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

by Casey Matthews

  They were parked out front and Ryn froze atop a house across the street.

  An ambulance sat in the driveway but didn’t move. In the back of a police car was a middle-aged man who smelled of the ice-rink shooter. Her animal mind refused to piece it together, processing only what was before her: the shooter caged, blood in the air, the noise and bustle of authorities. Ryn dropped from the roof and approached the police car, fingers curling. She’d peel the car’s chrome shell to get the meat inside.

  “Ryn!”

  Naomi’s voice. It cut Ryn in half, doubled her over with relief. She caught her balance against a van in their drive. Gods and beasts and alien bullets could not bow her, but one look at Naomi stole all her strength.

  Naomi ran straight into her and threw both arms around Ryn, forcing the monster back a step. The girl’s entire body trembled and Ryn could feel terror radiating from her. “I’m glad you’re here,” Naomi gasped. “Have you heard what happened?”

  Ryn’s hands wrapped around Naomi’s shoulders, the only thing she knew to do, and she inhaled the citrus of her friend’s precious hair, a needed reminder: She’s still here. Still here, and I don’t need to fight her God to take her back. “You’re unharmed?”

  “He couldn’t do it,” she whispered. “Thank God, he couldn’t do it.”

  Then he almost did. Bitter, hard feelings contracted in the pit of Ryn’s stomach, hit a flashpoint, and burned hot. She’d let the asura fester too long. They will gather next on the full moon, when I will visit a reckoning on them all.

  ~*~

  Kessler spun a full circle to survey the scale of the disaster: all down the Whitechurch street was shattered glass, not a storefront, car window, or light left intact; the doors to four cars were torn off their hinges; the strobe of crime scene technicians’ cameras highlighted gore plastered to a hood; a small media circus reported live, their shots framing a horde of angry college students hemmed in by police tape, all screaming about hate crimes. Down the street, a smoldering dumpster contained unidentified remains—some human, some just bizarre. The building above had flooded and its denizens were out on the street, an old man holding three cats in his arms wailing about his ruined apartment. At the center of it all was a tall woman in a business suit with spiky, black hair. She chain-smoked and hit on a female uniform.

  To Kessler it was a natural disaster. To her it was a Saturday night.

  “So,” Kessler said as O’Rourke tapped on his electronic tablet. “How much of this—exactly—is black binder?”

  “Say what you will about this town, but it’s not dull.” O’Rourke pointed to a van on the street. “See the panel van? The one that looks like it’s rented from Rapists ‘R’ Us? Front door was open when we arrived. The perp on the car hood over there—and a little more of him in that sewer grate and on top of that awning—came out of the panel van. Registered to a Trevor Wilkins. Bet our perp turns out to be Wilkins, soon as they find out where his teeth landed. He also matches a profile for one of the anti-Bradford lunatics posting online—username ‘Gaia_Warrior.’ ”

  Kessler blinked. “So this isn’t just some nut shooting up a gay bar. It’s Bradford related?”

  “Or the hate crime’s incidental. Let’s talk to our witness.”

  They approached the dark-haired woman. O’Rourke nodded. “Melony Wiercinski.”

  “Call me Muse.”

  “Muse, then. How do you know Tom Bradford?”

  “Who?” she asked. “The senator?”

  “That puddle of human remains over there had a hard-on for Bradford and his kid. Now I don’t know your business, but if the puddle was gunning for you—and I think he was—it means your path crosses with a senator’s. Not to presume anything, but there’s a typical reason for that.”

  “What, like I’m a campaign contributor? No thanks.”

  “Prostitution.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You see the bar I’m at, right?”

  “Maybe you’re open-minded.”

  Her grin was all-knowing. “Insulting me and hoping it gets a rise—using that to make me blurt the truth. You have a thing for the classics, old man.” She wagged a finger. “But you pronounced my last name right, which means you looked me up. What was it? My TED talk, right?”

  O’Rourke shrugged.

  “Wait, she’s a professor?” Kessler asked.

  “Senior professor. Biochemistry. God, I love how earnest you two are. It’s adorable. I feel as though I ought to throw you a bone. But this is one of those crimes you don’t want to look at too closely. Trust me.”

  “That what you did?” O’Rourke asked. “Got too close to something?”

  “You could say that. Then again, I’m not the one lying in pieces, so maybe it wasn’t my fuck-up.”

  “What do you mean?” O’Rourke pressed.

  But she buttoned up.

  Kessler tried another tack. “Ryn Miller.”

  That got Muse’s attention, and O’Rourke’s. But Kessler had only been guessing.

  “What about Ryn?” Excitement danced in her eyes.

  “She’s woven into this every step of the way. And… sorry to say, if you don’t give us a lead, she’s our suspect. She’s already attacked one of these anti-Bradford assholes. She’s violent. And, I don’t like it, but she’s the obvious choice. Unless you give me another.”

  Muse nodded slowly. “Surprisingly honest for a cop.” Tilting forward, she whispered: “I could give you suspects. More than one. There are layers to this, more than even Ryn knows.”

  “What kind of layers?” Kessler asked.

  “That splatter of blood over there was street level. Some dupe. He’s got puppet masters pulling his strings. But the puppet masters themselves have a paymaster.”

  “What sort of paymaster?”

  “The highest of the high. Sort who might want a senator in his pocket—or to influence him any way he could. And everyone who isn’t working for him is working for his rival. Except me, of course; I don’t work for anyone.” She smirked. “I’ve got tenure.”

  O’Rourke rubbed his bushy beard. “A conspiracy?”

  “These two entities don’t conspire—they despise one another. They’re at war. We’re all just caught between them, made into pieces on their board. It’s hard to know whose piece you even are, but mark my words, if you don’t even know the game’s being played, that’s how you know you’re in it. And this whole thing? It ends in a place so high up we’re all just ants eating dust.”

  “How do you know this?” Kessler asked. “What evidence do you have?”

  Muse shrugged, stuck a fresh cigarette in her lips, and lit it. O’Rourke ground his teeth in the fashion of an ex-smoker who badly wanted one, and she blew the first cloud into him. “No evidence. But if you’re friends of Ryn’s, you’re not my enemies. So I’ll do a wicked thing and send you in the right direction. Look into Orpheum Industries, for one. And the Ostermeier Trust Fund scandal for another. Then have a little peek at Zmey-Towers Consolidated.”

  “And what are we looking for, exactly?” O’Rourke asked.

  Muse ashed her cigarette on O’Rourke’s shoes. “For history’s real villains. For gods and kings.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Gazing Long into the Dark

  Ryn scouted the Primrose construction site. The partly finished residence highrise was nine floors, nothing but skeletal girders on the top five, and surrounded with dirt mounds and rusted trailers. It had the faint odor of an asura and Ryn’s claws ached to murder it, but she needed to wait for the full moon at the end of March.

  The asura would gather then for the creation of a new hollow. If Ryn struck during the ritual she might slay them all. If she attacked just the one, the rest might scatter to places she couldn’t yet follow. It might take centuries to hunt them down.

  She suspected they had swept most of Ghorm’s mortals off the board. The one called Casper Owens was in prison, repenting his crimes. For daring to hunt what was hers, Ryn ought to have gutted
him—except the way Naomi spoke about him made her want to do it less. A little, anyway.

  The droning humans who reported news showed pictures of Pandora, talking about body parts on the street and in the alleyway.

  The Veil—a powerful deva enchantment that ceaselessly lapped at human memories of magic until it was sipped clean—did its work by fogging minds and burying whispers. By the time it came to light that the assault was committed by anti-Bradford fanatics, the media had moved on. Naomi remembered, though, and one day read a description of the second gunman’s remains, of how he’d been ripped to pieces and half devoured. She’d cried.

  That bothered Ryn.

  Even with the brief relaxation of threats against her, Naomi wasn’t at peace. The auburn-haired girl tossed in her sleep more than ever. She vocalized soft cries for help, pleas for phantoms in her dreams to stay back. Her voice floated through the roof. She would wake gasping, face wet with tears. Once, her scream pierced the rooftop and stabbed Ryn so deep that her nails—the only thing sharper than her palms were hard—cut the skin until her immortal blood dripped.

  Thus, when Naomi announced an upcoming double date with Horatio and Wes a week later, Ryn agreed—anything, if it put her friend’s mind on mortal things and not the nightmare creatures of her world.

  After agreeing to the date, Ryn overheard Naomi on the phone with Horatio. She explained Wes had to avoid wearing scents, because Ryn had a sensitive nose. “She always wags her head at strong odors, especially cologne. So none of that, and none of that rank shower gel either. She hates it.” Ryn should have been offended that they talked about her, but part of her kind of liked that Naomi had noticed.

  The afternoons became a pleasure because they consulted every day after school. Ryn savored every minute in her friend’s presence, in her bedroom, appreciating its warmth and general superiority to the roof. Naomi explained dating things, though she rambled and bumped around, the sleepless nights taking their toll.

  Examining her ashen face and heavy eyes, Ryn interrupted one of her dating-related lectures. “If it is important to—as you say—‘look nice’… perhaps you should rest.”

  Her smile was only half-lit. “That obvious? Maybe I need a prescription.” She scrubbed at her face. “I’d hoped to sleep easier after talking to Casper. But when I heard about what happened to his friends in Whitechurch, how one was butchered— I don’t understand how someone could do that to another human being. It’s twisted.”

  Her words struck like a blow and Ryn’s gaze flinched down. “But those men wanted to hurt you.”

  “Someone who kills like that, who mutilates, is still out there. Who knows what he wants? That’s terrifying.”

  A cold space opened inside her, yawning wider, chilling her. “Is that why you can’t sleep?”

  Naomi considered it. “Not really? I don’t even have nightmares about Casper getting into our house. I only ever dream about the parking garage. Like my brain is trying to tell me something.” She shuddered.

  Ryn nodded, soothed that the cause was Banich’s grotesquerie and not her own murderous touch. She could almost digest that cold bubble now.

  Naomi also insisted Ryn dress differently, for reasons unclear to the monster, so two days before the date they met at Center Square Mall.

  “What is the matter with my clothing?” Ryn asked.

  “I love your clothes. They’re very… tomboy-mystique. But you need to dress special on a date.”

  “Why?”

  “To feel awesome.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Fine, by definition, is not awesome. Fine is a notch below awesome. Let’s do better—I want to make jaws drop.”

  As usual, Naomi’s enthusiasm was bulletproof.

  “So, I know you like the pants look, but I was wondering if you would maybe try on a skirt?”

  Ryn looked dubiously at the clothing rack. Her friend shuffled various skirts from the rack, skirts of every color and length, holding each to Ryn’s waist. None interested her as much as the closeness and attention from Naomi. Truth told, in another era, she’d worn something like a skirt. But the men had worn them too. Since then, pants had been widely regarded as a technological advancement, one of the few Ryn personally enjoyed. There were times she believed pants to be humankind’s most worthwhile achievement. That women didn’t reap the full benefits was somehow typical.

  “This would look good on you. It’ll show some calf, you won’t trip over it, but it’s still kind of conservative.”

  “It’s… frilly.”

  “Those aren’t frills. They’re pleats. These are frills.” Naomi showed her and Ryn hissed.

  “O-kay. No frills. But do you want to try this one on? For me?”

  Ryn tried to say no, but to her horror found herself changing anyway. The “for me” had done it. That wasn’t fair.

  She toed out of the dressing room. Naomi beamed and clapped her hands together at chest level. “Perfect!”

  Examining her bare calves, Ryn felt uncomfortable with the drafty sensation. When she turned to glance in the mirror, her spin flared the skirt just so.

  “Wow, look at you,” Naomi said. “I like seeing your calves; it shows off your grace.”

  It kind of did show off her grace. Her chin tilted up.

  “You couldn’t be more of a cat if you tried.”

  “Will you wear one?” Now she wanted to see Naomi be graceful in a skirt.

  “No, I’m going in cargo pants and a hoodie.” She was teasing again. She came up behind Ryn in the mirror, winked, and started tugging and pulling the skirt in places.

  The touch sent a startling thrill through Ryn’s body. She’d never been touched that way, not along her thighs and hips. She’d never imagined it would feel so nice and yearned for it to happen again, just once.

  Naomi stilled, met her gaze in the mirror, hands dropping away. “The fit’s perfect. Let’s look at blouses next. And shoes.”

  Ryn wavered. Something bothered her. “I don’t have money.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I should steal it, then?”

  “No! No, no. I’ll pay.”

  Normally Ryn didn’t care, but there were more numbers on these particular clothes, and she’d gathered lately that the size and quantity of numbers was significant to people. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

  “I’m the one begging you to dress differently. I’m being weird and pushy, so I don’t mind paying. Besides, I’m a socialist. Just ask my dad.”

  “What is a ‘socialist’?”

  “Someone who flagrantly redistributes her father’s money.”

  Ryn insisted on a blouse with sleeves, because she didn’t like to show people the scar on her wrist where the men had pounded in a tent spike. The shoes, though, proved contentious. Naomi wanted Ryn to at least try on high heels, but Ryn regarded them as she might one of a Gorgon’s vipers, and refused to stray too near. They appeared specifically designed to slow her down and would twist her feet into unnatural contortions.

  “Just try them on,” Naomi said, pursuing her through the shop, shoes in hand. “You’re short.”

  Ryn retreated behind a display and kept it between her and the shoes, realizing they weren’t what scared her. It was her friend’s relentless desire to put them on her. She mirrored every step the taller girl took.

  Naomi soon realized she would make no progress getting Ryn and the shoes into the same space without permission. “Please? They’ll give you almost two inches.”

  She shook her head. If she’d wanted to be taller, she would be.

  “They won’t bite you.”

  But Ryn feared her friend would work her basilisk magic and the immortal deva would find herself in another dressing room staring down those shoes. Alone. She growled at them.

  “You are the most difficult person in the universe. Fine.” Naomi disappeared down an aisle and returned. “Try these on. They’re flats. They match the outfit. You realize you’re not eve
n up to Wes’s shoulders, right?”

  “He can look down.”

  “He’ll have a crick in his neck by the end of the night.”

  “His problem.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “I prefer being small.”

  “Why?”

  “Lighter, faster. Less targetable body mass. Easier to hide.”

  “Weirdo.”

  They paused outside a store that sold human undergarments. Naomi rubbed her elbow with the opposite hand and gazed up at the cursive sign. Ryn paused too.

  Naomi sucked in a breath. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “I guess there’s zero chance the boys would see us in them. I mean, set aside the fact I promised you it wouldn’t get frisky, just the logistics. It’s a double date. Not like it’ll go there. So I guess we wouldn’t need anything special.”

  Ryn canted her head to one side, confused by some of the garments and their functionality. “Where does the string go?”

  “Um. Use your imagination.”

  She did so. One eyebrow lifted higher than the other. “Why?”

  “It erases the panty line in a tight dress. And some guys think they’re sexy. Okay, most guys.”

  “They can wear it.”

  Naomi laughed. “I like dressing sexy. But Horatio isn’t going to see my panties. That’s what I meant—it doesn’t matter. Betting Wes won’t see yours either.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Thongs?”

  “Undergarments.”

  Naomi’s face did the oddest thing. It reddened and her mouth and eyes opened wide. She gaped at Ryn, away, and at Ryn again. “You aren’t wearing any?” she whispered, like it was a secret.

  “No. It’s uncomfortable.”

  “Ever?”

  “Should I?”

  “Holy shit in a hat, yes!” Naomi clapped her hands over her mouth. She whispered numbers, counting to five, head bobbing with each one. It was something she’d only done before with Denise. “Sorry. But yes, you should wear underwear, especially on dates with boys, who are easily confused and believe their presence or absence… signifies things.” Naomi glanced at Ryn’s chest, eliciting a prickly feeling all over. “There’s no way you don’t have on a sports bra.”