Chapter 10 Demonic Delights
Demonic Delights
PREACHER
Maybe I should be pissed off that she’s interrupted my quiet existence, seen a bit too much of what’s going on behind the curtain, but I’m not.
I’m curious.
Curiosity, though, without answers, is just frustration.
Interrogation didn’t work, so I’ve decided to try a softer approach. She has no reason to trust me, but I have no reason to keep her alive outside of the dozens of questions rattling around in my brain.
Well, it’s not just questions.
Underneath all those bruises and all that rage, there’s beauty, and it’s lying down in that cellar like a goddamn Christmas present, my name written in big, bold lettering on the tag.
I can’t wait to unwrap it.
Her.
The plan is to move her from the cellar into my mama’s old room, and I’ve been busy playing records and scrubbing everything down in preparation. The only thing I’ve replaced is the mattress, but other than that, it’s stayed exactly the way it was since the day she died those seven years ago.
Christine needs stitches, food, a shower, and then…
I’m not really sure. I’ll figure it out as I go.
Because after everything she’s seen, I can’t just let her walk away.
The closets are still filled with mom’s long floral patterned dresses, sewing kits, and piled-up sketchbooks. She made all of our clothes growing up, and even taught me a thing or two about working with hide. How to skin it, tan it, and shape it into something beautiful. Something new.
Mama was a seamstress before she met my daddy, always said she wanted to be one of those big, fancy New York designers, and see her creations strutting down a runway. Unfortunately, she lived and died in Babylon, just like the rest of us.
At least after we put daddy in the ground, this room became her sanctuary.
Sometimes when I walk past it at night, I swear I can still hear her humming a Connie Francis song on the other side of the door.
I always picture her with a smile on her face, perched in her rocking chair by the window while she knits and looks out over his grave.
I’ve never mourned that motherfucker. He was evil and cruel, even became a preacher just so that he could have power and influence over this town and everyone in it. Thing is, it worked. He was well-respected and revered in Babylon, but what people didn’t know were the things he did to us at home.
I can still feel his hands on me, all over— where they had no damn business being.
If you make a sound, I’ll gut you like a fish, boy.
I shake off the thought, taking a drag off of my cigarette before wiping down the rest of the grime off of the windows.
The world is a damn sight better off without men like him.
It’s early afternoon by the time I’ve cleaned the floors, wiped the baseboards, and put fresh sheets and blankets on the bed. I even replaced the musty lace curtains that were beginning to yellow from years of neglect.
But as I continue the work, my mind keeps wandering back to Christine.
I want to know what she did, how she did it, and most importantly, who the fuck he was. I want to know how she justifies taking a life, if her reasons and mine are one and the same.
Back in the cellar, I found my focus slipping, my mind pitching into thoughts of those blood-stained lips wrapped around me, about how pretty she’d look while I fucked her throat.
I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a soft groan as my cock strains against my jeans.
She knows what I am.
At least part of me.
That thought alone would normally be enough to make me want to crawl out of my skin, but this is different.
I’m curious. The way she looked at that severed tongue, it was like she was reliving the scenario, reveling in the memories.
I swear I saw the same light in her eyes, the same spark, one I only experienced once.
My first kill.
I put mama’s trinkets into boxes, fold up her clothes and tuck them away as I try to shift my focus back to the tasks at hand, but it’s not doing much good.
I wonder what she looks like under all those clothes. I bet she’s soft; I bet her skin feels like fucking silk.
I wonder if she likes it rough.
One hand around her throat, carefully slicing my name into her skin with my hunting knife in the other. I want her on top of me, those perky little tits bouncing while she screams like an animal. Or on her back, writhing on my bed all bathed in crimson.
Fuck, she’d be so dirty, staining my pristine white sheets.
A sinner, chanting my name like a prayer.
My little demonic delight.
“Fuck this.”
There’s no use trying to crush these primal urges.
I shove one of the boxes aside and sit down on the bed.
My cock is a demanding son of a bitch sometimes, always distracting me at the worst possible moments.
I unzip my jeans, running my finger over the Jacob’s Ladder that runs up the underside of my shaft: three thick barbells that give it some extra weight.
I saw a guy in a porno with the piercing and thought it looked badass, but more importantly, he kept saying how good it felt and…
Shit, he wasn’t wrong.
I spit in my palm and squeeze the shaft, letting out a soft hiss as the studs glide along my skin. My cock got more sensitive after the piercing, and I've had to build up some extra endurance over the years.
“Fuck…”
My thoughts start to dip into the darker corners of my mind, flashes of a chase through those woods in the pitch-black. Maybe once she’s recovered, I’ll leave the door unlocked one night while I lurk in the darkness.
It’s always better when they think they have a chance. It lets you smell their fear.
Their desperation.
I want to see how a new predator survives as prey.
My strokes get faster, and I pull my hand away for a split second to coat my palm in more saliva. It’s been years since I’ve wanted a woman this badly. I think the last time I fucked someone was…
“Ten years?”
Christ, it’s embarrassing to hear it out loud.
I don’t even remember her name; not sure if she ever gave it to me. To be honest, I didn’t really care at the time. I met her at a nightclub after a failed hunt. One of the early ones. She was just my type: brunette, soft smile, and one hell of a wicked tongue.
I do like the mouthy ones.
But Christine? She might take the cake.
“Jesus Christ, little rabbit.”
Heat spreads through me and I start to shake, but keep a steady pace as the heel of my hand bumps against my balls. It’s a little painful, but addicting.
A soft grunt escapes my lips, and I squeeze my eyes shut until ropes of hot cum rush over my fist like a river, shivering and twitching as bliss courses through my whole body.
I have to breathe in deep, slow and steady to calm my racing heart, but as I come back to earth, all I can think about is how I’m going to make that woman mine.
I take a breath, shoving my cock back into my jeans and zipping them up before heading into the ensuite bathroom to wash up.
It’s only a moment or two before I find myself staring into the mirror, into those cold olive eyes that are exactly like my father’s.
I’ve always hated that I look so much like him.
It’s why I got the tattoos. Daddy always said they were sinful, the Devil’s mark he called them.
But no matter how much muscle I build, or how many marks I add, I can’t escape those eyes.
I run my hand under some cool water before pressing it to the back of my neck. It’s sweltering outside, and with all the work I’ve been doing, I’ve been sweating like a fuckin’ pig.
Suddenly, my phone lights up, buzzing on the bathroom counter.
RAPHAEL CALLING…
“Perfect timing,” I chuckle, bringing it up to my ear. “I was about to call you.”
“She dead yet?”
“Nope.”
He sighs.
“I found a client willing to pay a small fortune for her.”
I grit my teeth, trying to keep the snarl out of my voice. The last thing I need to do is piss my brother off right now.
“Not happening. She’s staying with me.”
“Goddammit, Preacher. She probably already knows what you are, wait much longer and she might find out about—”
“You know, I feel like we’ve had this conversation before, and it was just as boring back then.” I lean up against the dresser, doing my level-best to cut the snark from my tone. “She needs clothes.”
“Yeah? So what, you gonna go to La Senza and pick her out a cute new outfit?”
“You know I’d love to, but turns out you’re the one with access to the bank accounts. Get her something comfortable, nothing too tight. I’m pretty sure she’s got a broken rib or two.”
“Fuck it, you know what? I’ve got some of Wren’s old shit packed in boxes. I’ll bring it over. Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”
“Never have, never will. See you soon.”
Looks like she gets to live another day.