Butcher's Crossing Novel Novels & Stories

Blinding. Something collides with the back of my skull and my world tips. I collapse forward, hands scraping against the floor, vision flickering. The voice changes. Now female. Cold. Detached. “He talks too much.” My blood sings in my ear. My body is failing me, limbs heavy as lead. The man speaks again, voice lower. “He’s remembering, that’s the problem.” I try to lift my head and everything spins. Then I feel it–something brushing my face. Fabric. Tight. Restricting.

The sadness in her tone was heavy, matching the gloom of the ruins. I signaled the advance. If the outside looked neglected, the interior was a graveyard of memories. It was silent…..unnervingly so. How am I supposed to find the eldest woman in a ghost town? A heavy thud startled me. I spun around to see Novel sliding from Kitty’s back, hitting the dirt. I rushed to her side, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wanted to roar at the wolf, who at least had the grace to look guilty, but the sight of Novel’s pale, unconscious face silenced my anger.

I scrambled up the metal side steps of the garbage truck and threw myself into the cab just as a fresh wave of bullets shattered the rear glass panel, and Matteo and Paolo were already lying across the floorboards behind the main seats with their weapons pointed out the side vents. "The Butcher is still alive in that wreckage and he’s trying to drag his driver out of the squashed cabin, so give me a clear line from the window so I can finish him before he gets his footing!" Matteo shouted as he tried to hoist his rifle over the dashboard despite the wild bouncing of the heavy truck.

Somewhere farther off, a child began to cry, not from injury but from the force of emotion rolling through walls that were never meant to carry this much living truth. I jerked back just enough to breathe. “We hit the whole pack,” I said, horrified. Ty exhaled hard, forehead still nearly touching mine. “Then we stop letting this crossing happen to us and start steering it.” The route creature writhed as if the ripple through the pack had cut it as badly as the bond-light cut the brine. It had wanted the pair, yes—but not like this. Not openly chosen. Not witnessed. Not strong enough to carry itself upward into the living pack before it could be shaped by rot. The half-made things around the

David’s backup is arriving soon! I felt a jolt of anxiety. I did not expect him to have help coming. However, my anxiety disappeared immediately when I saw David and Sarah get pinned down to the bench. I wonder who would be faster: the rescue team or the knife? The butcher spat on the ground and raised his blade, but the pigs were fighting back with hysterical strength. The butcher grumbled, “They’re kicking around too much. I can’t get a clean angle to cut into them.” The comments exploded with compliments.

Mateo's scream fills the room, his chair screeches as it rocks and shakes when he tries to move away from the butcher whose matchet glared menacingly at him. A very timid and foolish attempt but at least that shows how much strength he has gathered in him. I scoff. Just a little more while and you will be drained of energy and blood. Butcher holds his right hand with so little force despite Mateo's futile attempts to release his hand. His hand is placed hard on the table beside him, Butcher skillfully singles out his index finger which had a golden ring wrapped around it. His red tuxedo shirt is open and its flaps hid the about-to-be gruesome scene.

He didn't even slow down. ‎ ‎He moved faster than my eyes could track. One second he was ten feet away; the next, he was in Vance’s face. ‎ ‎Vance fired. Bang. ‎ ‎The Butcher didn't flinch. He sidestepped the bullet with a supernatural grace, spinning past Vance’s guard. ‎ ‎With a movement almost too casual to be an attack, the Butcher swung his free hand. He backhanded Vance across the face. ‎ ‎The sound was like a gunshot, the crack of a neck breaking.

Yet now, just like her mother, she chose Luther over me. Leaning against the headboard, Luther smiled and picked Naomi up in his arms. "You're really my sweet girl, aren't you, Naomi?" Willow immediately stepped forward with concern. "How are you feeling? Is your head still spinning?" What a perfect picture of a family of three. A cold laugh escaped my throat as I shook my head, forcing down the dull ache in my chest. Once I picked up my ID and passport, I turned to leave. … After booking my flight, I stared at my phone. The screen showed a departure three days away. I looked up at the full moon hanging in the sky, and my thoughts began to drift.

Butcher turns to them, "And, let her starve. You can't think clearly on an empty stomach." ... A group of Fords drive through a bush path in a convoy, with the morning sun shining brightly over them. After riding through the trees and birds sounds for hours, they halt at Mr. Butcher's mansion in the woods. One of the drivers in the middle car quickly drops and opens the passenger door. Classic black heels, a fine leg, then a body comes comes out of the car. It's Agatha. A dozen men drops from the cars in fine suits. "Agatha, what's she doing here?" Mrs. Butcher peeks through the window in the living room.

“There’s a difference, and I’m aware of it.” “Damien Cross, one of the most powerful men in New York, burned pasta.” “I did not burn it,” he said, wounded. “I merely gave it more attention than it required.” I laughed, real and unguarded, and sat down across from him, and it didn’t matter at all that the sauce was slightly scorched, because he’d done it with his own hands instead of asking staff to do it for him, because some part of him still wanted to prove he could give me something ordinary after a day that had asked us both to carry something extraordinary and heavy.