Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I know what Abe would say, that it’s immoral and inhumane.
But the more I drink from this Syren, the more I realize that’s something I’ll never be able to escape, no matter how often I pray to a God who doesn’t hear me, no matter how the world sees me as a man of faith.
I am immoral.
I am inhumane.
I’m not even human anymore.
Yet I need to drink human blood to survive. And if it’s a Syren’s blood, that’s even better. Isn’t it kinder to keep one savage creature, such as this fish-woman, as my food source than it is to slaughter people every week? I’d be doing the world a favor, saving the lives she would have killed, as well as the ones I would have killed.
I’m doing God a favor.
She really will be my salvation, I think.
With that thought, I manage to tear my teeth from her neck before I lose all control. Blood flows freely in the water, and she’s losing consciousness, her eyes fluttering closed as she becomes limp in my arms. Hopefully, I haven’t already killed her.
I want to keep her alive forever.
I want to keep her. Forever.
I turn around in the water, one arm hooked under hers, and start swimming toward the shore. It doesn’t take long before I feel the stones under my feet, and I stagger out of the water, holding the Syren in my arms. Here, in the bitterly cold wind that ushers in a thick, rolling fog, she looks utterly vulnerable and out of her element. If I ignore her tail, she could be a damsel I just rescued.
But I am not here to rescue her.
I’m here to make her bleed.
I don’t waste any time taking her directly to the chapel. My cottage is small, with thin walls and too many windows, and while the church itself is always open to everyone, the back room is locked and has no windows.
I kick open the heavy main doors, hoping that some wayward soul hasn’t come inside to pray while I’ve been gone. The church is empty, quiet, like it’s been holding its breath and waiting for me.
I stride down the aisle, leaving a trail of water and blood behind us, and head straight to the back door of the chapel. I don’t dare glance at the altar or the paintings of saints on the walls, disapproval apparent on their faces. They’ll realize I need to do this; they’ll understand that I’m saving their flock by taking out another wolf.
The back room smells like muddled herbs, wood, aging linens, and old blood. The casks are in a row along the far wall, and there’s a small desk and chair with stacks of extra Bibles. I keep everything else organized in woven bins, half of which have gone moldy in this climate, no matter how dry the room seems to be.
Then, there is the heavy, life-sized cross leaning against the wall. When Abe first brought me here, the government was in the middle of upgrading their church and had taken down this worn cross above the altar, one that had been made from a giant oak in Salamanca, and put up a smaller, more ornate silver one. It was supposed to signify a more dignified future for the village, perhaps a more dignified God.
I always found it to be a bit insulting. God wasn’t found in the riches; no, he was found in the simple things, like worn, rough wood from the homeland. An expensive, lavish cross didn’t mean this village was any closer to heaven than with an old wooden one.
But none of that matters now. I have a cross at my disposal, and God would want me to use it.
I carefully place the Syren on the floor. She’s completely still, eyes closed, and I stare at her for a moment to see if she’s breathing. She has gills on her neck, three lines that attempt to flutter open, then stop, sticking together.
Perhaps she will die, and my plan will be thwarted, but either way, I need to get more blood out of her now while I can.
Though I can see well in the dark, I need light to do this properly. I light a few candles around the room, and then I go to the cross and yank out the long spikes that have been drilled in the arms for morbid reverence. I grab some rope that’s stacked in the corner, and with a grunt, I pull the Syren up off the ground and place her back against the cross, quickly wrapping the rope around one arm, then the other, until she’s suspended.
She slumps forward, her long, wet blonde hair hanging in her face, dripping on the floor. The weight of her upper body pulls on her arms until they dislocate with a pop, so I let her tail rest against the ground to give her some support. I know enough that it’s not the nails that killed those who were crucified. No, it was suffocation from the pressure on the lungs. I am unsure how much a Syren can take, but a human on a cross would die in less than twenty-four hours.