Page 7 of Nightshades
I yank the roots from his body, along with the piece of rib I’ve snagged. He collapses on the ground, vomiting again. I jump back to miss the sprays of bile and growl.
“Don’t get your fucking puke on me.” I kick him in the gut, hearing a few more bones break.
He screams, blood trickling down his bottom lip, and his cries for help are an endless echo chamber.
“No one can hear you, William.” I grip him by the throat and slam him against the bars of his enclosure. “It’s just you”—I poke him in the chest—“and me.” I grin.
I cup my hand over my ear, pretending to focus on the roars of all the creatures in this nightmare zoo. “I think they are getting hungry.”
He shakes his head. “Please, no. No. I’ll do anything.” He crawls to me, clutching onto my right leg. His hand can’t even fully wrap around my ankle.
He is a sorry excuse of a man.
The nightmare pins him against the bars, the roots of the nightshade tying his limbs to the enclosure so he can’t try to get free.
I lift the rib into the air, imagining a sharper tip, and the plant twines together, breaking the tip of the bone into the angle I had been thinking of. I grin, showing the sharp rows of my teeth.
“I’m going to skin you alive, William. I’m going to feed you to the animals you fear. I’m going to make sure that the way you die is the worst way. Why is that?”
Blood rolls down his chest from his mouth. By the smell of him, he is already dying from internal bleeding. I forgot my own strength when I kicked him.
“Because”—he sobs—“Because of what I did to you. Not for what you turned into, but the process.”
“Good. See? You can learn. You’re lucky I’m not shoving this rib up your ass, William. Unlike you, I’m not that sick.” Placing the sharp bone on his shoulder, I begin to cut, igniting blood-curdling screams from him. “But in ways, I’m so much sicker.”
I love my new life.
And I can’t wait to bring havoc to the world of people who deserve it.
My entire life, I knew I wanted to be a detective. I always dreamed of being in the big city, solving horrid murders to bring justice to victims who can’t speak.
Never in my wildest dreams did I go from being a cop in New York City to a detective in a small town. I came here because there was no more growth for me in NYC. I would have had to wait years to be a detective, and I didn’t want to, so I applied to jobs all around the country.
When Sheriff Jake Holland called to offer me the job, I knew I couldn’t turn it down. Something inside my soul told me to pack up and give this small town a try.
“Detective Sanchez. Are you ready for your first official day?” Sheriff Holland stops in front of my desk, handing me a cup of coffee that does not smell like it has been sitting in the pot all night.
I can get used to this.
“Yes, sir. I’m ready to tackle anything you can give me.”
He hooks his left hand on his belt, taking a small sip of his coffee. “Typically, it’s pretty quiet, but over the last few years, we have seen an uptick in crimes. I want to emphasize again that this is a small town, Detective. There might not be much for you to do all the time. This typically isn’t the first place a detective would come. You are sure this is where you want to be? If not, I can make a few calls and see if I can’t get you into a bigger town—maybe even a city. I don’t have a lot of pull, but being a sheriff helps.”
“I’m here for a reason. I believe that. The universe wouldn’t guide me here if I wasn’t meant to be here. I’m going to give it a chance.”
He showcases his handsome smile. “That’s what I like to hear. Let me introduce you to the rest of the force.”
If he weren’t my boss, I would ask him out for a drink, but I never mix business with pleasure. That’s too messy. I’ve seen what happens when you combine work and personal relationships. They are career killers, and I’ve worked too hard and have come too far to let a man—of any caliber—ruin what I have rightfully earned.
“Zig. Waylon. Jenkins. Come meet our detective!” Sheriff Holland shouts into the only room of the police station.
A few old desks sit in the middle with stacks of paperwork that file clerks are currently organizing. Unlike the city, there isn’t a front desk here. If anyone has a problem here, they can walk in and speak to anyone they want.
Waylon, Zig, and Jenkins stand next to their boss. Waylon is the biggest of the crew. His khaki uniform sleeves stretch over his bulging biceps, which are bigger than my head. He is definitely the muscle on the team. He wears a scowl, seeming pissed off at anything and everything.
“Fellas, I want you to meet Lula Sanchez, our lead detective. She’s come from New York City, so please, don’t chase her off. And please, no rude comments. I better not see any sexual harassment paperwork on my desk. That goes for you too, Sanchez.”
“You won’t have to worry about that with me, sir,” I state, taking a casual sip of my coffee. I eye the men up and down, showing my distaste. “Respectfully, none of them are my type.”