Page 24 of Bird on a Blade

Mama would tell me I’m so fucking stupid.

She had all these rules for me growing up. Things to help me not get caught.If they see your face, kill ‘em. Or,Don’t go hunting in the closest town.

Two violations in twenty-four hours, right there.

I was a little tense at first. I cleaned off Edie’s porch because I figured she’d call the police no matter what I said to her. Scrubbed all the blood with a big rough-bristled brush early this morning before the sun came up. The head I set out on the big dogwood tree next to the church to start rotting. It hurt a little that she didn’t want it, I’ll admit, but maybe she’ll like it better when it’s just bleached white bone.

The whole day, I’m on high alert, working outside so I can track the scents on the air. If the cops show up, I’ll smell ‘em, and even though I doubt they’re going to hack their way through the overgrowth to find my little church, I want to be prepared.

They never arrive, though. I even hike over to the old campgrounds and watch from the trees. Everything’s quiet and still. At one point, Edie comes out and leans against the porch banister with the wind pushing her hair away from her face, and my chestgets all tight and twisted, seeing her. She’s so fucking pretty. So fuckinglush. It takes every ounce of willpower not to stalk out into the open and taste her again, but I can’t let myself get too distracted. I stole the truck from the two men I killed, and I need to drive it into Roanoke and ditch it so I can buy a truck of my own, something that can’t be traced to a double murder. Need to buy a generator, too. I keep daydreaming about bringing Edie back to my church, cooking up some of the venison I caught, then tying her down to the bed and fucking the shit out of her so I can feel her pussy come around my dick.

Well, maybe not the fucking. I’m still afraid I might get carried away and kill her. But everything else would be good. I can’t do it if there’s no electricity, though. I want things to be nice for her.

Mama would say I shouldn’t worry about killing Edie. In fact, Mama would say Ishouldkill her after we have our fun. I’ll admit I’ve thought about it. I think about it after Edie goes back into her cabin, the slam of the screen door echoing out into the woods. I’d do it nice. Eat her sweet pussy, then fuck her slow and romantic, and then slide my knife into her heart so she dies quick and doesn’t feel anything but there’s still lots of blood, hot and red and slick as silk.

The thought gets me hard, but it also gets me sad, and that’s how I know I won’t do it. Probably.

I take care of my errands the next day, when I feel even more certain that my perfect prey hasn’t called the police on me. I don’t know why not. If it’s because of me, or because of the thing with her ex—she’s in hiding, I figured that much out. I accept the gift, though. Be stupid not to.

Getting the truck and generator is easy. Even after fifteen years in the dirt, all the old protocols come back to me quickly. I drive out to Roanoke and leave my latest victim’s truck in a Food Lion parking lot. Then I toss the keys in a storm drain while I walk the two miles to a used car dealership, where I buy a beat-upChevy, the engine rumbling like an old tomcat. It’s more than I expected but cheap enough I can still afford the generator at Lowe’s, plus some groceries and things to make the church feel a little more welcoming.

While I’m out, I see a Halloween store, a big garish orange and black sign, and I get this prickle over my face. A mask. I need a mask if I’m going to start killing proper again. The last one I made myself, a little arts and crafts project with Mama, our hands all sticky with plaster of Paris. Buying one’ll be easier.

The store’s mostly empty. Just a teenager manning the register, watching me with hooded eyes. I ignore him and make my way to the back where there are rows of rubber masks hanging on the walls, a bunch of vaguely familiar movie monsters. They haven’t changed much in fifteen years, it looks like.

I stand there for a long time, trying to make my decision. The mask is important. It’s part of my identity. Itbecomesmy identity in the moment of the kill. That’s something Jaxon taught me. When I drag my victim down to the ground by their throat and press my blade into their flesh, I am, in that moment, their entire universe. I’m their god. And I don’t want that god to look like something they saw at the local multiplex.

Eventually, I settle on a sleek grey mask that I think is supposed to be some kind of demon or wraith or some such. Its mouth is all twisted up and angry, but otherwise, it’s simple. Effective. It costs me nearly fifty bucks, but it’s worth it.

The next few days, I fall into a rhythm. First thing I do when I wake up is check on my perfect prey. Not because of the cops, just to see what she’s doing. She has a rhythm, too. She likes to drink her morning coffee out on the porch, sitting on an Adirondack chair she must have dug out of somewhere, her bare feet up on the banister. Something has her nervous and worried; I can sense it. Smell it. It might be me, but honestly, I don’t think so. If it was, she would’ve called the cops.

No, it’s her ex. The one who gave her that black eye, that darknecklace of bruises. Thinking of him makes me want to kill, so I try not to think about him. I’ve got to wait. I’ve got to be patient. I can’t draw attention to myself.

After Edie finishes her coffee and goes back inside, I go back to my place, too, and work on the repairs. I fix the holes in the roof so the place will stay dry when the autumn rains start up in earnest. Clean the pews of the dirt and leaves and dead things that have accumulated there over the years. Repair the window frames so I can slide them open and let in the damp, musty forest air.

After lunch, I always visit my perfect prey again. I notice that she usually leaves the cabin in the afternoons and wanders around the campground, or hikes up the trail that leads into Altarida. If I catch her when she’s outside, I follow her, not saying anything. Just watching her. It’s easier for me. It’s how it was fifteen years ago when this seed in my chest quickened and started to grow until my whole body felt tethered to her. It’s easier to watch her move through the dappled, autumn sunlight, waiting for those moments when she senses me, stops, looks out to the trees.

If she sees me, she doesn’t acknowledge it. And I don’t say anything, just watch her, memorizing all the new things about her. I want to go to her again, but every time I think about calling out to her, my voice lodges in my throat and I think about Mama scolding me for letting those girls she brought me go. Letting them live.That sort of thing, it’s not for people like us,she told me, eyes firm.We’re the monsters that keep them in line.

Even though when I made Edie come, she didn’t look at me like a monster.

Still, I leave it. Most days I don’t see her in the afternoon anyway. Her car will be parked outside, and the cabin windows might be open, the weather being so nice now. But I don’t see her, just smell her. Justfeelher.

It goes like this for a week or so. Then one afternoon I’m at the church, doing my cleaning, and I find a bird skeleton tuckedinto the book holder on the back of one of the pews, a pile of tiny hollow bones topped by a pale skull, as delicate as a flower. The meat’s long gone, and it’s so pretty that it immediately makes me think of her.

She didn’t like the first head I brought her, but I wonder if she’ll like this one.

I gather up the bones as carefully as I can and take them into my bedroom and line them up on my shelf, all except the skull. That I cradle in my palm as I walk outside. I planned to hike it over to her, but it feels so small, so light. Like it’s not quite enough. Certainly not enough compared to the first head I brought her, still rotting up in the trees, the flesh falling away in long strips. I squint at it, still wondering if she’ll like it better when it’s clean. That’ll take weeks, though.

That’s when I have an idea. I know she’s not like me, obsessed with death and bones. I ain’t stupid. And I still want to give her the bird skull because it’s so pretty. But maybe I can give her something else, something I know she’ll like. Another pretty thing, like that cupcake she was admiring the day I killed for her.

So I don’t walk to her cabin. Instead, I nestle the bird skull in the seat of my truck and drive into Altarida and go into the bakery and get one of those spiced apple cupcakes, watching with my hands shoved in my pockets while the lady behind the counter wraps it up in a neat white box. Not the same girl as the last time I was here; this woman’s older, and I listen to her heartbeat and feel my Hunter’s hunger surging. Not for the woman, necessarily. I just can’t go too long without killing or else I get antsy.

That’s also why I drive to Edie’s place instead of back to mine and walking over. Because I intend to just leave the cupcake and the bird skull and get the hell out. I know I probably shouldn’t let myself near her again until I’ve killed someone, until I’ve quieted the urges.

The campground gleams in the autumn sunlight. Her car’s parked in its usual spot, and the windows are open, so I knowshe’s home. I cut the engine and gather up the two gifts, stack them on top of each other, and my heart beats way too fast as I go up to the front porch. Faster than it did the first time I did this, gripping the head by the hair as blood dripped across the dirt. Killing makes me brave.

I put the gifts on her banister, setting the bird skull on the cupcake box, arranging it so they’ll be the first thing Edie sees when she opens the door. I think about knocking but decide not to; she’ll see my truck, so it’s not like I can disappear for real.

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