Butcher & Blackbird by Brynne Weaver EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Brynne Weaver
- Language: English
- Genre: Romantic Suspense
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
ICHI-GO, ICHI-EE
SLOANE
Being a serial killer who kills serial killers is a great hobby…
Until you find yourself locked in a cage.
For three days.
With a dead body.
In the Louisiana summer.
With no air conditioning.
I glare at the fly-riddled corpse laying beyond the locked door of my
cage. The buttons of Albert Briscoe’s shirt strain against the bloat of his
distended, green-gray stomach. His moving stomach, the thin skin
undulating over the gasses and maggots that chew through the flesh
beneath. The stench of decay, the buzz of insects, the smell of shit and piss
that have vacated his body, it’s fucking revolting. And I’m not squeamish.
But I have standards. I prefer my corpses fresh. I just want to take my
trophies and stage my scene and go, not hang around and watch as they
liquefy.
As if on cue, there’s a quiet tearing sound, like wet paper ripping apart.
“No…”
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I can almost hear Albert from beyond the grave: Yes.
“Oh no no no…”
It’s happening. This is for killing me, you fucking bitch.
The skin splits open and a white mass of maggots tumbles out, like little
orzo pastas. Except a significant number of those pastas are crawling
toward me at a glacial pace, looking for a quiet place to complete the next
stage of their maggoty lifecycle.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I schooch on my bum across the grimy stone
floor of my cage to curl myself into a ball. My forehead presses to my
knees until my brain aches. I start to hum in the hope I’ll drown out the
sounds that are suddenly too loud around me. My melody grows louder, and
louder, until my chapped lips start to form the occasional word. No one here
can love or understand me… Blackbird, bye, bye … I hum and sing until the
words fade away, and the melody too.
“I renounce my wicked ways,” I say after the song disintegrates among
the dust motes and the hum of opalescent insect wings.
“That’s a shame. I bet I would like your wicked ways.”
I startle at the sound of a man’s deep, smooth voice, the cadence of a
faint Irish accent warming every note. My curses cut the humid air when
my head smashes against an iron cross-bar of my small cell as I scurry out
of reach of the man who saunters into the thin thread of light from the
narrow window, the glass opaque with fly shit.
“You seem to be in a predicament,” he says. A lopsided grin sneaks
across his face, the rest of his features sheathed in shadow. He takes a few
steps into the room to stare down at the corpse, bending to get a closer look.
“What’s your name?”
I’m on day three of no coffee. No food. My stomach has probably
imploded and sucked other organs into the void. A loud chorus of
desperately hungry internal monologue is trying to convince me that those
are, in fact, little orzo pastas marching toward me, and they might just be
edible.
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