shoulders.
The dream clamped down tighter on Jeb, drew him in. He was a child again—thirteen to the day—shamed at his chattering teeth and the warmth trickling down his thighs beneath his nightshirt.
“D-dead,” he stammered. “D-dad’s dead.” That’s what they told him, Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary.
“Know it was you mother that did it?” the masked man said.
“Liar!” Jeb screamed. He’d heard it before, every night. “You’re nothing but a—”
“Looks to me,” Mortis said—coz Jeb was back to being aware of the dream again, and knew the masked man for who he was—“you got yourself a choice to make.”
The child Jeb whimpered and snatched the vain comfort of the bed-sheet to him.
Mortis’s gloved hand shot out, grabbed him by the collar. The other hand came up clutching something metal, pressed a stubby barrel right between Jeb’s eyes. The young Jeb in the dream had no idea what it was, but the Jeb helplessly watching knew it for a gun. Mortis had told him as much during training, showed him what it could do.
“You can side with your ma or your pa; I don’t care which. But let me just say something before you make your mind up: Your mother was a husk, a demon-bitch and a whore to boot. She’s the one that killed your pa with all the mercy of one of those spiders that eats its mate.”
“You won’t say that when she comes back to get me,” Jeb said.
Green smoke coiled from the mouth slit of Mortis’s mask, making Jeb choke. “What if she doesn’t come back, boy? What if she’s gone for good?”
Jeb stiffened. Gone for good? She’d had no choice, he’d always told himself. But she was always coming back for him, for her little Jeb.
He wanted to tear that mask off, gouge out those diseased eyes with his fingers, but the barrel pressed harder into his forehead for a second, before Mortis dragged him from the room and bundled him down the stairs.
Uncle Joe was sprawled at the bottom, a bloody pool spreading out from the back of his head. Jeb was too numb to do more than register it. Mortis just shoved him past and kept him moving with the barrel prodding him between the shoulder blades.
Aunt Mary was folded over the kitchen table, splayed fingers reaching for the bread knife. The back of her nightdress was crimson in two places, her throat slit and weeping blood.
Out in the yard, Mortis threw Jeb to the ground and loomed over him.
“Way I see it, you got half your mother’s blood, half your father’s. Makes you half a husk by my reckoning, same as me, same as all the husk hunters.”
Jeb knew of the husks, knew they were supposed to come from Qlippoth on the other side of the Malfen Pass, but his mother wasn’t one! He couldn’t remember pa none; he’d died soon after Jeb was born, they said; but ma had raised him till he was four, and then she’d gone.
She’s the one that killed your pa…
He scooted back in the dirt, racking his brains. Ma wasn’t a husk. Couldn’t have been. She’d been kind to him, hadn’t she? Loved him more than anyone else? He’d got that idea in his head, had it all along, but could he swear it was the truth?
Mortis ground his boot into Jeb’s shoulder to stop him squirming. He raised the gun skyward and let it boom like thunder. Smoke plumed from the barrel as he aimed it once more at Jeb’s head.
Down the street a ways, a woman called out, “Keep the shogging noise down! Trying to sleep!” The last was punctuated by the thud of a window being slammed shut.
Any other town, folk might’ve come running, alerted the watch; but this was Malfen, and no one gave a shit. Either they were scared for themselves, or more likely waiting till things died down so they could get first pickings.
“Snap decision, boy,” Mortis said. “Human or husk? You want to hunt demons or be hunted?”
“No,” Jeb sputtered. “I mean, wait.”
“Time’s up.” Mortis stooped to thrust the barrel in Jeb’s mouth.
“Mmmph!” Jeb wriggled and
The dream clamped down tighter on Jeb, drew him in. He was a child again—thirteen to the day—shamed at his chattering teeth and the warmth trickling down his thighs beneath his nightshirt.
“D-dead,” he stammered. “D-dad’s dead.” That’s what they told him, Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary.
“Know it was you mother that did it?” the masked man said.
“Liar!” Jeb screamed. He’d heard it before, every night. “You’re nothing but a—”
“Looks to me,” Mortis said—coz Jeb was back to being aware of the dream again, and knew the masked man for who he was—“you got yourself a choice to make.”
The child Jeb whimpered and snatched the vain comfort of the bed-sheet to him.
Mortis’s gloved hand shot out, grabbed him by the collar. The other hand came up clutching something metal, pressed a stubby barrel right between Jeb’s eyes. The young Jeb in the dream had no idea what it was, but the Jeb helplessly watching knew it for a gun. Mortis had told him as much during training, showed him what it could do.
“You can side with your ma or your pa; I don’t care which. But let me just say something before you make your mind up: Your mother was a husk, a demon-bitch and a whore to boot. She’s the one that killed your pa with all the mercy of one of those spiders that eats its mate.”
“You won’t say that when she comes back to get me,” Jeb said.
Green smoke coiled from the mouth slit of Mortis’s mask, making Jeb choke. “What if she doesn’t come back, boy? What if she’s gone for good?”
Jeb stiffened. Gone for good? She’d had no choice, he’d always told himself. But she was always coming back for him, for her little Jeb.
He wanted to tear that mask off, gouge out those diseased eyes with his fingers, but the barrel pressed harder into his forehead for a second, before Mortis dragged him from the room and bundled him down the stairs.
Uncle Joe was sprawled at the bottom, a bloody pool spreading out from the back of his head. Jeb was too numb to do more than register it. Mortis just shoved him past and kept him moving with the barrel prodding him between the shoulder blades.
Aunt Mary was folded over the kitchen table, splayed fingers reaching for the bread knife. The back of her nightdress was crimson in two places, her throat slit and weeping blood.
Out in the yard, Mortis threw Jeb to the ground and loomed over him.
“Way I see it, you got half your mother’s blood, half your father’s. Makes you half a husk by my reckoning, same as me, same as all the husk hunters.”
Jeb knew of the husks, knew they were supposed to come from Qlippoth on the other side of the Malfen Pass, but his mother wasn’t one! He couldn’t remember pa none; he’d died soon after Jeb was born, they said; but ma had raised him till he was four, and then she’d gone.
She’s the one that killed your pa…
He scooted back in the dirt, racking his brains. Ma wasn’t a husk. Couldn’t have been. She’d been kind to him, hadn’t she? Loved him more than anyone else? He’d got that idea in his head, had it all along, but could he swear it was the truth?
Mortis ground his boot into Jeb’s shoulder to stop him squirming. He raised the gun skyward and let it boom like thunder. Smoke plumed from the barrel as he aimed it once more at Jeb’s head.
Down the street a ways, a woman called out, “Keep the shogging noise down! Trying to sleep!” The last was punctuated by the thud of a window being slammed shut.
Any other town, folk might’ve come running, alerted the watch; but this was Malfen, and no one gave a shit. Either they were scared for themselves, or more likely waiting till things died down so they could get first pickings.
“Snap decision, boy,” Mortis said. “Human or husk? You want to hunt demons or be hunted?”
“No,” Jeb sputtered. “I mean, wait.”
“Time’s up.” Mortis stooped to thrust the barrel in Jeb’s mouth.
“Mmmph!” Jeb wriggled and
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