Page 13 of Creeping Lily

TITAN

B arnaby’s only condition is that he gets to watch.

Given the sickness in his eyes and the evil in his soul, I don’t doubt for a second what he’s hoping for—that I’ll take his woman in front of him, brutalize her until there’s nothing left, and then, sometime in the dead of night, he’ll creep up behind me and put a bullet in my skull.

He strikes me as exactly that kind of coward.

I have no intention of touching her. But I make a show of it—pretend to agree, even pull out the cash. I set it on the table like it’s nothing, take a slow sip of my beer, and then rise to follow him down the narrow hallway.

A small price to pay for what I’ve really come here to do.

The hallway is tight, the air stale with the stink of beer and sour sweat. We’re steps from the bedroom door when I move. Fast.

My arm snakes around his thick neck, my forearm biting into the muscle as I clamp him in a headlock. His breath catches—he wasn’t expecting this—and for one delicious second, I have the advantage. Then the fight kicks in.

He bucks hard, his body going rigid before he thrashes like a hooked animal. His hands claw at my arm, nails scraping skin, trying to pry me loose. His breath comes hot and damp against my forearm, each gasp more ragged than the last.

Barnaby’s heavy, his bulk giving him a brute’s strength. His elbow drives into my ribs, a hard, jarring blow that forces a grunt out of me. Pain flares hot in my side, but I grit my teeth and tighten the choke, cutting off his airway inch by inch.

He slams me backward into the wall. The impact sends a crack through my spine, but I use the momentum, pivoting us so he takes the next hit. We crash into a side table, splintering wood, knocking a lamp to the floor. Glass shatters, and small trinkets scatter like startled insects.

His movements are growing frantic now—less controlled, more desperate. I can feel his pulse hammering against my arm, each beat slowing, his body losing steam.

But he’s not done.

With a last, frantic surge, he shifts his weight, twisting hard. We topple, slamming into the floor. My back takes the brunt, the boards cold and unyielding beneath me. He tries to roll free, but I’m already dragging him back, my arm cinched tight around his throat.

His face is a grotesque mask—skin flushed a deep crimson, sweat slicking his temples, eyes bulging as he gurgles for breath.

And now, finally, there’s fear there. The kind that tells him this might be the end.

The kind that says no one’s ever gotten this close to taking him out before—and no one will again.

He swings wildly, a blind fist connecting with my jaw. White light bursts behind my eyes, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. My grip slips, just enough for him to suck in a desperate, shuddering breath and wriggle halfway free.

It’s a mistake.

He’s barely on his knees before I launch forward, tackling him down. We hit the floor hard, my fists raining down. Every punch is a release—of purpose, of rage, of every moment I’ve imagined this man broken. His body jerks with each blow, the sound of knuckles on flesh echoing in the close space.

His strength ebbs fast. The fight drains from him until he’s little more than a lump of meat under my hands.

Finally, he goes slack. Limp. Finished.

I push off him, chest heaving, sweat running down my spine. Barnaby lies there on the floor, face swollen and mottled with bruises, breathing in shallow, uneven pulls. The monster’s gone. What’s left is a ruin—a pitiful, gasping man who knows he’s been beaten.

The room is silent now except for the harsh rhythm of our breathing. The air is thick with the stench of sweat and violence. I stand over him, catching my breath, and think about how easy it is to take away everything from someone who’s made a life of taking from others.

The first cut is just a whisper across his skin—barely enough to break the surface.

I jab again, the knife’s tip digging into the thick flesh of his belly, starting just above his navel.

His skin jumps under the blade. Within an hour, fourteen shallow lines crisscross his stomach, each one an ugly red welt.

None deep enough to kill him. Not yet. Because I always leave the best for last.

Barnaby slurs every curse he knows, his voice thick, his words meant to cut as sharp as my knife.

“Keep running that mouth,” I tell him, my tone low and cold, “and I’ll cut your tongue out. Tell me, Barnaby—how many tongues have you taken in your life? What did you do to her to steal her voice? ”

His head lifts sluggishly, one eye nearly swollen shut. Through the puffed flesh, he stares. “Who are you?”

“I’m your retribution,” I hiss. Anger simmers hot in my chest. There’ll be no mercy for him.

“What do you… want?” he rasps.

Always the same stupid questions.

“Nothing you could give me.” My voice is flat, emotionless. I press the knife to his chest, the steel scraping over his skin, carving a fresh line. It’s shallow, just enough to sting. Just enough to make me feel like I’m peeling him open in pieces.

He’s tied to the chair now, wrists and ankles biting against the zip ties.

Hopeless. Begging with his eyes for some scrap of redemption he’ll never get.

The girl—Mary Jane, though he calls her something else—is in another room, safe.

Her parents are already on their way; I sent them a message updating them to pick her up.

By the time the Denauds arrive, I’ve had my fill.

I tell them what I’ve found—that the woman here is almost certainly Mary Jane, but DNA will confirm it.

That she’s endured horrors most people couldn’t imagine.

That she has a child—father unknown—because Barnaby likely traded her body to the drifters who passed through.

Their reunion is fragile, bittersweet. Deanna—Mary Jane—hovers back at first, but she doesn’t pull away when her mother’s hand touches her arm.

I give them a choice: finish Barnaby themselves.

Even Mary Jane gets the offer. Sometimes the only closure is taking back the power yourself.

But she just shakes her head, eyes shadowed.

She parts her lips like she might speak, then shuts them again without a sound.

Before she leaves, she stands by the back door, her boy on her hip, and gives me a small, tight smile. Gratitude, wordless but heavy. Then she walks into the night, her parents guiding her away, and I know I’ll never see her again. That’s the nature of my work.

I turn back to Barnaby. Hours of poking and cutting have left him slumped, head hanging to his chest.

“Wakey wakey,” I say in a singsong tone.

His head lifts slowly, his gaze dull but defiant. He spits—missing me, the saliva landing at my boots.

“You’re fucked, you damn motherfucker,” he slurs.

“Well, would you look at that,” I murmur with a grin.

Through the flyscreen, I catch the sound before I see it—rain slamming against the side of the house.

The scent of fresh-cut grass drifts in, mixing with the copper tang of blood.

Thunder growls low, the sky bruising darker by the second.

Rain has a way of washing things clean. I do my part by washing filth from the world.

“It’s raining!” I say, my voice lifting in mock delight.

Barnaby stares at me like I’m the insane one here. Maybe I am. He jerks his chin up, eyes wild. “Undo me, you psycho.”

I give him my most genuine smile yet. Humming, I sway on my feet like we’re dancing. My voice lilts into a twisted nursery rhyme:

“Rain, rain, go away

Come again another day

One more demon heart to slay

You’ll have a fleeing soul to claim.”

“You’re certifiable,” he spits back. “I’m going to skin you alive.”

He jerks in the chair, the zip ties biting deeper into his skin. His wrists are raw. He’s not breaking free.

This—being trapped—is a punishment he’s never tasted before. The man’s a killer, just like me. But not the kind that picks good targets. He’s not the type of killer that kills for justice .

I smirk, meeting his furious eyes with my own. “This is going to be fun.”

I step behind him, fist tangling in his greasy hair. I yank back hard until his neck bends at an awkward angle, forcing him to stare up at my upside-down face.

“My only regret,” I say softly, “is that I’ll probably meet you again one day in hell.”

The knife flashes in my hand. I drive it deep into the side of his throat.

The steel bites through muscle, through life.

I drag it across, slow and sure. A hot spray erupts, splattering the wall, my hands, the floor.

The blood is thick, almost black in the dim light, the smell of iron mixing with the storm outside.

Barnaby’s body shudders once, twice, then goes still.

His last breath is a wet rattle, body sagging forward as the zip ties hold him in place.

The spray on the wall already starts to run, thin rivulets of red crawling toward the floorboards, soaking into the cracks.

The storm outside hammers harder, like the sky’s pounding a war drum just for us.

I step back, chest heaving, knife still in my hand. It drips steadily— tap, tap, tap —onto the warped floor. The rain on the tin roof almost drowns it out. Almost.

The air is heavy with copper and stormwater, thick enough that each inhale tastes like rust and wet earth.

His head hangs low, chin to chest, the gash in his neck still leaking in slow, stubborn streams. The man who thought himself untouchable now looks like every other piece of trash I’ve taken out—small. Diminished. Forgettable.

I wipe the blade on his shirt, though the fabric’s already soaked through. The blood smears instead of coming clean. Figures.

Through the flyscreen door, the rain blurs the outside world into a dark watercolor. The yard is a slurry of mud and weeds. Somewhere far off, a dog howls—long and hollow, as if it knows .

I take a slow walk around him, my boots making wet, sticky sounds against the floorboards. Every angle I look from, he’s less of a threat and more of a carcass.

By the back window, my reflection stares back at me in the glass—eyes darker than I remember, jaw tight, mouth set in something that could be satisfaction or just the absence of guilt. Hard to tell anymore.

I pocket the knife and grab a faded sheet from the laundry pile. Draping it over him feels more like sealing a coffin than covering a body. The fabric clings where it touches the blood. A red bloom spreads slowly through the pale cotton.

For a long moment, I just stand there, watching it seep.

The storm eases into a steady downpour, less violent but colder somehow. I unlatch the flyscreen and step out onto the porch. Rain sprays against my face, cool and sharp, mixing with the sweat on my skin. Out here, the air smells cleaner—washed. Behind me, the house still stinks of death.

I light a cigarette with shaking hands. The first drag burns down my throat, grounding me. In the distance, headlights cut through the curtain of rain—Mary Jane’s parents, on the long road home. By the time they pull into their driveway tonight, she’ll be wrapped in blankets, safe in her own bed.

Barnaby will still be here.

I glance over my shoulder at the sheet-covered shape slumped in the chair.

“You won’t be missed,” I mutter, smoke curling from my lips.

The rain hisses louder, swallowing the words whole.

I finish the cigarette, grind it out on the porch railing, and head back inside. There’s still work to do. Bodies don’t bury themselves. And filth like him deserves an unmarked grave.