breathing. Then he’d spend the rest of my life reminding me I’d almost died because I refused to open a window.

Then again, looking at the creature in front of me, the source of every ghost story and whispered warning Blackthorn had ever produced, I couldn’t quite convince myself I was imagining him.

His guilt had felt too real.

The monster, whose name I still didn’t know and had somehow forgotten to ask for, watched me with red eyes.

And what a pair of eyes they were.

I’d seen monsters in horror films before. Ghosts. Demons. Vampires. Whatever nonsense I managed to convince Arlo to watch with me on a Friday night.

None of them came close.

The sclera were pitch black, dark voids framing blood-red irises that seemed to glow from somewhere deep within. The same crimson eyes rumoured to lurk between the trees of Barrowfell Woods. They’d certainly glowed earlier, while he’d crouched over Dorothy Robinson’s body like a lion picking apart a carcass. But they’d dulled when he’d wrestled control back from his other half.

The demon I was apparently about to argue with.

The transformation was almost unsettling in its simplicity. His body didn’t change, but his attitude did. The air around him seemed to shift. He straightened, somehow appearing even taller than before, his curled horns nearly brushing the ceiling. The uncertainty vanished from his expression, replaced by something sharper. Something smug.

Dangerous.

One corner of his mouth curled upwards, revealing the edge of a razor-sharp canine.

“You called, mortal?”

His voice rolled through the room like distant thunder, low enough that I felt it more than heard it. Those glowing eyes swept over me from head to toe, assessing. I had no doubt he’d already decided I wasn’t worth much.

It was immediately obvious the guilt-ridden monster was gone.

I was speaking to a true demon now.

Still, I couldn’t shake the image of the other one. The way his head had bowed beneath the weight of his guilt. The shame in his voice. The desperation.

Instead, I was standing in front of the hunter.

And there was a very real chance He was going to eat me.

Might as well commit to the bit.

“I hear you’re hungry.” I planted my hands on my hips, and the Beast raised an eyebrow. “What was wrong with her?”

I jerked my head towards Dorothy’s mutilated body.

“She tasted disgusting,” He replied immediately, lip curling. “The flesh was tangy. Unnatural.”

I pursed my lips, wondering what he meant.

Then the answer hit me.

The embalming fluid.

The monster had promised Him a satisfying meal that didn’t require murder, but Dorothy Robinson had already been prepared for burial. Bodies destined for funerals weren’t exactly fresh. They were preserved. At least until they went into the ground or got shipped off to the crematorium.

My gaze drifted towards the refrigeration units. The Beast had opened one and grabbed the first thing He found—poor Dorothy. The second unit remained closed. Inside was Mr Cartwright. Fifty-four years old and a carpenter. He’d arrived yesterday morning and was scheduled for embalming later today.