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He shambled a couple of steps toward her, and though Serilda’s first instinct was to sob and throw herself into his arms, a second, stronger instinct kept her feet rooted to the ground.
This was her father.
Andnother father.
He was still wearing the same clothes as when he’d been lured away by the hunt, but his shirt was little more than dirt-crusted and bloodstained tatters. His shoes were missing entirely.
His arm was?…
It was?…?
Serilda didn’t know what to make of it, but her stomach turned at the sight and she thought she might heave onto the gristmill floor.
His arm looked like a haunch of pork strung up over the butcher’s table in the market. Most of the skin was gone, revealing flesh and gristle beneath. Near his elbow, she could see all the way to the bone.
And his mouth. His chin. The front of his chest.
Covered in blood.
Hisownblood?
He took another step toward her, running his tongue along the edges of his mouth.
“Papa,” she whispered. “It’s me. Serilda.”
He had no reaction, other than a spark of something in his eye. Not recognition. Not love.
Hunger.
This was not her father.
“Nachzehrer,” she breathed.
His lips pulled back, revealing bits of flesh stuck in his teeth. As if he despised the word.
Then he lunged for her.
Serilda screamed. Yanking open the door, she ran out into the yard. She would have thought him to be slow, but the promise of flesh seemed to have awoken something in him and she could feel him at her back.
Fingernails grabbed the cloth of her dress. She was thrown to the ground. The breath was knocked from her and she rolled away a few feet, before stopping on her back. Her father’s mutilated body stood over her. He was not breathing hard. There was no emotion at all in his eyes beyond that dark craving.
He dropped to his knees and grasped her wrist in both arms, eyeing it like a blood sausage.
Serilda’s other hand flailed around until her fingers landed on something hard. As her father bent his head toward her flesh, she swung the rock at the side of his head.
His temple caved in easily, like a rotten fruit. He dropped her arm and snarled.
With a yowl, Serilda swung again, but this time he dodged back and scampered from her reach, reminding her of a feral animal.
His expression was more wary now, but no less eager, as he crouched a few feet away, trying to determine how to get at his supper.
Serilda sat up, trembling, gripping the rock, bracing for him to come at her again.
He seemed distressed as he stared at her. Afraid of the rock, but not willing to let his prey go. He lifted his hand and gnawed absently on his pinkie finger—until she heard the bone snap and the tip of the finger disappeared between his teeth.
Serilda’s stomach kicked.
He must have decided that her flesh would be better than his own, because he spit out the digit and lurched at her again.
