Chapter 11 Can’t Stay High and Mighty Forever
Can’t Stay High and Mighty Forever
PREACHER
Iwatch as he hurls my mama across the room like she’s a fucking ragdoll. She hits the wall with a stomach-churning thud, rattling the house and knocking down our family portrait.
“Please, Elijah,” she weeps as she sinks to the floor.
Her face is bloodied and bruised, her jaw and eyes so swollen she’s barely recognizable.
How could he do this to her?
He said he’d love her in sickness and in health, and here he is, beating her until she’s on the verge of death.
My rage becomes an inferno in my chest and I glance over at Raph, who’s clutching his gun so tightly his hands are bone-white. We were always taught that killing is a sin, but then again, so are a lot of things daddy’s been doing since we were kids.
My mother lets out another piercing scream as my father moves to grab her by the hair one final time, and I give Raphael a nod. The two of us raise our rifles, with his trembling in his hands as I’m calmer than I’ve ever been.
“Get the fuck away from her,” I snarl.
He stops, straightening up. He’s still in his Sunday fuckin’ best.
I remember, in that moment, I saw the entire thing play out in my mind before it happened:
Elijah Blackthorne will take two shots to the torso, blood will splatter all over the fireplace that he built with his own hands. It’ll seep into the floor, into the roots of our home, and then that’s all that’ll be left of him. Nothing but long-dried blood.
And a recurring nightmare.
I wake up with a start in mama’s room to the sound of the dogs barking downstairs, followed by the familiar buzz of my phone. I lean over to read my brother’s name on the call display.
Missed texts, too.
RAPH
Let me in.
RAPH
Hey, fuckass. LET ME IN.
Shit, how long was I out?
RAPH
I’ll kick the door down.
“Hades! Charon!” I shout, running down the stairs double-time. “Heel!”
Both dogs fall silent, sitting back on their haunches as I step between them, finding my brother with his phone in hand on the other side of the door.
“What the fuck, man? Where were you?”
“Asleep,” I grumble. “Thanks for pissing the dogs off though.”
He just snorts, pushing right past me.
“Sure, yeah, come on in.”
“What am I, a goddamn vampire? I’m your brother, I don’t need a fuckin’ invitation.”
He tosses a duffel bag onto the coffee table, beaten brown leather, and I spot one of daddy’s faint tattoos on the side.
I made a matching set; gave one to him for Christmas the year after we did the deed as a joke.
He said it was the most disgusting gift he’d ever received, but that didn’t stop him from using it.
Practical to a fault.
“Go on, take a look.” He slides his phone back into his pocket as the dogs sniff away at his legs. “I wanted to make sure everything was to your satisfaction, Yer Majesty.”
I rifle through the bag, finding a few pairs of jeans, some shorts, leggings, and a sweater or two, all of it mostly black and nondescript.
Good, I follow the same rule: simple clothes, simple colors, and no logos. A criminal who sticks out like a sore thumb is more than useless, after all.
Raph’s mentioned a few times that the tattoos don’t do me any favors in that area, but I don’t give a shit. Skulls, crosses, demons, and poisonous flowers… I spent so much time enduring a monster during my childhood that now… well, let’s just say I enjoy looking the part myself.
“So? What the fuck are you gonna do with her? Keep her as your own personal blow up doll?” Raph asks, wandering over to the little bar in the corner of the living room and picking out a glass.
“Just because your marriage went into the fuckin’ gutter doesn’t mean you have to take that out on me,” I reply, folding the clothes back up and stuffing them back into the bag. “Thanks for this, by the way.”
“I needed to get that shit out of the house, anyway,” he murmurs, pouring himself a drink. “I don’t wanna see it anymore.”
I know that’s a damn lie.
He’s still sensitive about Wren walking out on him, and I don’t think he’s been with another woman since. We don’t really talk about that kind of shit, though, so I guess I can’t be sure. Our relationship is mostly business, sandwiched in between snipes and punches.
“You never answered my question, by the way.”
“She’ll work on the ranch. Helping out with the animals, cleaning, repairs—”
“What, like she’s your wife?” He chuckles. “You and I both know you ain’t the marrying type.”
I cock a brow.
“You really want to keep treading ice this thin, baby brother? Because we could get real personal real quick.”
I’ve got a laundry list of criticisms that would make him blow a gasket… and get me punched in the jaw, but I’ll give him a chance to defend himself.
“You might as well have heart-eyes for her,” he chuckles. “Fuckin’ soft.”
Okay, maybe I will hit him.
“She killed someone, Raph. And I wanna know who.”
“There it is,” he shakes his head. “So she’s a project.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong, but I can’t. I could mold her into an expert hunter, watch her lure unsuspecting men in like a spider, only to sink her fangs into them at the perfect moment.
And then I’d fuck her in a river of blood to celebrate.
Just the image of her taking my cock is starting to send me over the edge. She’s on all fours, eyes rolled back, nails digging into the wood floor while I pound into that sweet little ass.
We could be incredible together.
“I ran her ID and the plates on the car, by the way. Found some breadcrumbs.”
My stomach jumps.
“And?”
“Car’s stolen, no surprise there. But it seems like she was with some dude named Gabriel Young. He was a member of a biker gang called The Disciples, over in Jericho— anyway, he’s got a record as long as my cock.”
I roll my eyes as he squeezes his crotch.
“You’re fuckin’ hilarious.”
“Thanks.” He grins, clearly proud of himself. “Anyway, looked through some police records, and the cops were called multiple times for domestic disturbances, but nothing ever came of it. He probably threatened her, made her sweet-talk them into dropping the charges.”
“Sounds familiar.”
When we were kids, we tried reporting our daddy to the police. What we got was a visit from an RCMP officer where he was on his best behavior, perfect gentleman, and faithful servant of the Lord. Then we got the beating of our lives once that car disappeared down the road.
Seems like Christine may have just been trying to protect herself. Maybe she’s not a real predator after all.
“Preacher, you know someone’s gonna come looking for her.”
I’ve considered that as a possibility, but it’s not like I couldn’t take care of a few looky-loos on my own. Besides, Hades and Charon could use a new chew toy.
“She cut his tongue out, Raph. She’s not just some pathetic charity case.”
“Yeah, well I wonder what else she cut off,” he chuckles. “You’ve got yourself a little psycho. Maybe she can match your freakazoid ass.”
He struts toward me, handing me his nearly-full glass of bourbon.
“Be a doll and finish that for me, will ya? Can’t be weaving back and forth over that center line, the pigs might pull me over and find a bag made of human skin or something. Wouldn’t that be a hoot and a half?”
He dumps the clothes out on the sofa, looking up at me with a little twinkle in his eye.
“Have fun with your new cellar-girlfriend, and good luck not getting your dick cut off. Actually, does she take requests? Maybe she could do your tongue too.”
“Fuck you,” I chuckle.
“Ah, there’s that classic Preacher wit.” He ambles toward the door, taking one last look at me as he grasps the handle. “Don’t call me, I’ll call you!”
I shake my head as the door slams behind him, trudging back to the pile of clothes on the couch. I’m compelled to fold them, and so I do. Everything in this house has its place, and my brother knows damn well I can’t stand to see a mess. One more little dig to get under my skin.
We’ve always fought like this, sometimes with fists and others with words, but at the end of the day, he and my mom might be the only things I’ve ever really loved. The problem is, I don’t even know if that’s true. I’m not even sure what that shit’s supposed to feel like, after all.
Not to say I feel nothing. Most people get that wrong about psychopaths, they think we’re pretty much robots, designed only to hurt and to kill. It’s not like that, though. I definitely feel, the real problem is that most of those feelings are kind of superficial.
That is, except for anger.
And then there’s lust.
Once all of the clothes are carefully laid out in their neat little piles, I gently scoop them up and take them upstairs to the sky blue dresser that my momma loved so much.
It still smells like her rose-scented perfume, and if I close my eyes, I can practically see her in front of me in her pink apron, her dark hair pulled back into a long braid.
My daddy would yank on it when he’d bend her over the kitchen table in front of us. Said he was teaching us how to break in a woman.
My stomach lurches and I swallow bile.
My memories of her are tainted, stained with the torment he inflicted for so many years. The cuts and bruises, the brutal assaults, the broken bones. She endured all of his rage because she thought it would protect us. Of course, it didn’t, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t try.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Charon wandering in, his claws clicking gently on the hardwood as he approaches.
“Daddy’s having a friend over,” I tell him, crouching down and letting him lick my face. “That means you and your brother are gonna be on your best behavior, you understand me? No biting, no barking, and no begging for food.”
He butts my chin and I wrap my arms around him, kissing the top of his head.
“You’re a good boy.” I get to my feet and let out a breath. “I suppose it’s time to bring the princess up to her tower.”
I considered bringing the tranquilizer with me, but I figure the threat of a gun should make her cooperative enough, stuffing it into the back of my jeans before I head out to the storm cellar.
The moment I hit the outside air, I start to sweat. I’ve lived here my entire life and I’ve still never gotten used to this kind of humidity, the type that sinks right into your skin and weighs on your bones. Makes me wish I left a fan down there.
I unlock the cellar and slowly pull open the door, greeted by darkness, and a heavy silence both expected and a little worrying at the same time. God, I hope she’s not dead. I’ve done too much work for it to end up all wasted.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs I find her curled up on the floor, and I’m more relieved than I should be to see that she’s shivering, covered in sweat with her head tucked between her knees.
I can’t tell if she’s sleeping with all that dark hair obscuring her face, but she’s in no condition to fight back either way.
I approach her with caution, my hand resting carefully on my pistol, but when she looks up at me, all I’m met with is a mixture of exhaustion and despair.
“Just kill me,” she rasps, her voice torn and shredded. “Get it over with.”
“You need to be patched up.”
I crouch down in front of her, brandishing my gun, matte black, with a gold bull skull engraved into the handle. It’s the most precious thing I own aside from the land, and those two gorgeous beasts in my house.
“But I need you to know you’re not escaping, no matter what. Understand?”
I take a risk, reaching out and brushing a few strands of hair away from her face.
She doesn’t even flinch.
“Eyes up, little rabbit.”
She obeys, another raggedy breath escaping through parted lips.
“I’m going to take you out of here, and if you so much as even think about trying to run or do anything clever, my little friend will make damn sure you don’t get away.”
Suddenly her exhaustion seems to fade a little, and her eyes blaze with a newfound anger. I can tell she’s been threatened like this before, but I want to see what that rage can do when it’s honed, and sharpened like a knife.
“Do you understand me, Christine?”
I keep my voice calm and measured as she sizes me, up eyes dancing across my face.
“My name is Ripley.”
“Did you hit your head or somethin’? I know your name’s—”
“I know what the I.D. says, you fucking donkey. I don’t want to be Christine anymore. It’s Ripley or it’s nothing, take your pick.”
I ignore the insult as a thrill rushes through me. My birth name is Michael, after the Archangel, but I threw it away the day I killed my daddy.
“Alright. Ripley it is, then.”
Maybe we really are the same.