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Her bulging pack is still at her feet when the man approaches her from behind, a pristinely folded white cloth in his hand. He uses it to cover her face, and her struggle is over quickly as she loses consciousness. The man is well-groomed, wearing a starched navy-blue button-up and pressed khakis. His brown hair is carefully combed, and his leather loafers are polished to a high shine. He looks like a deacon of a church, or a dentist, or an insurance salesman.
The man drags her from the street toward a wooded area beyond, snatching up her backpack as he goes, her tired pink Chucks making tiny ruts in the gravel shoulder of the once-busy road.
He takes little care with the woman as he drags her body in the mud and bracken of the forest floor—the limbs scratching at her exposed skin. He stops in a clearing, placing her body just so before heading to a nearby stump. Resting on the dirt is a silver, hard-sided suitcase.
The stranger carefully places the case on the stump and clicks open the locks, pulling a black instrument case from the felt. He then dons a pair of disposable gloves, snapping the rubber for the perfect fit. Slipping a pair of pliers from their loop, he opens her mouth, and begins ripping each and every tooth from her head.
The woman rouses around tooth fifteen, her pitiful protestations dulled to a gurgle as she chokes on the blood running down her throat. The stranger carefully removes the white cloth from his pocket, drowning out her moans with more chloroform.
Finishing his task, he removes the remainder of the woman’s teeth. He then drags her to a freshly dug hole in the ground, tossing her unconscious body into the earth. The man removes a small bottle of lighter fluid from his pocket and drenches her body with it—squeezing the yellow container until every last drop has fallen from the tiny spigot.
He throws the plastic in with the body along with her backpack before removing a pack of matches from his other pocket, studying them with interest. The script is delicate and flowery, the name of a local inn emblazoned across the front.
The stranger lights the book and tosses it in, the flames igniting with a whoosh.
The unassuming man studies the flames for a long while, observing the woman’s body burn to cinders in her roughly hewn grave. When the poor woman’s body is reduced to embers, he takes the collapsible shovel from his suitcase, using it to fill the hole with loose earth. With the flat end of the blade, he tamps down the dirt. When he’s done, he drags broken tree limbs and fallen brush over the mound, perfectly concealing the shallow grave.
The stranger returns to the stump, pulling a black velvet drawstring from his roll of tools. Carefully, he places each of the woman’s teeth in the bag before pulling the string closed and carefully placing it in the front pocket of his khakis.
Walking from the clearing, the stranger heads away from the busy main road to a rough dirt rut where a shiny SUV is parked. He rounds the vehicle with his tools in tow, smiling all the while—patting his pocket as he goes.
My eyes open to sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Rhys is cuddled up to my back, his arm thrown over my hip—the turquoise sheet pulled up to my chest. His warmth would be comforting, maybe, but now I can’t find comfort in anything anymore.
I don’t move for a full minute, neglecting to speak, gently lifting his hand off me and sliding out of bed. Padding to the master bath, I carefully close the door before turning on the shower taps, and promptly losing the contents of my stomach.
I know those mountains. I drive down them every single time I head into Denver.
I know that motel. It’s two miles away from my house.
I know that diner. I’ve had lunch there more times than I can count.
I know what this is.
This is the death of every good soul around me. These are souls that need to pass on. The souls I would direct a gentry toward.
This is what I would feel if I never had the Aegis in the first place. This is what a seer really is. No wonder seer’s just line up to get their eyes cut out. If this is what I saw every night before maturity, I’d do anything to make it stop.
I still might.
Shaking, I brush my teeth, noticing the graying gauntness of my face in the vanity mirror.
I can survive this, I think as I rinse and spit into the sink. Stripping off my underwear, I toss them in the hamper and step under the scalding spray.
On autopilot, I shower, rinsing the horrors from last night off my skin, thinking of nothing as the world swirls away to blackness.
Chapter Eighteen
RHYS
The midday sun shines across my face, and I wake wrapped around a still-sleeping Aurelia. Her back is to me, her damp hair tickles my nose as I sigh in relief.
She slept. Thank the Fates.
I drop a kiss to her shoulder and the tender skin of her neck, noticing a change to her scent. She smells different somehow, almost like aged parchment and baby powder—the faint cloying scent fills me with unease. I don’t like it and wonder how I could politely ask her to switch body washes to whatever she was using when we first made love.
She stirs, but her controlled stillness bores a hole of worry in my gut. I try to brush it off as the effects of the sleeping medication.
Aurelia rouses, rubbing her ass against my morning erection, and I wrap my arms around her middle to bring her closer. She shifts in my embrace and brushes her soft lips against mine.
