Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 40901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
I am on my way to the kitchens. They are quiet tonight. No chef waits for me. This facility is largely empty, though the cells do hold a few more prisoners tonight.
“Please! Sir! Let us go!”
I glance briefly at what used to be one of my guards, now safely tucked away in one of my many cells.
“Please! Mercy!”
They begin to beg, like dogs stuck in kennels. I chuckle to myself. This is what prisoners usually act like. Not Katie, though, she’s too proud to beg.
“Sheriff! You can’t keep us here!” That plaintive cry makes me chuckle.
“Of course I can keep you here. You’re all being detained for the attempted murder of a prisoner.”
“She’s a fucking angel!”
“Oh. Did you think it might be alright to shoot an angel?”
“Why did you give us weapons if you didn’t want us to use them?”
The questions come from around me like the cries of the damned. The last one of those questions typifies the attitude of every idiot who was ever handed a gun and a modicum of responsibility. The act of giving them weapons directly implied to these mush brains that they should use them on someone as soon as possible.
“Would you have preferred we let her go? We’re the only reason you still have your prisoner, Sheriff. Incarcerating us feels like ungratefulness.”
Now, that is a better argument. It comes from a man standing in the rear of his cell, speaking at normal volume. I stop in front of his door and beckon him forward. He comes forward and I see a man about thirty-five years old, nautical tattoo on his chest. He’s been stripped to his underwear, like the rest of them. I remember when I put him in, he didn’t struggle nearly as much as some of the others. He’s stoic. I like that.
“You feel l’m ungrateful?”
“Sure.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Creed Walsh.”
“What unit did you serve with?”
“Several task forces, sir.” There it is. He’s ex-military. Everybody here is, actually. I recruited them all from a mercenary service, but some of them are clearly more experienced than others. The term ex-military can mean anything from someone who handled stationary supplies to someone who spent most of their time in service under heavy fire.
“Marine,” I say.
He nods.
“How many shots did you take at my angel, Creed?”
“None, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t seem like a good idea to tell you I shot your angel, sir.”
He says that completely deadpan. He has a sense of humor, one of those dry humors that amuse me…
“I NEED TO GET HOME TO MY KIDS.”
A shriek from one of his less composed fellow prisoners puts my nerves on edge.
I open his cell door. “Step out, Creed.”
He does as he’s told, watching me closely, but having the sense not to make any silly moves.
“Go get your clothes and sidearm from your locker.”
He walks ahead of me, strong, and yet vulnerable. It’s a pity. He’s clearly brave and sensible. But blood has to be paid. There’s no way around it.
The guard lockers are across the yard. The same open yard where we removed Katie from her crate. In the moonlight, shimmering black specks mark the many places where her blood fell like rain.
Creed dies without ever knowing. A single shot from my pistol to the back of his skull sends him directly to his maker. He crumples to the ground, slumping to his knees, then falling face first to the dust.
“Come, Deimos,” I murmur. “Graze.”
My mount rises from the shadows at my bidding, muscular black flesh taking powerful form under the blood red moon. The moon always appears bloody from this place. You could call it a trick of the light, but it is more a play of the dark. Deimos snorts and nuzzles me with his demonic muzzle, nickering gratefully before lowering his head and beginning to feed. The corpse jerks back and forth underneath the action of his big, heavy teeth. It will be gone by morning.
I proceed to the kitchen, still hungry, and still very aware that Katie is hungry too. I find it gleaming stainless steel, empty, lit by fluorescent lights. It’s all according to code. There are enough stoves and storage here to feed a small army. But for now there is just a small number of supplies. Enough for myself and my angel.
I like to cook, and I set to work in good humor, preparing Katie’s first meal in my care. I want to look after my angel. As much as I might struggle with the impulse to punish and break, I also feel the intense need to nourish her.
“Well done.”
When I turn around, there is a black doctor’s bag sitting on the stainless steel counter. It takes me a moment longer to spot the man. He emerges from the refrigerator with an apple in his hand. He has not changed at all from the way he looked the very first day I met him. The dark widow’s peak of hair above even darker eyes, the face of average attractiveness and yet singular appearance.