Page 25 of Creeping Lily
“Keep running that mouth,” I tell him, my tone low and cold, “and I’ll cut your tongue out. Tell me, Barnaby—how many tongues have you taken in your life? What did you do to her to steal her voice?”
His head lifts sluggishly, one eye nearly swollen shut. Through the puffed flesh, he stares. “Who are you?”
“I’m your retribution,” I hiss. Anger simmers hot in my chest. There’ll be no mercy for him.
“What do you… want?” he rasps.
Always the same stupid questions.
“Nothing you could give me.” My voice is flat, emotionless. I press the knife to his chest, the steel scraping over his skin, carving a fresh line. It’s shallow, just enough to sting. Just enough to make me feel like I’m peeling him open in pieces.
He’s tied to the chair now, wrists and ankles biting against the zip ties. Hopeless. Begging with his eyes for some scrap of redemption he’ll never get. The girl—Mary Jane, though he calls her something else—is in another room, safe. Her parents are already on their way; I sent them a message updating them to pick her up.
By the time the Denauds arrive, I’ve had my fill. I tell them what I’ve found—that the woman here is almost certainly Mary Jane, but DNA will confirm it. That she’s endured horrors most people couldn’t imagine. That she has a child—father unknown—because Barnaby likely traded her body to the drifters who passed through.
Their reunion is fragile, bittersweet. Deanna—Mary Jane—hovers back at first, but she doesn’t pull away when her mother’s hand touches her arm. I give them a choice: finish Barnaby themselves. Even Mary Jane gets the offer. Sometimes the only closure is taking back the power yourself. But she just shakes her head, eyes shadowed. She parts her lips like she might speak, then shuts them again without a sound.
Before she leaves, she stands by the back door, her boy on her hip, and gives me a small, tight smile. Gratitude, wordless but heavy. Then she walks into the night, her parents guidingher away, and I know I’ll never see her again. That’s the nature of my work.
I turn back to Barnaby. Hours of poking and cutting have left him slumped, head hanging to his chest.
“Wakey wakey,” I say in a singsong tone.
His head lifts slowly, his gaze dull but defiant. He spits—missing me, the saliva landing at my boots.
“You’re fucked, you damn motherfucker,” he slurs.
“Well, would you look at that,” I murmur with a grin.
Through the flyscreen, I catch the sound before I see it—rain slamming against the side of the house. The scent of fresh-cut grass drifts in, mixing with the copper tang of blood. Thunder growls low, the sky bruising darker by the second. Rain has a way of washing things clean. I do my part by washing filth from the world.
“It’s raining!” I say, my voice lifting in mock delight.
Barnaby stares at me like I’m the insane one here. Maybe I am. He jerks his chin up, eyes wild. “Undo me, you psycho.”
I give him my most genuine smile yet. Humming, I sway on my feet like we’re dancing. My voice lilts into a twisted nursery rhyme:
“Rain, rain, go away
Come again another day
One more demon heart to slay
You’ll have a fleeing soul to claim.”
“You’re certifiable,” he spits back. “I’m going to skin you alive.”
He jerks in the chair, the zip ties biting deeper into his skin. His wrists are raw. He’s not breaking free.
This—being trapped—is a punishment he’s never tasted before. The man’s a killer, just like me. But not the kind that picks good targets. He’s not the type of killer that kills for justice.
I smirk, meeting his furious eyes with my own. “This is going to be fun.”
I step behind him, fist tangling in his greasy hair. I yank back hard until his neck bends at an awkward angle, forcing him to stare up at my upside-down face.
“My only regret,” I say softly, “is that I’ll probably meet you again one day in hell.”
The knife flashes in my hand. I drive it deep into the side of his throat. The steel bites through muscle, through life. I drag it across, slow and sure. A hot spray erupts, splattering the wall, my hands, the floor. The blood is thick, almost black in the dim light, the smell of iron mixing with the storm outside.
