House of Sighs
TWENTY-FIVE
It wasn’t Liz on top of him anymore.
Lightning recollection struck and burned: Jack, the man who tried to kill him, the man who wielded scissors, a feral opportunist with short-cropped hair and hatred in his heart. Crests of dead trees grew out of his back like angel wings. That hateful face perched at its center, eyes weeping blood.
Lips parted to spit a severed centipede at Michael’s face.
“Ever wondered what it’s like to be cut?” asked The Beast inside his attacker. No, not inside. This was Jack. Its voice undulated, hummed, the brushing of fly wings over rotting road kill.
Bab Populer