The blonde newscaster appeared again, her voice suggesting a frown, even though her face remained immobile. “Police are asking anyone who might have seen any suspicious activity in the last several days to please call the tip line.”
Jason raised a trembling hand to wipe sweat from his brow as the phone number flashed on the screen. A twist of rage and fear bubbled inside him, growing like a vicious poison trying to eat him away from the inside out. “He didn’t just kill them. He ripped them apart.”
And didn’t that make Jason an accessory to the fact?
He jumped up from the sofa and pulled off his T-shirt. The griffin stood out against his skin like an exquisite piece of art.
“I hate you, you son of a bitch.”
He curled his hand into a fist and with a shriek, brought it down on top of the ink. Once, twice, three times. Pain ran down to his fingertips. It brought fresh tears to his eyes, but he didn’t care.
“Go away and leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Get out of my life,” he shouted as he punched his arm twice more. Underneath his skin, a soft fluttering sensation pushed up through the pain, and the feral scent of animal slid out. A warning? Frank didn't make an appearance, though. Jason couldn’t make him come out. He couldn’t do anything.
His shoulders shook, and his breath raced in and out of his chest. Bullshit. He would take care of it. He would kill the griffin before it killed anyone else, but first, he had some unfinished business with the kid across the street.
12
He kept his steps light as he crossed the street, passing through the empty driveway to the back of the house, and after he knocked on the back door, he stepped out of the line of sight. Sure enough, the door opened, and the kid half stepped out. Moving fast, Jason grabbed his upper arm and pulled him the rest of the way out onto the porch. The kid opened his mouth, and Jason shoved the note in his face. “Don’t yell. Is your sister home?”
The kid shook his head. “What do you want?”
Jason laughed and shoved the note in his pocket. “Your name is Alex, right?”
The kid nodded, his dark eyes wide. Jason propelled him over to a lawn chair. “Sit down.”
Alex didn’t sit. He sank down, his eyes never leaving Jason’s. It was almost too easy; Alex’s bravado was merely a show. Jason’s own heart raced in his chest, and he swallowed twice before speaking again. “What do you know?”
Alex looked down.
“What. Do. You. Know?”
No answer.
Jason pulled another lawn chair over and sat close enough so their knees almost touched. “Brave enough to leave notes, but not brave enough to talk to me in person?”
Alex looked up, his brow knitted together. “I know there’s something weird in your house. That’s what I know.”
“Did you see it?”
“I don’t know what I saw,” Alex mumbled.
“Oh come on, yes you do. It sort of looked like this, didn’t it?” Jason lifted his shirtsleeve, and all the color drained from Alex’s face. “Bigger, of course.”
“Not at first.”
“Tell me.”
“What is it?”
Jason grinned. “First, you tell me what you saw, then I’ll tell you what it is.”
“I thought it was a bird, okay, like an owl or a hawk. It was flying around one night when I was out riding, and I followed it. It disappeared for a while, then I saw it fly back to your house and go in the window. I don’t know how because the window was closed but it went in anyway.”
Jason leaned forward. “And?”
“I kept watching. I didn’t see it the next night, but I fell asleep too early, maybe. The next time I saw it, it was bigger. That’s why I was looking in your window.”
“And hanging out in my backyard?”
“Yeah, and after I saw it a couple times, I left the note.”
“Why didn’t you just knock on my door and ask me about it?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? It looks like a bird, but it isn’t. It ate a cat. I saw it. It ripped it apart. I think it killed that dog, too. The one that belongs to that old guy down the street.”
“Yeah, I think it did, too,” Jason said. “Listen to me, kid, Alex, you need to stay away from it. Stay far away.”
“Where did it come from?”
“It doesn’t matter. It won’t be around much longer. I’m going to take care of it.”
“Kill it, you mean.”
“Yes.”
Jason stood up, pushing the chair back with his legs, and stepped off the porch.
“Wait, what is it?” Alex got up and jumped down the steps. “You told me you’d tell me.”
“I lied,” Jason said as he walked away.
“That’s bullshit,” Alex said, following close at Jason’s heels. “That’s not fair. I told you what you wanted to know.”
Jason spun around, and Alex stumbled back. “Stay the hell away from it. It’s dangerous. That’s all you need to know.”
Alex grabbed his shirt. “I could help you kill it. I’m not afraid.”
Jason brushed his arm away. “You should be. If you see it again, just stay inside. Remember that. Unless you want to end up like that cat.”
13
John S. Iblis (not his real name, of course, but one of many) sat in the darkness. He wore no suit at all and enjoyed the private luxury of his true form. When he smiled, it revealed a million horrors, a million screams. Smoke rose from his fingertips and swirled around his head in thin, gray spirals.
The game was beginning to get interesting. His creation was a fierce hunter and had chosen well. The rules themselves were simple. So very simple. First, the tattoo. Second, the desperate pleas for removal. Third, the delicious pleasure of the removal itself. The look of terror on their faces as he traced his nail down the center of a spine or sternum, parting the flesh from the framework beneath, when they finally realized he was not simply taking the tattoo, but the entire canvas. And the screams—the more the better.
Perhaps when he finished with Jason, he would pay the stunning girlfriend a little visit. He did not think he could fool her too long, but to touch that beautiful flesh… Or perhaps he could offer his services as an artist of ink and skin. She would be an exquisite canvas, although a tight fit. To touch that skin at will, though, perhaps he would try. Unless Jason’s griffin got to her first. That would be a shame. Would Jason wait that long? He hoped not.
When Jason had put pen to paper, he had sealed his fate. There were no cancellation policies and no hidden loopholes. John S. Iblis made sure of it. He was clever.
Always.
After all, he had had plenty of time to perfect his skill. Eons and eons of time.
Chapter Nine
Way Down in the Deep
1
Jason dug through the kitchen drawers and pulled out an old paring knife, a skewer, a wooden crab mallet and a corkscrew, unsure what good the latter would do, but it had a sharp, curving point that might come in handy. He lined the utensils up on the kitchen counter—a macabre battalion ready for the bloodletting to come.
Can I really do this?
He pulled out a glass from the cabinet, filled it with plain tap water, and leaned up against the counter as he drank. He emptied the glass, refilled it, drank again.
Do I have a choice?
He refilled the glass a third time, but drank only half before setting it back down on the counter. When he opened his arm, would he find the griffin coiled up neatly inside, sleeping away the daylight hours? If so, he’d yank it out, throw it in the sink, and start dissecting before it had a chance to breathe, let alone grow. Or he’d shove it down the drain and let the garbage disposal take care of the dissection. He picked up the paring knife and stopped with it in mid-air.
What if the griffin wasn’t inside his arm, but in between the layers of his skin? He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He’d find it no matter where it hid, even if he had to peel his skin back like the layers of an oni
on. He’d find it, kill it, dispose of the pieces, and everything would be right as rain.
Maybe I’ll take the pieces and drop them off on Shakespeare Street. Here, have your tattoo back, buddy. I don’t want it anymore.
His arm answered with a light thump, a mere suggestion of a nudge within. Gentle, even. Maybe the tip of a feathered wing. A loose, swimmy sensation gripped his abdomen.
No, you only come out at night.
The sensation passed and Jason grinned, triumphant. The daylight held the griffin prisoner. A second thump came, a little harder, and a small mound grew under the skin, then disappeared. Jason laughed. The next thump, not a small one at all, not even one thump but a succession of them, a jackhammer under the skin, determined to pound away until it met its goal, sent him scrambling back against the edge of the counter. Pain, red-hot pain, raced from his fingertips to shoulder. His arm shook, and the knife slipped from his hand, dropping back onto the counter.
“Shit.”
You know what I’m going to do, don’t you?
Another crazed set of thumps. Pushing up, pushing out.
He reached for the knife and knocked the glass off the counter instead. The water inside whirled as it spun down; when it shattered on the floor, shards of glass spread out like translucent, jagged teeth, and water splashed high enough to reach his forearms. His fingers jumped and shook. The small mound reappeared, blurring the ink. His skin stretched, while inside, the griffin shifted. Beneath his skin, in his skin, part of his skin. The top of the griffin’s head emerged, slow but steady, all amber-gold and warm, displacing his flesh with its own without a discernible seam between the two. Attached, yet separate. Weightless on the in, weighted on the out. And still, deep inside, it moved, its tail curving around his bone, its feathers rustling against his muscle. The heavy scent of animal musk filled the room with a cloud of dark perfume.
No, you can’t come out. Not now.
Jason reeled back against the counter, and his foot slipped in the water. His body spiraled down without a shred of grace. He plummeted to the floor, landing hard on his hip. Pain, new pain, flared in his ankle. A circle of blood appeared on the white of his sock, just above his anklebone, a long shard of glass sticking out in the center. The griffin hissed, exhaling a gust of foul air reeking of carrion, and turned its eyes toward Jason, eyes filled with rage and fiery purpose. Its scent pushed out fury.
Jason’s hands slid in the pool of water. A sharp edge of glass sliced open the soft skin of his pinkie; the blood made a red ribbon in the water. The griffin hissed again, and one taloned limb emerged. The second followed, but the muscles in its limbs strained with the effort.
It’s the daylight. It’s easier for it to come out at night.
A horrible screech of madness emerged from its beak as it heaved its dark golden chest out of his arm. Its talons dug into his flesh with force. No pinpricks of blood this time, but small gashes, like raw, gaping mouths. Jason gagged, tasting the fur and fetid breath on his tongue. The griffin dug the talons in harder but paused. Its proud chest rose and fell. It lowered its head, and the talons ripped the gashes open wider. Jason hissed at the pain. The griffin hissed louder.
Mocking me?
Yes, its green eyes held a dark whimsy. Jason slid under the growing weight of the monstrous thing, and his hand pressed down on a long piece of glass. He yelled out as it cut deep into his palm.
The mocking hiss grew louder, its talons dug and ripped, and the edge of the wings appeared, vibrant and bronze. The griffin’s eyes gleamed with triumph. Jason grabbed the glass, not caring that it bit back against his skin. The wings emerged, unfurled, and the beast heaved up.
Now. I have to do it now.
Jason shrieked and brought the glass down in a wide arc, slashing at one wing. A huge, stinging pain struck his right arm. The glass turned in his hand, slicing open another cut on his palm. The top of the griffin’s wing split, and a horrific smell of rot and decay sprayed out into the room. A gash opened on Jason’s right shoulder, a screaming mouth that vomited a great gout of blood. The griffin roared. Viscous, grayish-green fluid spilled down from its wing onto Jason’s arm with a scalding heat. The metallic scent of his blood mixed with the foul stench of the griffin’s. Bile burned the back of Jason’s throat.
I will not get sick. I have to end this.
He struck out again with the glass, striking the griffin’s furred foreleg, and another wound opened up on his own forearm. Fresh blood spilled down his arm in a crimson waterfall. The griffin roared again, and reached out one impossibly large talon. It grabbed the glass from Jason’s hand and waved it back and forth, like a mother scolding a naughty child, then it slipped back into his skin, taking the glass with it, in a rush of wind and foulness. Jason’s ears popped, and he fell flat on the floor. The smell of fur and blood and filth whipped around, and gray spots danced in front of his eyes as the light of his kitchen faded and dimmed. Jason had one last thought before he gave in to the gray.
I can’t kill it.
2
Bright lights. Pain. Cold liquid under his cheek. Warmth on his leg and arm. Burning in his shoulder. Jason couldn’t open his eyes. The lids were too heavy. He wanted to sleep, sleep and forget, way down deep in the darkness. The darkness wanted to take him in, wrap its arms around him, and fold him into its shadows. No talons existed there. No foul stench of matted fur. Only safety and warmth.
“You have to wake up.”
His father’s voice. Commanding. Strong.
Stronger than I am. Stronger inside and out.
“Now.”
Jason sighed and opened his eyes. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, groaning aloud. Night had fallen. Blood, water, glass, and grayish-green
griffin blood, Frank blood
fluid colored the floor in a chaotic swirl of grim modern art. Jason shifted and pain seared his arm. Fresh blood trickled down his right shoulder. Shards of glass were stuck to his jeans. He tugged them out one by one, wincing when he removed the pieces pushed deep enough through the fabric to pierce his skin. He pulled the long shard out of his ankle with a grunt.
Jason stood up slowly, trying to keep his feet away from the glass. A wave of dizziness slipped in, and he leaned up against the sink until it passed. His left arm hurt, the tattoo hidden behind a dried film of blood and dark fluid. A vile, sickly stench hung in the air. He turned on the tap and closed his eyes, listening to the rush of water.
Once the water in the sink ran warm, he held his hands under the faucet, wincing at the sting. The water washed away the dried flecks of blood, revealing cuts on his palms and fingers, several already clotted shut, others leaking tiny, teardrops of blood. He soaked a handful of paper towels, wiped the blood away from his right arm, biting his lip to keep silent, and tossed the mess in the sink. Dark pink water ran down the drain. More paper towels, more warm water. The pile of paper towels turned into a mound, and watery trails of blood streaked the bottom of the sink.
When he’d used up all the paper towels on the roll, Jason turned off the water and grimaced. The wound on his shoulder gaped open, deep enough for stitches
not going to happen
but not deep enough to reveal muscle or fat. The ragged edges reminded him of the blade of a serrated knife, although neither knife nor glass made the cut. The inside of the four-inch gash gleamed pale pink with a line of dark at the center, oozed a snakelike trail of blood and burned like fire. The wound should not even be there at all. The cut on his forearm, not as deep
No, because I cut through fur and skin. The wings are more fragile.
seeped sticky, clear fluid and stung like a bad cat scratch. The edges appeared even more jagged, though, the shake of his hand apparent in its shape.
“What are you going to do now?”
His father’s voice again.
“I don’t know, Dad.”
How many more would the griffin kill because of its monstrous rage? Its hunger? He couldn’t let it live, but he co
uldn’t kill it, not without killing himself.
Jason went upstairs and put bandages on his palm and fingers. When he put antiseptic ointment on his forearm, the wound cried out in protest; he ignored it. He covered it up and stared at his shoulder. More blood leaked out of the wound. He pulled the edges as close together as he could and slapped on a few butterfly bandages. With a shaking hand, he covered it with a gauze pad and wrapped tape around his arm, then used a washcloth to wipe away the gore on his left arm, the thick smell of the griffin’s blood making his eyes water. Finally, clean skin emerged. The wounds from the griffin’s talons were red around the edges, the only color on his arm. The rest of his skin was clean, pale and unmarked.
Frank was out again.
The dizziness rushed back in, and Jason stumbled toward his bed. He had one last thought before everything fell away—he hoped like hell the kid had listened and was safe and sound inside his house.
3
Jason dreamed of the white room, but it had changed. The heat in the air seared his lungs with every breath. Some strange perfume, dark and flowery and alive, kissed the air. Whispery voices drifted out from the walls, and when he looked behind him, he saw the outline of hands pushing from the inside. A song, sad and mournful, played only a little louder than the voices. A tall figure stood in one corner, hunched at the shoulders. A dark suit, crusted with dirt and other foul things Jason couldn’t name.
“Dad?”
The figure turned with a wet, rattling noise. His father, but not. Decay had turned the skin gray and yellow, bony hands gleamed white below the jacket sleeves, and the cheeks were drawn, the lips pulled back from the teeth in a grimace. The not-father sighed, and the horrible smell of rot reached out across the room. The jaw moved, the mouth worked, but no sound emerged. When it found its voice, the words emerged thick and moist.
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