Page 16 of Wednesday

Winters knocked around noon, a stack of papers clutched in his bony hands. His voice reached me as if I were underwater, the words distorted and meaningless. I nodded whenever his eyebrows raised, signed where he pointed, barely noticing the concerned frown he gave me before walking away.

Alone again, I slumped at the kitchen table and stared at nothing. Andrew Coleson's memories kept surfacing without warning. A childhood bike crash that left a scar on a knee I did not have. A promotion celebration with coworkers whose names I somehow knew. A Christmas morning with children I had never had gathered around a tree I had never decorated.

I blinked, and suddenly the kitchen was bathed in late afternoon shadows. Hours had disappeared in what felt like minutes. The coffee mug in front of me was cold, a thin film on its surface. I wrinkled my nose and got up to dump it out. I needed to get a grip.

When darkness finally fell, I left for my rounds. I was not going to seek him out tonight. I was halfway through the cemetery when I felt it. A shift in the air pressure, a prickling awareness crawling across my skin.

When I finally turned, Morrow stood ten yards away, his gaunt form backlit by the moon. His gaze moved over me. Whatever he saw made him smile wide enough to show his teeth. It was still as terrifying as it had been the night we met, but what I felt was far from fear.

After a long moment, Morrow lifted one hand, beckoning. I stepped forward to take it without hesitation, our palms sliding together until our fingers locked. My nipples immediately hardened and I had to look away.

We moved silently through the older sections, past weathered Victorian angels and crumbling obelisks. There was nothing but the wind, the whisper of grass beneath my boots, and the chirp of crickets. I could feel the cold radiating from him as we walked, but it felt comforting. Present.

We walked until I saw the mound of fresh dirt. The temporary marker read "Samuel Wilson, 1935-2025." Morrow glanced at me before letting go of my hand. I curled my fingers into a fist and stuffed it in my jacket pocket as I watched him.

He knelt and began to dig. His elongated fingers parted the soil, quickly creating a hole and then a narrow tunnel. I watched, transfixed. He slowly vanished from view and I heard the crunch of the coffin lid. The wet, terrible sound of ripping flesh.

Then he reappeared, dragging the upper half of a body behind him. Without conscious thought, I found myself moving closer. Morrow's body tensed, his long fingers flexing on his meal. But he made no move to send me away. Instead, after a moment's hesitation, he shifted to give me a better view.

I knelt beside him, close enough that my jacket sleeve brushed against his arm. Morrow's jaw unhinged, revealing rows of teeth that gleamed like tiny daggers in the moonlight. He bent over Samuel's chest, those teeth sinking through fabric and flesh with practiced precision.

I did not look away. Could not look away. The wet sounds of feeding, the methodical efficiency with which Morrow consumed, the careful way he avoided damaging the suit beyond what was necessary. All of it held me in horrified fascination.

When he finally raised his head, dark fluid stained his lipless mouth and dripped from his blackened nails. He turned toward me as if looking for disgust or fear. There was none. Instead, I leaned closer.

Morrow went perfectly still as I reached toward him. Not touching, but near enough that my fingertips hovered just above the dark stain on his jaw. He caught my wrist, his grip just short of bruising. For a heartbeat, I thought he would push me away. Instead, he turned my palm upward and, with deliberate slowness, drew one blackened nail across my skin.

Blood welled from the shallow cut, bright red in the light of my phone. Morrow released me with a look. He sliced into his own palm with far less care. Dark black blood seeped from the wound. Without words, he pressed our bleeding hands together, his cold flesh against my heat.

The world shattered and reformed behind my eyes.

Samuel Wilson's life crashed into my consciousness. Playing stickball in Brooklyn during World War II, the telegram announcing his brother's death in Korea, the first time he saw his future wife across a crowded school dance, the indescribable moment his first child was placed in his arms, the quiet pride of thirty years teaching high school chemistry, the slow torture of watching his wife disappear into the fog of Alzheimer's, the empty silence of his final years in a care facility.

It was beauty and sorrow, pleasure and pain. Instead of drowning in the flood, I found myself able to ride the current, to observe the fragments of a life I had never lived without losing myself. And beneath these memories, threading through them like a dark undercurrent, was Morrow himself. His consciousness brushed against mine, vast and cold and ancient, revealing glimpses of centuries spent in shadow, watching, waiting, feeding. Not in words or even coherent images, but in impressions that left me shivering.

I was dimly aware of Morrow's other hand sliding to the small of my back, pulling me closer until I was pressed against the angles of his body. His touch felt different than before. More possessive. His long fingers splayed wide, sliding under my waistband as the memories continued to flow between us.

His claws skimmed over my ass and his hand lightly squeezed. I moaned, rising onto my knees to face him fully. My nipples were hard little peaks brushing the cups of my bra, adding to the heat pooling between my thighs.

I spread my knees as far apart as I could, as I felt Morrow loom over me. His cold hand slipped down until he found the slick folds of my pussy. I fumbled to grab a handful of his clothes, dragging him closer. His scent was in my head, his skin brushing my nose as I panted. One long finger slowly eased inside me and I cried out.

I tilted my hips, immediately craving more. One knobby joint popped inside me then another and another before his finger crooked. I moaned, my pussy clenching as he pulled back only to plunge back inside with two. My body moved in time with Morrow's hand, meeting his thrusts. I whined against his chest, as his presence in my mind darkened into pure hunger.

I frantically fumbled with my belt buckle, ripping my pants open to shove my hand into my panties. The second my fingers touched my swollen clit I screamed. I jerked my hips into his thrusting fingers as I rubbed at my clit, chasing the pleasure. I had never been so wet, my pussy making filthy squelching sounds every time his fingers moved inside me. My panties were soaked and sticking to my hand.

“Please, please!” I sobbed.

Morrow’s fingers tightened around our joined hands. “You are mine, Carmen Ruiz.” He pressed a third finger into me. “Every part of you.”

I arched, forcing his fingers deeper as I came. My pussy clamped down hard, every muscle in my body frozen in that perfect moment of pleasure. I was vaguely aware of his words in my ear, muddled but heavy with ownership. When my peak finally began to fade, Morrow’s fingers slipped out of me. His hand returned the way it came, pausing to rub my slickness over my back entrance before moving away.

I shivered at the sensation and cracked my eyes open. Morrow’s face was only inches from mine. The inhuman horror of it should have frightened me, but I felt too wrung out to care. Morrow’s black eyes dropped to my lips and I swallowed hard. His were still covered in the remains of Samuel Wilson.

Morrow shifted back, unlinking our fingers. Breaking the blood bond. I sagged against him, watching him lift his hand to his mouth and lick his fingers clean of my arousal. I inhaled shakily, as my pussy clenched.

Morrow's gaze returned to mine, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. What the hell was I doing? My body still hummed with pleasure, every nerve ending tingling. But Morrow was a monster in the purest sense. And I had begged for him like a whore.

Even now, part of me wanted more. I was slick and open, craving a good, hard fuck. It had been years and Morrow was right there… Our eyes met and he smirked. I looked away.

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