Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (24 page)

It licked its lips.

“Symphony,” she said with a smile as she swallowed air. “Look at what mommy brought you for dinner.”

It stood up, arched its back like a well-rested kitty cat, then sat back down.

“She’s ready for you. This bitch had it coming to her and mommy’s giving her just what she deserved. She’s serving her to her sweet Symphony for supper.” She paused. “Come on, baby. Eat.”

It stood up again, and walked over to the girl. It bent over and sniffed her. Slowly, and deliberately It looked her over. Blood gushed from a wound in her head. It extended its tongue and gave it a lick. Her blood was fresh and sweet. It licked the head again. Then, It looked at Mackenzie, and stopped.

“What? What is it?” Mackenzie walked towards It. “What are you waiting for? Eat her. Eat her goddamn it!”

It stood up, and walked back to its corner. When the girl left, It would eat.

Her face turned red. She shook her head and stared at It, her face twisting as the fair skin continued to redden. She walked towards It. “What is your problem? Look at what I’ve brought for you! Why don’t you eat her? I want you to eat that bitch. Now. Eat that bitch right fucking now!”

It stood up, turned its back to her, and sat back down.

“How dare you. You ungrateful piece of shit.”

She walked over. It turned its head halfway around to see her grab the chameleon off the tree stump.

“You want to fuck with me? Well your little friend can go to fucking hell!”

She threw the lizard at the wall at the back of the enclosure. It hit, and wet from the chameleon stuck to the wall as the rest clunked to the hard ground of the cage.

Suddenly, It understood a new emotion, one It had seen the humans display but could never make any sense out of until that very moment: Rage.

“I kill Mackenzie!” It shouted, in a loud voice, its tone strong and deep like It had never used before—the price of energy didn’t matter. It hopped up from its corner.

Mackenzie turned, and ran. The door stood half open. She dashed across the cage, making scared-noises as she ran. She grabbed at the door just as It shot its tongue out and tripped her feet. Quickly, she was back on her feet, but It was right behind her. She dashed through the opening in the door, smacking the side of it. The door wobbled but remained halfway open. It followed behind her.

Out in the open air, she ran and continued making scared-noises. She was fast, and loud. It followed her a short ways down the stone path. Then, It gave up the chase and watched as she disappeared down the stone path towards the wide manmade tree off in the distance.

* *

It was time to dig. The air was getting thin. The wind was beginning to whistle and sing. It was not prepared to deal with the winds when they sang. She would have to wait.

It would have to wait.

Their nature was pitiful, ruled by emotion. What flawed creatures they were. It was utterly disgusting to allow the angry thoughts to block the path to satisfying ones natural needs. Human emotion went against every bit of instinct. It went against nature. It made no sense.

And yet, it was invigorating as well. Even as It dug a hole near the edge of the property, next to the rows of neat hedges and just a few hundred yards inside of the stone wall, the flow of blood coursing from head to toe to tail to groin made the dig easier. Emotion did burn energy, but it produced power at the same time. It had no choice but to admire the humans for their passion, even if it did cloud their judgment.

It would use the passion to generate energy but not allow it to alter the best course. The rage was dangerous, and could overpower its other instincts. The rage could lead to its downfall.

That was how It would get her back for what she did. That was how It would taste the girl’s blood: contain the rage as tough as that was; now that it understood human emotion, it was difficult not to be changed by it. But it must wait patiently until the time was right. She’d pay dearly for hurting the chameleon. She’d beg for her life, but mercy would not be granted. The orchestra would play a special concerto.

The symphony of blood will perform, just for her.

For now, it was time to dig. The hole should be deep, at least ten feet, fifteen would be even better. It needed to be deep enough so that if discovered, the humans wouldn’t be able to easily get in. The hole needed to keep It safe until the cold air gave way to the warmth.

Before starting on the hole, It went back to the cage and got the box that played the music. It pressed all the buttons, but it wouldn’t come to life. The long black string that hung from it needed to go somewhere, but It didn’t know exactly where. She’d stuck it into a hole of some kind, which It had to yank out in order to take it.

No matter. The songs in its head were vivid enough. It would deal with the music box once the lair was finished.

The ants go marching one by one, hurrah! Hurrah!

It was a simple song from the past. Was it sung by a choir at the music school? It couldn’t quite remember, but the song was perfect. The steady snare drum inspired its claws to dig faster. It was slowly and steadily shrinking along with the beat, but that made the dig a little tougher. Ideally, by this time of the season, the hole should be dug already, but circumstances prevented that. It would have to make up for the lost time by working a little harder and a litter faster.

Hurrah! Hurrah!

The digging continued. The earth was hard, and its claws were losing their sharpness, filing down from the friction. But It was undeterred.

The hole must be dug. The ants must continue to march. One by one. Down into the ground. To get out of the cold.

Boom! Boom!

Nothing could stop the dig. It would find the strength. Deep within, with the aid of human emotion and the knowledge that her blood would be tasted, just as soon as the cold air gave way to the warmth.

It continued to dig.

Once the lair was sufficiently deep, It worked on widening it, scraping the hard earth from the walls and then bringing the dirt to the surface in chunks.

Already smaller by a third, it was time to shrink even further. All traces of humanlike tissue needed to be shed. Although the camouflage was already gone, that was not enough. Not nearly enough. The follicles where humanlike hair grew were scraped and torn until they peeled and ripped. Small flaps of ear were yanked off, as were the soft tips of mouth that were easy to develop into lips. Bulges that resembled collarbones and an indentation that could pass for a belly button were discarded into a heap. Kneecaps and nails, even the curvature that could be softened into butt cheeks were separated from the true body like a scrub brush roughly removing lice from a scalp.

With the humanlike body parts gone, it was time to remove the rest. It was time for change.

Total change. The intermezzo had begun.

The scaly tissue shed with much less effort, and far less pain. Now at the surface, and fully mature, the true skin dried and then died, then flaked and then fell to the ground. The head, then the shoulders, the arms, then the body, it was all quite simple, just a twist and a scrape then set it free.

The last thing to go was the tail. It was fastened to the body tightly, but it too needed to die and be liberated from the change that would soon overtake the entire body.

The body knew what was coming. There was no fear.

It yanked at the tail, then wiggled and it came loose. Beneath it was another tail, far smaller, maybe an inch long was all, but full of life. The old tail was dropped into the pile along with the other dead things.

With all the dead parts removed, the body deflated. The illusion of strength was no longer necessary. Slowly but steadily, the artificial gasses seeped out. The aroma of guts and stale air filled the lair, then flowed upwards towards the small opening in the top.

Once fully deflated, It stood proud and strong, and barely could see over the girl’s useless music box. Half out of spite, the other half joy, It urinated on the black rectangular box aiming into the porous screen on the side, then climbed over it and towards the hole. It shimmied up to the surface.

It crept through the hedges and gathered up sticks and brush, then marched back down into the ground.

Boom! Boom!

It repeated this over and over again, marching up to the surface to look for short but sturdy branches, preferably with brush attached that could provide some warmth against the ever-growing elements. Then march back down with the goods. Once in the lair, the branches were crafted into a tight circle. With each carefully constructed row of sticks, the circle grew until settling at about three feet tall and about the same length wide.

It returned to the surface and gathered up leaves by the handful, which were transported into the lair. Once there, the leaves were carefully woven into the circle of sticks. A few leaves were left at the top, covering the opening and keeping it hidden.

The heap of discarded body parts was picked up and dropped into the nest, covering the bottom like a warm carpet. It sunk into the nest with relief. The work had been tiring, and only now rest could finally come.

Sleep was short, but fulfilling. Much was still to be done.

With warmth and a hint of light from the hot ball sneaking in through the opening atop the hole, It began weaving. Sticky, cotton-like secretions were woven into a ball, which It used to wrap up in, like a sleeping bag. The bag covered It from head to toe. Once complete, no light got in, and no warmth escaped.

A more complete rest could take place, wrapped up in the warmth of the bag. More secretions came from its pores, but these were slimier than the cottony ones. These fluids oozed out slowly, very slowly, and very deliberately. It took many passes of the red, hot ball, perhaps dozens of passes, but eventually, all of It was enveloped in the goopy juices. The juices began to eat away at its skin, killing any cells weak enough to succumb.

The bows slowly moved across the strings. The mallets softly stuck the cymbals. The crescendo began to build.

The secretions continued. Only the strongest cells of the body could withstand the onslaught. Only the strongest cells survived.

Those healthy cells did more than survive. They thrived. They grew stronger, feeding on the weak and dying cells, devouring all the energy the weaker cells once possessed. Energy was a commodity so valuable, that even the hardiest cells found themselves battling one another for sustenance. This civil war dominated the body while the mind slept. On and on they jockeyed for position and skirmished for livelihood. An entire season of cold was needed to resolve the border wars, and to the victors went the body while the losers made the ultimate sacrifice, giving themselves to make It greater.

The mallets moved faster and faster, hitting the cymbals harder and harder. The bows now stroked the strings. The woodwinds and brass horns joined in. The volume rose, slowly and steadily. The conductor’s baton moved faster and faster; the increasing tempo naturally followed.

The chill had left the air. The hot ball’s light peeked in the opening to the hole.

The mallets moved faster. The body began to grow. The horns blew harder. The fibers of the bag began to stretch. The body continued to grow, overflowing from the nest, reaching its previous size, then continuing still.

The cymbals crashed. A leg burst through the cotton-like wall. The horns wailed. An arm, muscular and firm, ripped a hole across the bag. Wings sprouted from the scaly, hard back of a body now barely able to fit in the lair. The snout curved, the tongue and teeth were firmer and stronger than ever before. The one-inch tail grew many inches, and thickened.

It stood up, crouched over to avoid hitting its head on the top of the lair, and carefully replaced any wayward sticks back into the body of the nest. For at the bottom were a dozen very precious items, oval shaped, and colored a dull pearl, safely tucked away underneath brush and leaves where they’d stay safe and warm until ready to hatch.

It slithered up the hole, which was no easy task given this newfound size. But It quickly adapted and wasn’t at all uncoordinated. To the contrary, It nimbly scooted through the hole and emerged at the surface. The clean air was refreshing and It was reminded of one thing.

The chameleon, and what she’d done to it.

The girl would hear the music. There would be a special performance, just for her.

It stopped to fill the hole with leaves, twigs and branches.

* *

The red sky of twilight glared in its eye as It approached the long, manmade tree. It looked quiet. There was no evidence of life. No activity. Nothing to let It know where the humans were.

The risk of being spotted was great. But It was hungry. And It was hungry for her. It backed away, retreating a few hundred yards, finding cover behind an old manmade tree filled with tools. It sat behind the tree, still and quiet, until the twilight faded, and the darkness came.

It walked towards the long manmade tree, slowly yet purposefully. Lightly, It flapped its newfound wings, but didn’t attempt to fly. The wings felt heavy. Too heavy to lift the muscled body that It was still growing accustomed to.