4. The Grotesque
THE GROTESQUE
My jaw clenches so tightly, I’m liable to break a tooth.
The domineering mansion splices apart the ground, its turrets and gables melding with the inky black sky in the distance.
Most of the city is overgrown with weeds and grass, but the lawn here is perfectly manicured and regularly maintained.
Shrubs line the exterior of the house, directly beneath the perfectly washed windows.
They’re a startling contrast to the dark bricks of the building—a verdant green interspersed with pink and purple flowers.
The sky cradles a brilliant white moon, and its soft light illuminates the pebbled pathway leading up to the arched entryway. Numerous cars are parked along the driveway, belonging to monsters like myself who don’t fly or travel by portal.
The gentle buzz of voices reaches my ears as I lean against my own vehicle. Through the hole in my mask, I take a long toke of my cigarette and then blow, wispy strands of gray smoke filling the night air.
I put the cigarette back to my lips when something slams against my wrist, forcing me to drop the white stick. I release a guttural curse and flick my gaze in the direction the hand came from, seeing nothing but empty air.
“Fucking hell, Em,” I lament.
Predictably, there’s no answer, but the lights draping over the nearby tree begin to flicker erratically.
Fucking prick.
Without a corporeal body, the Empty Man gets his kicks out of harassment. Annoyance. He’s far too good at it.
I don’t bother to snarl at him. I just wanted to get enough smoke in my lungs so I didn’t have to step inside without a nice, heady hit of nicotine.
These parties always tend to destroy a piece of my soul.
I dread them with everything I have within me.
I used to come up with excuses for why I couldn’t attend, but no one believes them anymore.
Not that I blame them. As one of the Four Terrors, I have certain responsibilities I must uphold, and that includes attending these Godawful events.
My attention snags on my reflection in the nearest window, and I fight down the shiver of revulsion that skates down my spine.
Even with my mask on, obscuring the majority of my face from view, I still can’t help but grimace.
All I can see is my bald, granite-like head and the two sharp horns erupting from it.
My large, overly muscular body is covered by a five-piece suit that makes me look absolutely ridiculous.
Monsters like me shouldn’t wear goddamn suits.
I absently tug at the tie draped down the center of my chest, hating the way it resembles a noose around my neck. My clawed hands curl by my sides, but I force myself to relax, to modulate my breathing so my huge chest rises and falls steadily.
I turn my attention to the front glass doors, where a copious amount of light from the chandeliers spills out onto the lawn.
Glancing longingly at the cigarette still sparking on the asphalt, I steel my spine and join the other monsters strolling inside.
When they see me, they give me a wide berth, their faces draining of color. I ignore them all as I stalk past them and stop directly in front of the butler manning the front door.
One glance confirms he’s a Three—a relatively low-powered monster. Two purple tentacles spout from his forehead like hair and slither around him. He has twelve arms, and all of them sweep forward in an elaborate bow when he catches sight of me.
“Your Excellency.” He stumbles over those two words, a thread of fear in his voice.
It’s the same reaction the Terrors always receive in the company of others, but none more than me. They’re in awe of the Devourer, envious of the Creeper, respectful of the Empty Man, but me? Me, they fear.
All of his webbed hands carry a tray, and on the trays rest nondescript daggers with engraved hilts. I grab a dagger at random, not overly caring about which one I get, and watch as the lower-powered monster gulps convulsively.
I’m sure the intensity of my own power is overwhelming to him, emitting from me in palpable waves.
As one of the only four Tens in existence, it’s no wonder he looks seconds away from fainting.
I swear he excretes a little green goo that cascades down his chubby cheeks like sweat. Fucking disgusting.
Without saying a word to the cowering man, I brush past him and follow the flow of traffic down a long hallway. The other monsters cower when they see me, twisting until their bodies are flush against the wall. Some gape at me openly, while others sweat profusely.
Everyone is dressed to impress in elaborately tailored gowns and expensive suits. I never understood the tradition of dressing up when our forms are naturally monstrous and grotesque, but it’s a practice from the olden days that most of our society wishes to keep alive.
I spot a Five with a dozen eyes lining her oval face and snakes for hands bedecked in a tiny red dress that swishes around her ankles when she walks. Another monster has the blades sprouting from his head combed back meticulously, displaying a face of vacant eyes and a triangular nose.
We’re nothing but monsters, beasts, nightmares. We can try all we want to hold on to a mediocre variation of decorum, but it’s nothing but an act. A sham.
To the right of me, a door is pushed open, revealing a coat closet. Out steps a familiar, striking man with light blue skin, long black hair interwoven with cerulean. Two spiked horns woven with flowers and greenery extend from his head.
When he catches sight of me, an easygoing smile erupts on his face, and he swaggers forward with his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants.
“How can I tell you’re glowering even with that hideous mask on your face?
” he remarks casually, pretending to think about the answer.
One of his taloned fingers moves to tap on his chin contemplatively.
“Oh, right. You have scary eyes, brother. And you know what they say about men with scary eyes…” He leans forward as if to tell me a secret.
“They scare the females away.” He punctuates those words with a waggle of his eyebrows, but I simply grunt and shove past him.
“Oh, come on! It’s funny!” he calls to my retreating back, but I ignore him.
Despite being another one of the Four Terrors—and another Ten on the power scale—the Creeper is not my friend, despite what he may believe.
I don’t have any friends.
I prefer an existence of solitude, if I’m completely honest. When you’re alone, you don’t come to care for anyone or anything. Because when you care…
My throat closes up, clogging my airways like wet cotton balls jammed into my mouth, but I shove the caustic emotion aside and hurry into a room plucked straight out of my nightmares.
It’s so…cheery. Elegant, even. An orchestra is playing a chilling rendition of a song written hundreds of years ago, and fangers—humans who join our community willingly in the hopes of bagging a powerful monster—hurry around the guests with trays of drinks, blood, and even a few body parts.
One of the fangers hurries towards me, trepidation and awe in her eyes as she lowers her head respectfully and extends her tray of champagne flutes.
She wears a skimpy gown that shows the outline of her hard nipples and her upper thighs.
She’s pretty—it’s practically a requirement if you want to be a fanger working for a powerful monster—but when my eyes sweep over her skinny form, I realize she does nothing for me.
I don’t fuck humans.
Something my fellow monsters certainly don’t understand.
“I’m Alixandra. Ali. Ca-can I get you a drink?” she stutters out.
I can feel my upper lip pull away from my teeth as another monster—this one with dark red skin, curved horns, and three eyes—grabs a fanger who was attempting to hurry by with a tray loaded with blood goblets. She giggles when he pulls her flush against him and begins to grope her tits.
How can he not see the thinly veiled disdain and disgust in her expression, even as she smiles and laughs?
How can he not recognize the shudder that reverberates through her when he plucks her nipples is one of revulsion and not desire?
Humans don’t give a damn about us, just like we don’t care about them.
They use us to earn themselves a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and protection from the other monsters who wish to see them dead.
That’s the way our society works, after all.
Either you’re predator or you’re prey. And if you’re not a predator, you damn well better suck a predator’s dick so you don’t end up in someone’s belly as food.
It’s why lower-numbered monsters—Ones, Twos, Threes, Fours, and even some Fives—seek employment from some of the higher-leveled monsters for protection.
I accept a flute of champagne from the trembling woman, though I know I won’t be able to feel even a dull buzz with this weak shit.
Still, I bring the flute up to my lips to give the illusion I’m drinking and enjoying myself.
The second the glass touches my skin, my hand jerks forward, spilling the sticky liquid all over myself.
I growl sharply, anger bubbling up inside of me, as I spin in Em’s direction. That fucking bastard.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, and the fanger still in front of me scurries a few steps away, a tiny whimper escaping. She probably thinks my anger is directed at her. Oops.
Of course, Em doesn’t answer, but I swear I can hear his phantom laughter jostling between my ears.
Fuck, I hate that monster—almost as much as I hate every other monster and human in this fucked-up world.
Scowling, I attempt to clean myself up the best I can before deciding…fuck it. It’s not as if anyone is going to dare say something about my disheveled state. No one has the fucking balls.
I’m still glowering at the stain on my clothes when the fanger—is she still here?—releases a surprised gasp, one that has my head snapping upright.
Fear splays across her face, leaching it of any color, and it’s then I notice the tentacles wrapped around her waist. Her mouth pops open in a scream, but before a sound can escape her, more tentacles surround her—one over her mouth, two more around her middle, and a third just below her knees.
A headache is a drum against my skull as I debate putting an end to this, stopping this—
Before the thought can even solidify, the woman is yanked backwards and thrown into an open mouth the size of a large child.
Razor-sharp, serrated teeth frame a pair of abnormally large pink lips as they snap down around her.
I hear the sickening crack of bones, and blood spurts forward, tarnishing the varnished floorboards.
Not one monster turns to stare at the macabre display, even as a bloody hand falls out of the monster’s mouth and rolls across the floor like a die.
A second later, the mouth snaps shut, and I find myself face-to-face with none other than Pietro Minulon.
He looks almost…normal, if you consider the tentacles sprouting from his body normal. However, I can see the crease in the center of his stomach where his second mouth is—and where he just ate that human girl.
His light brown hair is parted directly down the center, with two wavy strands framing either side of his face. Most people would consider his features humanoid…except for the cold, malevolent glint in his strange, ruby-red eyes.
When he catches sight of me, his grin widens, showcasing teeth just as sharp as the ones currently hidden in his stomach folds.
“Tesq!” he greets, extending his arms cheerily as if we’re old-time friends instead of enemies.
My jaw clenches, my teeth gritting together, as I bite back the slew of insults that threaten to escape.
Pietro is a Nine, only one level below me on the power scale. I can practically sense the raw energy radiating off of him in tangible waves, circling around me and tunneling into my nostrils. It’s so pungent, I have to hold back a cough.
The last time I met with the rest of the members of the Four Terrors to get an update on the city, there were only eight Nines in existence, and all eight of them have been causing us trouble.
But I heard rumors just yesterday that an Eight had somehow gained enough power to join the ranks of the other Nines…
And considering you only gain power by killing other monsters—lots and lots of other monsters—I have an issue with that. A big issue.
Still, I don’t allow a single flicker of emotion to seep into my eyes. I may be wearing a mask, but I have also trained my expression to be impassive even without it. No one can tell the thoughts percolating in my head, the emotions plaguing my every waking and sleeping moment.
“I apologize,” Pietro continues, rubbing at his stomach where his second mouth is located. “Was that human yours?”
“No,” I grunt out, curling my upper lip away from my teeth in disgust—both at the prospect of owning a human and eating one. I don’t give a shit about them either way, but even I can admit that what I just witnessed was fucked up.
“She tasted yummy,” Pietro declares with another cunning grin.
It’s strange to see one on him, as if his facial muscles don’t quite know how to twist his lips upwards into a smile.
His gaze drops to the dagger in my hand, and surprise colors his features, one of his brows quirking. “Are you bidding?”
Before I can respond, the lights in the ballroom flicker once, twice, three times before going out completely, bathing us in thick, inky darkness.
Eager murmurs of anticipation ripple through the crowd, and my muscles go tense as I drag my attention to the stage flush against the back wall of the ballroom.
This…
This is where I thrive.
In the darkness.
In the eerie abyss where monsters roam free and are able to indulge in their deepest desires.
I allow the darkness to settle over me, the way a human would a heavy blanket in the middle of winter, when a single spotlight illuminates a nondescript beast on the stage. A Seven, if the power emanating off of him is any indication.
Spider-like eyes peer back at me from a face that’s just a little too thin, a little too sharp, to pass off as human. He holds the microphone up to his mouth and grins widely. “Let tonight’s festivities begin!”