46. The Ghost
The Ghost
The snakes writhe in their crate. Warmed out of their hibernation, they hiss inside the box, dozens, maybe even hundreds of them, their sleek black scales glinting through the small holes in the wood. There is not much room in the box for anything else.
“This can’t be humane,” Desmond says.
I don’t dignify that with an answer.
He blows out a breath. “Snakes and fire. If you’re wanting to send them all to hell, I think you’ll do it.”
“Don’t act like the ethics of murder sway you.” Walking around the box, the thrashing within like black-scaled demons begging to be unleashed.
“This is just…” He searches for a word, a crease forming between his brows as the hissing continues between us. He scratches his head. “Kinda fucked up.”
The mask hides my grin.
Is it anything less than they deserve?