Prologue: Damn Good.
Sons of the CullHe’d dislocated his jaw 6 times.
Hyperextension fueled by excessive enthusiasm during dinner was the cause. Hot iron abates the slow creep of death. But it can’t fix self-destructive behavior. “Sorry, it just feels damn good,” he argued — it was unclear what for. Moral compass askew, he met the Culling at a crossroads.
Fair skin ripened her fairer .
240 years of plucking red apples with ease festered into overconfidence. It’s all true. Garlic. Mirrors. Sunlight. Fire. He remembers the fire. Deep, bubbling, pressing tight against his dry throat.
Sensing his approach by the wayside, she asked, “Do you mean to kill me?”
“Tis but one of my many talents,” he answered, bowing low.
“At long last! Salvation from these earthly bonds!” she squealed in delight. “ these useless wings dry, my eternal lover!”
He’d rarely received such praise for his deeds. Stretching lips wide, skin ripped. Features disappeared behind even rows of teeth. Saliva melted through flesh on contact. And she folded into that faceless cavern. Sinking until leather shoes slapped against wet mud.
“Tastes like chicken,” he mused, hacking up black feathers.
He dislocated his jaw a 7th time, stoking the flames of war without care. Valkyries in horse-drawn chariots descended from the clouds. Vampires were scattered to the edges of nowhere. The Culling threatened their very existence, but he just felt “damn good.”
Comments