A Witch's Feast (The Memento Mori Series #2)
C.N. Crawford
CHAPTER ONE
Jack
Warm water ran down Jack’s skin, and he watched the sulfurous mud slough off his body and into the drain. Inhaling the steam, he squeezed a big dollop of lavender soap into a loofa and began to scrub at the dried mud and gore on his chest. Red and brown streaks swirled on the shower floor.
He felt a wave of nausea when he thought of Fiona’s face after she’d seen him with the blood dripping down his chin. She’d called him a monster, as if he were Old Cratten himself. He wasn’t sure what had horrified her more: watching him eat someone’s heart, learning of his role in the Salem Witch Trials, or the fact that he’d once been an unsightly old man. He had a suspicion that she was the most repulsed by the thought of him with sagging flesh and rheumy eyes. Well, he was no longer burdened with that body. He scrubbed at the caked dirt on his arms, admiring the smooth skin on his muscles as he did so.
When the shower floor was clear of blood, he turned off the water and stepped out. Grabbing a towel, he rubbed at his black hair and aching limbs. Being hunted out of another dimension by a spirit-assisted army wasn’t something that happened every day, not even to him.
He massaged his shoulders and neck with almond lotion. Fiona would come round. Of course he’d killed people over the years, but someone else had already condemned them to death. That was the point—death is inevitable. The Creator had passed her sentence.
When he was a boy, he had tried to save one person at a time. He had protested when he saw those women whipped in the dirt streets at his father’s orders. (What would his father have done to him if he’d known he was a Philosopher and not a Puritan?)
He sighed. It had always been someone named Ann who was tormented in those days—an Ann being hanged or beaten in the streets, an Ann starving to death in a muddy jail cell, his mother, Ann, losing her mind and thrusting a kitchen knife through the delicate bones in her hand. But what would happen if he had saved one of those Anns? They’d get a short reprieve from their corporeal punishment—no more. The Creator’s curse was universally applied.
A knocking at the door interrupted his thoughts. Elsa, probably. His petite blonde neighbor always found a reason to stop by. She would wait.
He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he pulled on a pair of silk underwear. That idiot, his ancestor Nathaniel Hawthorne, had called him a “black-browed Puritan.” It was true that his eyebrows were black and severe, but beautiful blue eyes twinkled beneath them. He had his diet to thank for his porcelain skin and flushed cheeks. It was only unfortunate that ingesting human flesh left him with a perpetual hunger, gnawing at him even now.
Stretching his arms above his head, he loosened the muscles in his back and stepped into his bedroom, casting a quick glance at the dark storm raging outside. He pulled out gray wool pants, a navy blue T-shirt, and an ashy cashmere sweater from his bureau. As he dressed, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A gypsy moth fluttered near the ceiling, but no aura glowed around it. It was an ordinary moth—not a philosopher’s familiar.
The caller knocked again, louder this time.
“Samael’s skin,” he grumbled as he walked to the entrance. He forced himself to smile as he opened the door.
“Hi, Jack!” Elsa beamed at him and twirled a long strand of blond hair around her finger. “I got a piece of your mail again.”
He smiled, tilting his head. “It’s almost as if you were taking it out of my mailbox.”
Her smile disappeared, and he inhaled the metallic smell of cortisol. Her fear was scrumptious.
He leaned against the doorframe, taking the letter from her hand. “I was only joking.” He lowered his chin and looked up at her from beneath his long lashes.
She smiled again, exhaling. “Oh.”
He moved toward her. “What is that scent you’re wearing? It’s lovely.” Lifting her wrist to his nose, he inhaled and closed his eyes. Could he really be this hungry again?
She blushed, looking away. “Oh, I’m not—it’s not anything. Just me, I guess.”
Her thin wrist lay in his hand as he looked into her eyes, pulling her in slightly closer. He wanted to start with her belly. When the little ribs cracked and the blood flowed hot into his hands… but he mustn’t think about it like that. It was vile, and it wasn’t time to eat yet. “Do you want to come over tomorrow evening for some tea?”
“I’d love that.” She pulled her wrist away. “I could come by at seven.”
“I look forward to it.” He rubbed his thumb over her wrist before releasing it.