Chapter 36 #2
His eyes hold my stare. The malice is still there even as his body shuts down.
He doesn’t have much time left. “But I made the mistake of begging Jonah for your life.” My voice cracks.
The words feel like they’re being torn from my esophagus.
In a final act of defiance, I cry. I’m a man.
I can cry because I feel, and that makes me no less of one.
I wipe my face, smearing blood, snot, and everything in between. “Jonah, Lucy, Jonah Sr… They were the only three people who gave a fuck about me!” I scream, the sound ripped from the depths of somewhere hellish. I inhale, and the smell of him, the scent of his blood, makes me sick.
“Even after Jonah had to watch you slaughter his father, he still gave me that. Jonah still let me believe I had a ‘father.’ He let me keep the only blood relative I ever knew existed.”
“But you aren’t a father.” I spit on him. “That’s for Jonah Sr.”
He shifts slightly, like he’s trying to roll onto his side.
It’s pathetic and barely a movement at all.
I lift my leg back, sending my boot into his face.
The crunch is almost offensive. I revel in the sound before allowing the pent up despair to spill out.
“I had to watch you destroy my best friend. I had to watch you strip Lucy of her humanity. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it?
” I lean into him, gripping his shirt and yanking him closer.
His body is shutting down, he doesn’t have long before his senses stop working, I want to make damn sure he hears me.
“I wonder if Hell will roll out the red carpet for someone like you?” I ask as I force him onto his stomach.
He tries to stiffen, preparing for what’s coming.
Incoherent mumbles come from him, so I slam my fist into the back of his skull and grab a fistful of hair, pulling his head back.
“I made the mistake of begging for your life once.” I lower my mouth to his ear, my voice a whisper.
“I’m not going to make that mistake again.
” His ass is exposed and I laugh again. It starts slow, before it becomes hysterical and unhinged.
Maybe I’m losing it, but I can’t seem to care.
The only thing I care about is finding her.
I lean back on my knees, outstretching my arms, mimicking his movements like I’m preaching to our congregation.
“Behold! The mighty Fenris.” I look around the room at the invisible audience.
I had planned to force him to beg for salvation, tell him to repent, give him a chance to purify his soul before it was cast into the lake of fire.
But the memory takes hold and I feel something shift.
It’s like Lucy’s soul has wrapped itself around mine, guiding my hands.
As if I’m letting her suffering guide me, I center myself behind him, between his legs.
I pick up the bloodied ram’s horn and pause, remembering that in the days after he killed her, I memorized the words he spoke to Lucy before he began brutalizing her.
“‘If thy right hand offends thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee… But you, you have offended far more than your hand, haven’t you? You have allowed rot to take hold in the temple of your flesh, and now it must be purged. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten…’” I tighten my grip on the horn and pause to finish his speech from that night.
“‘You should be grateful, little lamb. This suffering is mercy. Now, let us begin.’” I don’t pay attention to my aim, this is going to hurt regardless of if I force it into his ass or just impale him in that area.
I put as much force as I can into the first stab, forcing it through his body’s tight resistance.
I drive the ram’s horn down with all the strength I have, plunging it deeper this time.
The sound that rips from his throat sounds ungodly. Surely this is what they meant when they said the wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“This—” I yank the horn free and slam it back in.
“Is—” Again. Less resistance this time.
“For—”
“Lucy.”
The sickening odor from the blood and shit seeps into the air.
The stench is almost unbearable, thick enough to choke on it, and I do.
I arch forward and vomit, heaving until I’m empty.
I stumble back, tossing the horn aside to wipe my mouth with the least bloodstained part of my sleeve.
I’m covered in filth, muted browns and deep, wet reds.
His eyes aren’t open, his body is slumped over jerking every few seconds, but I’m not done.
A strange sense of peace washes over me. This is it.
I crouch beside him, pulling his head up by his hair and leaning him against the sofa.
I know the pressure in his bottom will send fire through every nerve in his body.
I slap his cheek. “Wake up, Fenris. I need you to see this,” I taunt.
His eyelids flutter and he blinks, fading in and out of consciousness.
I take my time picking up the horn. “This is for Cat.” His mouth barely opens and I pull out what fabric I can before forcing it wider.
My grip is tangled in his hair, and I begin to stab.
Over and over. Face, throat, eyes. I keep going until I hear the crunch of something breaking beyond repair.
Bones, cartilage, muscle. The holy trinity.
I watch as his corpse slumps, sliding down to the floor.
What’s left of his head is tilted against the couch. I drop the horn.
Killing the devil was easier than I thought. But now I have to live with what he took from her and the wreckage that’s left behind. That’s the part that will never die.