The One Who Eats Monsters (Wind and Shadow Book 1)

by Casey Matthews

This pleased Ryn.

  “You don’t want to dance?”

  She shook her head. “Too many people.”

  “And finally, I know your dark secret.”

  How had she intuited that Ryn wanted to break the arms of everyone who bumped into her?

  “You’re shy!”

  “I am not.”

  “Come on. Elli and I will dance with you. Hey. Have you seen Denise? I just want to check on her.”

  “She has her mouth on a man named Franklin.”

  Naomi furrowed her brow and glanced worriedly around. She spotted Denise and Franklin and covered a giggle. “Oh! You mean kissing. Okay, come on, dance with Elli and me.” She seized Ryn by the wrist and dragged her through the mass of people.

  The monster should have snarled, and had any other being tried to physically move her, it would have uncoupled her wrath from her rationality. But it was Naomi, so she allowed it.

  This once.

  Elli was already dancing with three young men, and she didn’t seem to mind having been left the center of attention. “Hey guys, this is Ryn,” Naomi shouted.

  They nodded, made brief introductions, and everyone danced again—Naomi beginning as before, conservative and almost hesitant until she shed her inhibitions; and then, weightless. In that moment, gravity didn’t own her.

  They weren’t so much dancing with the males, Ryn realized, as in a tight circle—females to one side, males the other. Ryn stood, wary, bumped once by someone behind her.

  “Move a little!” Elli coaxed, her smile different now—more obviously a smile.

  “Find the rhythm.” Naomi showed her how with her hips. “Just try a little two-step, like Wes. See? He’s got it.”

  “Yeah,” said the male named Wes. He was lanky and awkward in the way of a young giraffe. “Do whatever. You’ll look good next to me, trust me. I call this move the Turtle.” He swayed like he wore something ponderous on his shoulders.

  Ryn let go, exhaling in a slow hiss, and closed her eyes. Another person bumped into her; they snapped back open.

  It had been Naomi. Her friend slid nearer and intentionally tapped Ryn’s hip with hers. “With me,” she whispered, encouragement in her dark eyes.

  So Ryn ignored the room. She fell deeper into herself, reached out to the music’s tidal forces and surrendered to it. She buried the red-hot alarm caused by unwanted touches and focused on Naomi, because—she realized—Naomi made her feel something she had never felt among humans: welcome.

  For a moment it was just Ryn’s heartbeat next to Naomi’s and the vibration of music pushed through floor, heels, spine. She shucked off gravity, grasped the same thread of music that held Naomi aloft, and they moved together. Ryn had danced before to thunder, had played tag with lightning, but this was new. Their dance shrank the chaos in her mind to nothing, tossed out the heavy clutter in her head until all that remained in those great, vaulted spaces was the rhythm, the magnetic sound—and she came to realize her heart now drummed in time with Naomi’s.

  She opened her eyes. Naomi danced beside her. Elli and the others were there too, but most of all it was Naomi. Neither quite mimicked the other—but their bodies threaded close without quite brushing. Part of Ryn wanted it closer still; part worried she’d overstepped, that she was stealing too much pleasure from the roll and snap of her partner’s shoulders.

  Naomi caught her gaze for an electric instant, the worry erased. Those eyes were entranced and some thought was happening behind them, one Ryn couldn’t fathom—but it wasn’t fear or disgust. It seemed an invitation to stay.

  “She’s got it now,” Elli said.

  Naomi only smiled, and glanced away. She said nothing, all her fear gone, replaced with that spicy-strange fragrance; and Ryn liked it.

  Although they danced in a circle, they each appeared to have a cross-wise partner, and Ryn’s was Wes. She didn’t like him. Nor did she dislike him, exactly, which wasn’t typical for her—it was usually one or the other. He only came too close once, but stayed away when her lip curled. Sometimes he would dance in a jerky way that made everyone laugh at him, except he seemed to encourage it; he didn’t gnash at being made a joke. She sensed no aggression in him whatsoever.

  Elli and her male tired, slowed, and for two songs they leaned against one another for support, moving at last toward a wall where they sat.

  “Can’t believe she’s still going.” Wes nodded at Naomi. “Your friend’s a machine.”

  Naomi had paused only to find Ryn. Even after the point of normal mortal exhaustion, she still lived in the thrall of the music.

  “Horatio, you want to get some water for us and the girls?” Wes asked, glancing at Naomi’s partner. Horatio was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the trim look Ryn associated with soldiers, except with longer, more rakish black hair. Both his hair and brown skin shined from exertion. Ryn saw nothing in him to like.

  “Yeah, sure.” Horatio and Wes left for water.

  For a moment it was just them, and Ryn’s pulse spiked—but Naomi stopped dancing. “Can I ask you something? Did you keep an eye on Denise earlier?”

  “She’s near. Her male smelled wrong.”

  “Did she look… okay to you?”

  “Lethargic.” Ryn still sensed her faintly through the crowd.

  “Come with me. I’m worried she might have taken too much.”

  They crossed the floor and, in fact, Denise no longer danced so much as slumped into Franklin while his hands held her aloft—held her at the curves, held her carefully, but with the ill intent of a spider. She was trapped in a fugue, the poison from his hand having done its work, and Ryn’s stomach tightened as the reality settled: this was a web-spinner, a human who had played shell games with pills, and snared his prey so gradually she had let him. This one was a monster.

  Which made him food.

  Naomi skipped ahead, bolting over to Denise, the auburn-haired girl seeming somehow doe-like. She wound up inadvertently surrounded by Franklin, his two pack mates, and a female brunette affixed to one of their arms. The female’s breath was ashy from cigarettes. At the sight of her rain-clean doe amidst them, Ryn’s fine hairs bristled.

  “There you are.” Naomi set her hand on Denise’s shoulder. “Guess you hit your limit.” She glanced at Franklin. “I’ll get her home safe. Sorry about this.”

  “No worries.” Just the corner of Franklin’s mouth tugged up. “She’s cool where she is.” He shifted Denise to his opposite hip, where she murmured unintelligibly, and he reached to brush Naomi’s hair. “If you want to tag along, though, I got something that’ll—”

  Ryn seized his wrist, a growl rippling from her throat, one that spoke a simple truth: Mine.

  Everyone stared, even Naomi—and Franklin jerked his wrist free. Ryn let him keep it, as well the hand. “Where’d you come from?”

  “From Hell.”

  “Fuck you, Ted Kaczynski.”

  “Easy!” Naomi glanced nervously between the tall men. “My friend’s high, so she leaves with me—that’s our rule.” She focused on Franklin. “If you give me your number, I’ll—”

  “Won’t be necessary.”

  “What do you mean—”

  “Didn’t you hear? You’re dismissed.” He waved his hand. “Your friend’s a good tongue fuck; guessing she can do a lot more. So unless you’re offering better, we’re done here.”

  “Relax, sweetie.” The brunette lit her cigarette, leaning off one of Franklin’s pack mates. “She’s been hot and ready all night; little girl needs a rough dicking.” She blew smoke their way. “No shame in it. We’re all animals.”

  Naomi stared, subtly shaking her head in disbelief. “She’s drugged.”

  “And she paid good money for those drugs,” said the ash-mouthed female.

  “She’s not conscious!” Quietly, ferociously, Naomi hissed: “That’s rape.”

  “Or maybe she’s not like you,” whispered Franklin. His voice drew Naomi’s baleful stare. “She told me a story. About
this ‘princess,’ she calls her, who can’t get high, can’t dance too close, can’t fuck.” He showed her his teeth; even Ryn could tell it wasn’t a real smile. “This princess makes her feel like shit.”

  Ryn peered through the crowd, counting witnesses. Too many. Have to kill him later.

  Naomi swallowed. “Give me my friend.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Franklin asked. “You’re not the white knight riding in; you’re the thing that chased her right into my arms.” He tilted his head to the side, as though to examine the hurt spreading across Naomi’s face, selecting each word like the perfect sharpened knife and sliding it in with relish. “She’s high ’cause of you, with me ’cause of you—and I’m the thing that’s gonna cure her. Of you.”

  Naomi shook, a leaf at the mercy of strong winds. “I’ll call the police.”

  “And I’ll be gone.” He made a poofing motion with one hand, still clutching his prize with the other. “See, you don’t understand how well I know trust-fund bitches. Sluts like this need to be stoned to get what they want, ’cause frigid princesses convince them they’re filthy.”

  He knew words—powerful ones, because they made Naomi shrink, made her eyes tense with hurt. With no words of her own, Ryn rotated her jaw to one side, listening to the audible pop, and in the space of that pop, she decided to kill him here—and would have, if one hadn’t come from behind.

  So focused was her attention, she allowed the mortal’s hands to touch her. They clapped to her hips, his disgusting pelvis mashing into her from behind. “This one wants it filthy too,” he bellowed. “Got that wildcat look, doesn’t she?”

  Twisting around, her palm lashed out, tossing him into his surprised pack mate, showing only a flicker of her power and a hundredth of what she marked him for. The murder-itch tingled at the roots of her teeth and claws, in every tightening joint, and she’d have reached through his stomach to break his spine if the moon were any higher. She refrained because she was fairly sure humans couldn’t do that. What saved his life was only the desire to kill subtly enough to remain unjailed. Weighing her options, she decided on a more believably human response—she’d rip off an arm.

  No sooner were her claws flexed than both Horatio and Wes stepped in front of her, stymieing her again.

  With Franklin joining his pack mates, the two boys formed a wall separating Ryn from her foes, and she nearly ripped the boys open for protecting them. When she realized their intent had been to guard her, it angered her more.

  “Back off.” Wes’s voice seemed high, thin. “If you couldn’t tell, the murder-look meant ‘you’re not my type.’ ”

  She didn’t need an interpreter. Ryn had an uncanny knack for communicating her displeasure across language barriers.

  “You’re not anyone’s type, you little bitch,” said the pack mate whom Ryn had marked for maiming. “But no one needs to get hate-fucked harder than tomboys. Can see it in her face—I lit her pussy on fire; she’s just beggin’ to look me in the eye while I tame it.” He grabbed his groin.

  “First of all,” Wes said, “that metaphor was mixed. You tame animals, you put out fires. I scold you, sir.”

  Horatio’s fists tightened and he hissed, “Stop helping!”

  Wes wasn’t in a fighting stance—flat-footed, a sudden breeze could have knocked him down. With no clue how to brawl, he stood in front of three thick human warriors. Is he brave or stupid? “No one here wants trouble,” Wes intoned.

  Stupid, apparently.

  Franklin slugged Wes, knocking him back into Ryn, who caught his shoulders. The drug seller had let go of Denise, who pooled on the floor.

  A split second passed as mortals tensed for combat, but Horatio was faster than the rest. Before Franklin had reset from the blow, Horatio delivered one to the drug seller’s gut that folded him in half.

  Both the pack mates rushed Horatio, scuffling until they had their huge arms under both of his, holding him a moment before tossing him; Ryn didn’t care for him enough to play catch again and let him drop to the floor.

  Wes tried to rally, but couldn’t make a proper fist, so Ryn squeezed his shoulder. “You will stay, or I will let one break you.”

  “Sorry, what?” Wes asked.

  “You two fags need to leave,” snarled Franklin, hefting Denise back into his grip. “This party just got dangerous. As for your slutty friend, you just sealed her goddamn fate. I’ll fuck her stupid and send you the—”

  Everyone went at once: Naomi screaming her outrage, Horatio scrambling, Wes summoning his courage. As for them? Aggression odors spilled from each, even the brunette, who seemed thirsty to see violence.

  Ryn stepped between both tribes. “I claim her.”

  Franklin blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “The girl.” Ryn pointed at Denise. “I knew her first; she called me ‘friend.’ Give her to me, worm.”

  “Suck my dick. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  “There is one law,” Ryn snarled. “That is me.” These lowly mortals decorated courtrooms in her image, as though they had the right—as though they knew justice, or what to do with monsters. “You cannot have her because I will it.”

  Hoots from the brunette and pack mates, who jeered: “Just slap the bitch.” “Knock her back into her women’s-studies class.”

  Ryn slipped her glasses from her eyes, pocketing them, stepping forward almost into Franklin. With apologies, Ms. Cross.

  Denise blinked slowly and froze at the sight of Ryn’s bowed head and eyes, her blue-burning eyes that proved Hell was a cold place she carried inside her; Denise slipped mercifully back into unconsciousness.

  “Make your move.” He bared teeth again. “Show me, you puffed-up cunt.”

  Lifting her jaw, she showed him.

  Franklin stared back into the absolute assurance of the supernatural and stopped baring his teeth, stopped speaking.

  This was a magic older than words. The magic in her eyes marked Ryn for what she was; they set her apart, gave the gods cause to banish her from states and nations—they were solid black except for the searing light of her irises, and no mortal could look upon them and doubt her inhumanity.

  A closing throat choked off his scream and he couldn’t tear himself from Ryn’s gaze; his color drained from pale to chalk, and he reclined his head as far as he could, fighting to look away, but unable until she released him. A thin whimper rose from his lungs.

  Ryn snapped her canines at him and he released his prize. Denise landed softly in Ryn’s embrace as Franklin windmilled his arms in a mad backward leap that sent him crashing to the floor. He crab-crawled away on all fours, screaming a string of “fuck”s until his back hit a wall.

  Ryn eased her glasses back on, shifting Denise into Naomi’s arms. She pivoted toward Franklin’s pack mates, who’d never seen her eyes—that display had been Franklin’s alone. The one Ryn had marked bolted at her, reaching for her hoodie. “You’re mine, you little—”

  She snatched his wrist, twisting. The pop satisfied on nearly a spiritual level, as did his shriek. He buckled and Ryn backhanded him, snapping his head violently to one side. He crashed to elbows and knees at Ryn’s feet.

  Using his back as a springboard, she leapt and sailed onto the pack mate behind him. Pincering her knees to his shoulders, she punched straight down into his face. Again and again and again, she hit him; he couldn’t get his arms up to block, so she took her time. A dozen shots changed his face’s shape and color, from pale to purple under her thorough ministration. Teeth and blood flew over her shoulder; she broke his nose, the orbit of one eye. When he collapsed, Ryn sprang free, alighting to the floor.

  The marked man she’d floored attempted to stand, so she planted her knee into his jaw, flattening him again.

  “My God, you psychopath, you broke his nose!” cried the brunette, rushing to tend the marked man.

  “Nose once, jaw twice; wrist in six places.” I’m not done yet, either. Heal, you dog. I will be back for you
all. She steered her gaze to Franklin. Especially you.

  Perhaps Franklin understood, because as Ryn held his gaze, even the memory of what lurked behind her sunglasses spread a dark stain at the crotch of his pants.

  From her knees, Naomi held Denise in her arms while gaping at Ryn, as though seeing her for the first time.

  Wes and Horatio, too, stood still as statues, unmoving since Ryn had first acted.

  It was Wes who broke the spell by clapping his hands three times. “I feel like… I mean, take this however you want as long as it’s not badly, because dear God I don’t want to offend you, ever, but—for what you just did—I should offer myself to you sexually. And not like, ‘wee, fun for me’ sex. I mean I would let you penetrate me. Not that you’d want to. Or should. But… holy God, what was that? Kung fu?”

  Ryn furrowed her brow, unsure if she should be offended at Wes for suggesting a sexual liaison, except it seemed curiously harmless.

  “We— We should go,” Naomi said.

  “Agreed.” Ryn hefted Denise into a fireman’s carry. Naomi stood. For an instant they shared a kinetic moment of eye contact that made Ryn’s nerves buzz, heightened further when Naomi mouthed “thank you.”

  “Uh. Okay, not kung fu then.” Wes chased after them. “Krav maga? Ninjitsu? Do you do lessons? Do you need a sidekick?”

  “Easy,” Horatio whispered. “Nerd out after we get help for their friend.”

  “Oh. Yeah, sorry.”

  Downstairs, Naomi explained the situation to two bouncers who intercepted them. She had a way about her, making eye contact, explaining everything quickly and clearly. Whatever magnetism she possessed, the bouncers believed her immediately and told her to get Denise to a hospital.

  It was cold outside the Nine Lives, sweetly empty of synthetic light and loud music. Elli met them and said she’d been in the restroom during the fight, and she’d seen the bouncers escorting Franklin and his badly injured friends out a rear entrance. Ryn sat Denise on a bench and Naomi checked her pulse with two fingers while tapping her phone. “I’ll order a ride,” Naomi said. “She needs a hospital.”

  “We’ll come with you, make sure you get there okay,” Horatio said.