The monster is on her in a beat, her arterial blood pulsing down his gullet the next. He sways as he gulps hard from her throat. His eyes roll back into his skull. He’s lost in the richness, the pleasure of the kill. He almost doesn’t hear the front door open, the boy running through the snow.
Almost.
The hunt is on.
The next morning, the monster walks the stream north. He picks his teeth with a cattail. He stops to drink at a swirling pool devoid of ice and stares for a moment at his reflection. Despite his human form, he sees nothing but the Beast staring back. His broad, rounded forehead, high cheekbones, wide nose, and narrow chin are covered in meat and mess, bits of what once was the son of Delmas.
The monster shrugs. Creating revolutionaries is a bloody business.
Now it’s off to the north. North to a farm owned by the youngest of six sons, north to his next victim. Tonight, the monster will play equalizer. Tonight he will fertilize the fields with Gance’s blood.
At least Delmas will no longer need to worry about easements in the years to come.
Chaos works in mysterious ways
Immortal Remains: A Tim Reaper Novel Page 25
