Ravenous

Chapter 18 Pixie Dust

Pixie Dust

RIPLEY

I’ve always had trouble getting to know people. It really just comes down to one little thing, call it a personality defect: every time a man is rude to me, I can’t help but want him dead.

Take Preacher’s brother, for example. He ruins my orgasm, insults my appearance— which I can’t help, by the way.

Oh, and the icing on the cake? Calling me Preacher’s pet?

I have half a mind to march back into that barn and grab one of those big-ass knives.

He won’t be so snarky when it’s jammed down his throat.

It’s sweltering as we approach Raphael’s big black pickup, the kind you have to be lifted into like a fucking toddler because it’s so high up off the ground. I take a step back, watching as he wrenches open the driver-side door and pulls out a big bag, shoving it into Preacher’s arms.

“The fuck is this?”

“Consider it an early birthday gift.”

“You don’t even know when my birthday is.”

“That’s insulting, considering we grew up in the same house and you had it every year. It’s… uh…”

Raphael looks up at the sky, tapping his finger against his chin.

“Octember…”

“Fuck you.” Preacher chuckles, opening up the bag and pulling out a brick of white powder. “And this would be?”

“I think those are called drugs,” I mutter, just loud enough for them to hear me.

A smile tugs at the corner of Raphael’s mouth, but he manages to pull it back into a scowl.

“New shit that’s going around. Biker gangs are big on it. It’s called Pixie Dust.”

Preacher’s face falls, looking like someone just stole his parking space right out from under his nose.

“Pixie… dust?”

“Look, I know the name is—”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Preacher demands, a deep scowl etched on his face as he stares his brother down.

Usually, when people get mad at something as dumb as a goofy name, it’s a sign of a deeper issue. If I were to venture a guess, I think that a certain broody cowboy might be grumpy that our sexy little knife session was cut short.

“It’s better than the Midazolam you were using, and you don’t run as much of a risk of accidentally dosing yourself. This stuff is brand new, and it’s powerful.”

“What are the side effects?”

“At the right dose, it renders the victim totally compliant and suggestible, like a truth serum. You can tell them they’re in fuckin’ Disneyland and they’ll believe it. Works on the prefrontal cortex, does stuff to glutamate levels, and lots more shit you’d never know if I was just making up.”

Preacher grumbles under his breath, turning the brick over in his hands.

“I don’t give a good goddamn what nerdy bullshit this works on, it’s called fuckin’ Pixie Dust! Makes us sound like we’re five years old!”

It’s hysterical to see a man like him so incensed about something as simple as a name. Good to know he can be just as petty as I can.

“What’s so damn funny?” Preacher snarls at me.

He’s got a deep crease between his brows that looks like it was permanently etched there, and I do my best to keep a straight face.

“You know, if you keep frowning like that, your face is gonna stay that way.”

“Preacher, listen to me, okay?” Raphael takes him by the shoulder, turning him to the side. “You don’t have to call it that. You can call it murder juice, or whatever you damn well please. but I promise you, it’s easier to use. Besides, you’ll get a hell of a lot more variety out of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the guy who sold it to me said he put it in breath spray.”

“God, what was so wrong with a simple needle?” Preacher groans. “It’s elegant.”

Is he… whining? About his choice of drugging method?

“I mean, besides the time you stuck yourself in the middle of a job?” Raphael asks, tilting his head knowingly.

Preacher sighs.

“Alright, who gave it to you? The Reapers?”

“Who are the—”

“Nobody you need to know about,” Raphael snaps, handing Preacher a piece of paper. “And I can fill you in on that later. For now, we got some requests. A hundred grand. Each.”

Preacher blows out a breath, shaking his head as he looks down the list.

“Three in a month is a big risk.”

His brother claps him on the shoulder.

“What are you so worried about? You’re a heavy hitter! Hell, you’re the heavy hitter in these parts. You know what you’re doing!”

Preacher didn’t tell me he made absolute fucking bank doing this. Granted, I don’t actually know that much about him, save for his occasional indulgence in human flesh, the fact he shot his dad in cold blood, and that he still owes me an orgasm.

“Fine, I’ll think about it. No promises though.”

“Great, I’ll be back for the product! Be careful not to snort too much of that tempting pixie dust.”

“Go to hell.”

Raphael reaches over to knock his brother’s hat off, but he gets his wrist snatched up at the last second.

“Try that again and you’re gonna lose this arm.”

I don’t know why, but something about the whole interaction is oddly endearing. It reminds me of when my sister and I would fight as kids. Some days, I’d just stand in her doorway and smile at her. It was enough to piss her off, and I got a big kick out seeing her get all bent out of shape.

I was always testing her limits.

Raphael hops in his truck and the engine roars to life, peeling down the driveway as Creed starts blasting through the speakers.

Of course this dipshit listens to Creed.

“Is he always this much of an asshole?” I ask, the two of us watching the big cloud of dust trailing into the air.

“This is him in a good mood, actually,” Preacher grunts. “Come on. I got one more place to show you.”

“Oh my, is it your bedroom?”

He snorts, shaking his head as he leads me back around the house, all the way to the storm cellar.

“Look, I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” I mumble. “But I actually became pretty acquainted last time I was down there.”

I can’t overstate how much I don’t want to see this place ever again.

“There’s a hell of a lot more to it than you think.”

He crouches down, flipping open the padlock and motioning for me to follow, the short trip far less intimidating during the day. When we reach the bottom, I spy my bloody handprints staining the concrete where he found me.

“This way,” he grumbles, striding toward the large metal door I noted when I was first down here.

Preacher glances over his shoulder, smirking at me.

“You ready?”

I nod.

Really, I have no fucking idea, but it’s not like I have a choice. He wants to teach me how to do this, and I want to learn.

He opens the door, and a foggy mist immediately starts to roll out across the floor like a goddamn horror movie.

The first thing I notice as he leads me inside is the dim blue light that gives everything this particularly eerie glow.

But besides that, it really is just an ordinary walk-in freezer…

Or it would be in not for the wall of body parts at the back, all stacked on top of each other and carefully wrapped in thick plastic.

Instantly, I’m covered in goosebumps.

Everything is neatly arranged, a testament to his meticulous organizational skills. His entire operation is so much less chaotic than many of the serial killers I’ve read about, piling bodies in bathtubs, keeping boxes full of bones, or worse– storing everything in their fridge.

“You like it?”

“It’s…”

I’m looking for the perfect word: grotesque? Psychotic? Abhorrent?

No.

“Inspirational.”

I pick up an arm, the blue marbling of the skin making it look fake, like something you’d find in one of those Hollywood prop shops. That is, until I start to take in the details: the creases in the palm, the torn skin around the fingernails, and the fine hairs on the forearm.

I notice a sticker on the plastic, piquing my curiosity even further.

JONATHAN HOWSER

It’s handwritten, all in sharpie, but it’s clearly not rushed. Every letter is carefully measured and spaced.

RAPE, HOMICIDE, DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

“You write their sins on the bag…”

“That’s right,” Preacher replies, the sound of his feet on the cold floor giving me chills as he comes up behind me. “It’s a little reassurance for the clients, so they know they’re getting what they pay for.”

I’m mesmerized, brimming with excitement. I want this. I want to be able to see my trophies on this shelf, and show someone everything I’ve accomplished.

“This is amazing,” I murmur, glancing over at him. “And so organized, I never would have guessed from looking at you.”

Preacher looks oddly proud, puffing his chest out just a little.

“The cleaner I keep it, the easier it is to hide from the cops.”

I spend the next couple minutes looking around the rest of the room, touching more bags, drinking in the intoxicating atmosphere as I read the little details on all the ziplocked sinners.

“There’s only torsos and limbs in here,” I murmur. “Where are heads?”

“Incinerated. Teeth and dental records are one of the easiest ways to identify people. I burn the heads, and any teeth that are left behind are smashed.”

“Do you ever burn other body parts?” I ask, trying my best not to sound like too much of a keener.

“I will, if the meat’s past its prime, but I prefer to keep ‘em on ice just in case the client wants more. There’s always something leftover, no matter the volume of the order, so sometimes I just eat ‘em myself.”

“And… when do I get to try?”

I have to admit, I’ve been curious ever since he first brought it up.

Does it all feel as rubbery and rough as Gabriel’s lip?

Is this the kind of thing where if it’s prepared right, you couldn’t tell the difference between a person’s bicep and a piece of beef?

I read somewhere that people kind of taste like pork, but I always thought that was some kind of dumb internet myth which just managed to stick around somehow.

“Once you pass the final test, little rabbit. Then we’ll feast.” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. “After what I’m gonna put you through, you’re gonna need it.”

The test again, the one he’s being so goddamn mysterious about.

“What happens during this final test, then? Besides me being the prey of course.”

“Pretty simple. You run and you hide. I follow and find you.”

“You’re awfully confident for a man who barely knows me.”

“I know you well enough by now to know you won’t escape.”

“Sticking your hand down my pants doesn’t mean you know me.”

He traces small circles on my thigh that make my skin light up.

“I know what you want...” Plastic crinkles as he presses me up against a wall of body parts, reaching between my legs and gliding his finger along the seam of my leggings. “And you know what you want.”

What I want is safety and warmth, but I crave depravity. I don’t understand how those two things can co-exist, but here they are, biting deep into my chest with monstrous teeth.

“Tell me more about the test.”

His breath is warm, and his tongue darts out like a snake’s, flicking my neck. I smell spice and cigarettes as he runs his lips along my jawline.

“There’s a patch of forest out back,” he growls. “Behind the barn. I’m going to hunt you in the dark, and when I find you, I’m gonna make sure you feel everything… pleasure… pain. And do you know why?”

A whimper spills from the depths of my throat as he pulls down my leggings and pushes two thick fingers inside of me, but there’s a surprising tenderness to his touch that makes my chest feel tight. He’s focused on me, not on himself.

“Enlighten me,” I manage to choke out.

“Because I’m going to break you down, and free you.”

“From what?”

“From all of it, everything that inhibits you. I’m going to take it all away, and then—”

I’m already so fucking close I can practically taste it— sharp and bitter and beautiful on the back of my tongue, like the first sip of coffee in the morning after a deliciously long sleep.

My spine arches, my body pressed into him in offering.

Take me.

Fucking take me.

But he just keeps stroking that spot, steady and unrelenting as leans in and whispers in my ear.

“Then you’ll be ready to take everything back.”

Pressure builds and builds until I’m gasping for air, but Preacher doesn’t let up. On the contrary, his strokes are even more merciless, bringing me right to the edge and holding me there until I’m a quivering mess of nerves.

“Let me come,” I moan as he starts to guide me toward my peak. “Oh, fuck, let me come.”

“Beg for it, rabbit. It’ll be good practice for your test.”

His purr is so rich I can feel its texture on my skin, heavy with all of his sins.

“Please,” I whimper.

Preacher’s free hand wraps around my throat and my vision begins to get fuzzy at the edges, lost in a haze.

“You can do better than that.”

And then it occurs to me, my life has never been about what I want.

“I don’t… know how.”

Preacher pulls his fingers out, presenting them to me as they glisten in the fluorescent light.

“Then we’ll do this again and again. I’ll bring you right to the edge and deny you, until you learn.”

He slides his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean while refusing to break eye contact. I should kick him in the balls for what he just did, but I’m rooted in place, pinned against the body bags by the daggers in his eyes alone.

“Fine,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “I’ll just fix the problem myself.”

“Of course you can, but your fingers won’t be nearly as good as my cock.”

He dips his head, nipping at my lip.

“And you know it.”