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In winter Addison was a picturesque and quaint looking village. Barely more than a few roads with a few more buildings. The fresh layer of sparkling snow wouldn’t last long, nothing so clean looking did, but it did well to hide the decay and corrupt note of the remaining buildings in the early hours of the day. The Larson estate atop the mountain is now the only building in good repair.
A large man picked his way down these weatherworn and forgotten roads. Large was, perhaps, a small understatement.qa His gate slow and steady, like the inevitable movement of a storm drawing close. Easy to see, not so easy to avoid.
There were few people remaining in Addison that would speak with the man. Fewer still, would dare to interrupt him while his face had that foreboding and steely expression barely visible through thick curls.
No one in Addison would stop the man.
Man might not be the right word. Large, yes. Patient and kind in his own way, steady, absolutely. To the children of Addison, those few who remained, were well hidden from the estate overlooking them. To those bright spots he was a treasured uncle.
Was the hulking shape trodding through thick snow, the fresh sparkle already sliding away, human? Well what was your definition of human?
Jack Larson, a relation to the Larson family that overlooked Addison and owned the village. What relation to the infamous family was unclear. It wasn’t something discussed in polite company. Or by those that knew better.
Jack, or Uncle, as the children called him was a kind soul willing to play their games and spoil them with candy. He was the safest of adults apart from the parents still willing to hide them away when the bogeyman came.
Adults knew better.
Uncle was a part he played. Jack was the one always just waiting beneath the surface.
Men and women both would avoid his gaze, his pupils not quite round enough to be human, catching attention and reminding them of the other side of Addison. And the fear of what could come from catching the attention of the Larson family.
The Mines were filled with those unfortunates.
Before him loomed the Red Right Hand Inn. Frozen corpses of wolves swaying in the present breeze. The scent of decay hidden under the snow and ice, for now, they would need to be taken apart before the warmer days returned. Jack wrinkled his nose.
Damn waste.
Old wood groaned beneath his slow steps. Paint flaking away from the door, the bright red now dark and off putting, the handle closer to a toy in his grasp. Uncle knew he could crush it, were he not acutely aware of his strength.
Terrible things happened to those he didn’t know themselves.
Still, he missed when children would climb over his frame. There were so few these days, but he treasured every one. Hard for the population when Wallace dragged so many into his games. Worse still, when he dragged Uncle into those games.
When Wallace called him by name… well Uncle wasn’t that fond of playing Jack Larson these days, anymore than the town was of seeing him.
A fact only proven by the lone customer seated far from the door, head ducked down and jacket collar up to hide their face. Of the bartender, there was no sign. Perhaps on the way out he’d stop for a bottle.
Just to see how the barman would react.
The first step creaked and moaned, long and as guttural a groan as a dying human, an exclamation from the wood at the unexpected weight. Next one groaned just as loudly.
Fucks sake.
Jack gritted his teeth, mentally deciding to ignore the staircase, continuing up even as the steps continued singing of his passage. All letting the last of Uncle’s softer countenance, the soft rolls and heavy features melt away, allowing for thick muscles to bulge under the skin. Jack had a stranger to retrieve.
The second floor, and its few scattered doors, was in better shape, the thicker floor less likely to complain about his movements. Better for ghosting down the hallways. Passing old photographs of a town that hadn’t existed in a generation.
Those photos showed something living. Small buildings with laughing crowds spilling out onto the streets. Trails in the woods decorated with flying ribbons. A large banner, the words hidden from view under the dirty glass, hanging between buildings and excited townsfolk, neither of which still existed apart from memory.
Shaking his head, shaking away the haunting memories, Jack lifted his large head. Nose high and sniffing. Searching for the new scent.
Blood. Dirt. Fear and desperation. Something cold and other. Dust on old stone. Something sweet- burnt sugar.
It made Jack think of A - the thing in the mines. And the voice in the forest that called to those ready to worship. Those ready to run away from it all and turn to the dark nights and the trees ready to embrace their new brethren.
Jack would visit as soon as he had the chance.
Wallace had been alerted to the stranger last night... One of the few leftovers, towners, one desperate to prolong their own miserably fearful lives. Retrieving and escorting this new human up to the Estate was Jack’s job. One made easier by the groan of wood fading to a recent and quiet memory of the small upper corridor, now silenced and vanished.
Oil. Metal. A handgun? Or a well used knife? Steam, soap, wet wood and metal. There it was.
Warmth spilled out into the hallway under a closed door at the far end. Little eddies of steam slipping out and rising to meld with the other scents of the corridor. Even the air tasted warm and wet as Uncle moved closer.
Like the forest after a spring storm. Petrichor rose thick and spread on the wind until it breached the edges of its territory to emerge from the woods. Alive and waiting for the next fool to enter its clutches.
Thick fingers, fewer than most would expect to see, brushed the old paint and wood of the door. Leaning in, one of Uncles’ horns brushed the damp paint, ear pressing tight.
Muffled sounds of splashing came first, a voice quick to follow, masculine and annoyed. Words were indistinguishable, but the sounds of them were short, sharp in a familiar way. Had there been some other stranger who spoke the same? Nothing like the slow drawl that was common of Addison’s long term occupants, of Larson and himself when his voice still worked. Strangers tended not to last long enough to pick up the local accent. But this wasn’t anything close.
“Look,” More annoyance colored the voice. Jack tilted his head, a movement more common to Uncle, wincing at the scratching drag of his horn dragging through the doors flaking paint. “Tell me-”
The grumbled words cut off. The hollow thud of flesh against metal, a splash of moving water. Uncle’s eyes narrowed, grabbing the door knob and squeezing, it felt as delicate and thin as the morals of the town.
“What-”
It was a flimsy door, as worn and derelict as the rest of the village, the metal doorknob squeezed into a ruined lump, Jack already moving as it bounced hollowly. Rearing back, one thick leg rising, Jack’s left foot slammed into the weakened space, all of his strength forced against the space just beneath where the doorknob had been.
A screech of ripping wood and metal, the lock, screeched as the door was ripped off its hinges. The old wood and missing paint sent careening inside, bouncing off the worn tub, sending the sole occupant ducking for cover. The naked stranger bared to the world, yelping as he slid half beneath soapy water, hands raised to cover his face- cursing and desperate to avoid the door bouncing off the tub and flying splinters.
Jack followed, head ducking beneath the doorway, two long and heavy thudding steps bringing him to the old metal and wood tub. The door was kicked again, out of the way this time, allowing Jack to loom over the tub and the shocked eyes of its occupant.
Swinging one leg, larger than both of the thin sticks the soap bubbles did nothing to hide, over the side of the hard tub. Calves hugging the sides of the tub, ass braced on the far end, Jack smirked down, enjoying the horrified expression crossing the stranger’s face a second later.
Was it Jack breaking into the bathroom? Or something else. Did the thick and broad teeth of an omnivore offer some semblance of safety- or did he realize that the unpredictableness of omnivores was so much more dangerous than the expected violence of a predator?
One hand found the bared neck, slamming the man’s head back against the tub- once, twice. Two hands scratched, desperately digging at the wrist flesh, Jack’s smugly quirked lips gaped wider as his grin spread. Reading the frantic fear crossing that expressive face as there were no signs of thin flesh common to humans on the underside of his wrist.
Beneath the casual firm grip, a slender neck and thin face turned darkened from a milky paleness to a dangerously dark reddish purple. The strangers breathe stolen away and unable to return with the inevitable press of Jack’s closing fingers.
Jack leaned closer, free hand braced against the side of the tub, thumb fully submerged by moving water. His left tightened another degree, enjoying the feel of bones starting to grind together.
Glowing eyes, just as bright and yellow as any predator, glared up at Jack. Piercing and promising death even while that slender neck remained trapped in his grip. All slender muscles and bird bones. Those eyes remained glowing with hatred, while the thin lips fell slack around bared teeth, tense shoulders loosening. Falling away with one of the frantically digging hands, floating for one second, before drifting beneath the water.
The other still pressed weakly, less and less, against Jack’s wrist. As though there was any chance to push him away. Any strength left to push back against Jack and escape his hold as the gasping mouth fell, jaw limp against his fist.
And still the eyes gleamed with promises of violence and death.
The stranger was so unapologetically alive- Jack was delighted
Maybe that was why he hadn’t crushed the thin neck. The stranger was a small man, so small, compared to Jack himself. The strength it took to keep him pinned, with one hand, against the tub rim was trivial. Larson would call it insignificant. Drawing out the syllables so the victim could have the time to truly appreciate them.
His right hand, knuckles bulging where they gripped the wooden side, took more effort. That hand bracing the majority of his bulk, keeping it at bay from squashing the now quiet man in the tub.
“Shhh.”
Eyes flared before lids started falling, lashes as pretty as any womans’ fluttering, drawing attention before they became hooded. No need to end the game so soon. Larson could wait a bit longer.
Loosening his grip, knuckles popping, Jack enjoyed the pained wheezing and panicked inhale quick to follow. Those dark lashes fluttering against pale skin like shadow puppets dancing across a sheet. It was cute how the rest of his body was fluttering nearly the same.
Cocking his head to the side, Jack watched the quieting form, loosening his left fist even more. Rubbing a calloused thumb against the fluttering artery dancing up the man’s slender neck and the delicately thin flesh keeping it trapped.
It reminded Jack of the canaries they used to keep. The brave and stupidly stubborn birds had been calmer than this man. Hard to say which had been the smarter creature in the end.
Jack missed those birds. The sweet ones, the one who refused to sing until the end, and that one grumpy bird a little girl had begged her father to keep until there was nothing left to keep.
None of those little birds were left. All lost before they could become a spoiled pet. But this stranger resembled them, perhaps Larson would allow it? Jack knew where the bodies were hidden if the other sidestepped allowing it.
Now that the stranger was quiet, limp and loose in the water, Jack was able to sit back and examine the small man. He’d need to find out the little bird’s name soon. Hair, dark with water, curled around freshly scrubbed skin. Half of his jaw and face was hidden by shaving cream, the other clean shaven and pink where a blade must have been dragged across the skin.
Skin that tensed and rippled as he man stirred.
“Fuck… you…”
Jack looked up, meeting vibrant eyes, well then. This was a simple fix. Seemed the bird man needed some education in manners. Or, knowing when to quit. Jack tightened his grip again. Enjoying the pulse that had slowly calmed down, speeding up again.
Beneath him the stranger writhed and twisted like a landed fish. Desperate to escape and return to a place of oxygen All the while bright yellow eyes fixed on Jack while the owner spat death threats every time he found space to breathe under tightening fingers.
Water splashed over the edges of the tub, wetting Uncle’s pants and more of his jacket covered arm. Slowly it subsided as the stranger stilled and glared. He bared his teeth before snapping them.
Amusement escaped Jack’s throat, the sound more of a chuff than something human. The man beneath him needed a few months of solid meals before Jack would… no. Jack didn’t think he could find the creature terrifying even then.
Now he could enjoy watching the struggling muscles beneath thin skin as the bite sized human thrashed under his hand. Wet and desperate, eyes wild, trying to spit curses past that tight grip.
Water sloshed, Jack shifting backwards, giving him the space to lift the frantically squirming form clear of the tub with one hand around his neck. The second one grabbed one flailing leg, rough fingers sinking into the meat of the thigh. Shaking.
If he’d expected the motion to still the human well he was delighted to be wrong. But…
Larson was expecting the delivery of his prize. Time to play with him was limited.
Pale skin turned red, mouth gasping silently, oxygen vanishing under Uncle’s tightened grip. Expressive eyes rolling wildly, free hands slapping- again clawing at anything they could reach, freeing his throat for half a second.
“Fuck-“
” Shhh .” Jack rumbled leaning forwards pressing into the man and pinning him further. Water splashed, soaking the front of Jack’s clothing as he leaned in. “ Shh .”
Skin returned to the fetching red as oxygen was used up and words fell away. A lack of oxygen and breathing did not stop the threats. Blanched lips still mouthing death threats, until the movements turned slow, slower, stopping.
Moon pale skin had turned vivid red, dark bruises blooming around the press of Jack’s fingers as the last frantic fighting fell away. Wet skin now littered with more shades of colors than the remnants of old paint of the door Jack had completely broken.
Giving another steady squeeze, Jack was slower to release this time. Fingers painfully tense before he loosened them. Watching for signs that the stranger was again playing possum. The birds had never been good at that.
Shifting his weight, Jack pulled back, still watchful. Ignoring the splashing water soaking his clothes and eyed the floating form. Stunned. Muscles tensed and released. Eyelids heavy-
Narrowing his own eyes, Jack watched in interest as those oddly yellow eyes continued darting around the room while the rest of the human had turned loose and limp. Like a doll casually discarded, limbs left scattered where they fell, one arm draped over the edge of the tub still swinging from the useless fight. Hanging fingers twitched but without a sign of purpose to them.
Yellow eyes met Uncle’s again, with a sharp, piercing, glaring, before eyelids slid slowly shut. Hiding all but the smallest sliver of gold and black.
Meanwhile, the scent he could only describe as other, was stronger. Different .
Letting go, Uncle watched as the man slid down, pale skin slowly disappearing under what remained of the soapy water. Less now from the frantic fight.
More of the water dripped off Jack himself, one lone bubble that had survived the one sided struggle was left to slide down his face, drifting to run down one side, wetting tight curls before it popped.
A flash caught Jack’s attention. Just beside the tub, scattered across the floor was a wood tray. It’s contents scattered where a careless knee had knocked it free. The contents now spilled across the floor by one booted foot. A small small hand glass was fractured, the large crack twisting Jack’s face even further. He didn’t need any help being unrecognizable.
But… more importantly, there was a straight razor. Small, delicate, almost toylike in Jack’s meaty hand, as he shifted to pick it up. Pleased when the man remained still as Jack leaned down before straightening with his new treasure. A slow press of his thumb to the shining blade saw blood beading up along a line of split skin. The sharp edge slicing neatly through meaty flesh.
The stranger’s head had fallen, drifting to one side as the shaved side of his face dipped beneath the calming surface of water. Drawing attention back to where stubble was visible past thick suds.
Jack’s thick fingers stroked, brushing curling wet strands of hair away from where they’d fallen across the slack face. Fingers threading through and gripping, pulling captured hair and straightening the little bird's head. Eyes fixing again on the spot where scraped pink skin gave way to a scruffy mess hidden by soap.
Shining prettily under dim electric lights, Jack pressed the razor down to popping bubbles and worn skin. Scraping the impossible thin blade down the man's face, each stroke revealing more of pretty pink skin and signs of a difficult life.
Slow and careful. Enough pressure to shred and banish the remaining beard, and no more. Jack didn’t want to damage the paper thin skin anymore than he needed to. Another slide of the razor dragged against the sudden change between a high cheekbone and the hollow cheek immediately below it.
Blood was slow to bead up on the surface. Jack wiped away the first few droplets, working slower and gentler now with each stroke of the sharp of the razor. Leaving a thick thumb to press against the cut. Leaving another bruise, halting the blood flow before it could start.
Jack pulled his hand back, allowing time for a quick swipe of his tongue, savoring the warm stain. Copper and sweet, burst through his mouth, but dry like sand. A sweet desert. Humming underneath his breath, Jack continued. Thick fingers slow to move, careful as he pressed and dragged sharp blade along the equally sharp edge of the man’s chin. Down the slender neck, watching as steady pressure made the muscles swallow convulsively. Bouncing against the sharp blade, a whisper away from the blade digging in and cutting open that pale skin. It wouldn’t take much, the scars there were pink and fresh, it would be so easy to drag the razor close and watch as they peeled open again.
“Uhh…”
Thick eyebrows rocketed upwards, the unconscious man groaning, throat swallowing again as his head fell to one side- baring even more of the half shaved throat that invited teeth to close around it. The bristles left along standing at attention and ready to be chopped free. The sound it made just between a scrape and hiss of the moving metal.
That was going to happen, Jack was looking forward to it, but if the stranger was going to be this uncooperative. Time to take this back to the estate.
Eyelids had shifted with the head, his own narrowing as Jack spied the glow of gold near hidden by thin and purple bruised skin. The razor was flicked closed, stowed away in a damp pocket, Jack leaning forwards and sinking both arms beneath the cooling water.
Lifting the man clear in one movement, as easy as lifting any small child. Easier. A towel, already wet from the frantic splashing, nearby was grabbed and wrapped around the stranger. Roughly drying lax limbs and body, mentally noting places still needing a good clean and shave. He’d take the time for a real investigation once the man was back at the estate.
Jack was looking forward to it. The little bird looked just as sweet as those old canaries. Curled around the wet towel, arms spread- hands loose and feathered out.
Humming to himself, Jack wandered out of the broken doorway and down the hall, tracking that interesting scent back. Other rooms were stale and dusty, only one room had that interesting scent of fresh and old blood mixed with desperation. Tapping the door open, the lock did not deserve the name, he froze. Something was familiar, as old and dusty as every other room, but familiar.
Huh .
It was a mess, inside. Bed sheets stained brown, a well worn bag with contents spilling out, a pile of pants-
Jack stopped, dumbfounded by the sight of what appeared to be a pile of pants. His pants. Why-
Chuffing, half amused, half done with it, Jack decided…. He was not going to deal with this. Not like he could fit into those pants anymore, surprising that the skinny bird could, but he had what he needed. The large comforter wasn’t too stained, a few darkly fresh spots aside, but the strongest scents to be found were the strangers. And his own .
Blanket acquired, bunched up, draped over one shoulder, Jack ambled back to the bathroom. And there was his prize, limp limbed and spread over the ratty towel and cold floor.
Gold eyes glared beneath heavy lids, no movement from the rest of the man, as Jack wrapped the blanket around and around him. He couldn’t do much for his own damp clothes, but he’d survive. The skinny bundle, more blanket than man, tossed over one shoulder as he stood and ambled out and down the hallway.
Whistling hadn’t worked since before those stolen clothes had fit. Vanished along with most of his words.
The happy humming, stolen notes of some catchy song, was still recognizable.
There was no one in the main room of the inn as Jack stomped out with his groaning prize.