Speak No Evil by Crosby Tanya Anne

Author:Crosby, Tanya Anne [Crosby, Tanya Anne]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Romance, Thrillers, General, Suspense, Fiction
ISBN: 9781601830609
Publisher: eKensington
Published: 2013-03-07T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

In the distance, a small boat motored by, a black speck moving against a blacker sky. The ripples in its wake swept toward the bank, flatlining as it moved toward the shore. It died slapping feebly at the inside of a disintegrating boat hull nearby.

For a moment, he stood staring at the rotten landmark, wondering how long it would remain there before the city decided to remove it.

Maybe forever.

Still . . . the thought of someone unearthing it . . . stumbling across his sacred burial ground . . . made his heart beat a little stronger. He had never cared if anyone knew . . . then again . . . he had never experienced such a thrill as he did knowing people feared him.

He was the boogeyman. The chupacabra. Michael Myers.

A legend.

But deadly real.

No one could stop him.

They hadn’t yet.

They hadn’t even known.

He flicked the sharp tip of his knife beneath his fingernails and smiled at the thought of what lay beneath the earth . . . where no one would ever think to look . . . so deep in the mire that not even the ploughmudders, who plucked their precious Lowcountry oysters from the prolific beds, dared to tread there.

Special soil for special people.

Hallowed ground.

He could almost feel the energy they channeled.

The remembered taste, the feeling of power, excited him and he unwittingly pressed the blade into the tender skin beneath his nail.

Blinking, he peered down at the knife in his hand, automatically bringing the fingertip to his lips, sucking the tinny taste of his own blood, and feeling the immediate stirring in his groin.

The blade was eight inches of forged Solingen steel, polished until it gleamed. Some people called it an Arkansas toothpick . . . he thought the name was derogatory. It was a sacred tool that, so far, had only been employed to slice the tender muscle from inside their mouths . . . but last night . . . in his dreams he saw the Hutto girl rise up from the bog and vomit putrid black bile. So he’d come here to make certain they were undisturbed.

Not so much as a breeze stirred the sticky night air . . . and now that the boat had passed, the water was a sheet of ebony glass.

Maybe the demons were still inside them?

Maybe if he slid his knife inside them and sliced them in two, helping them peel off and discard their carcasses like dirty cicadas, he could leave them with the certainty of peace.

But he couldn’t be sure.

He was still learning.

Still seeking the source of peace . . . a tranquility that eluded him except in these moments of communion. Only now did the voices leave him in peace . . . in the waning seconds of the witching hour.

Some folks claimed the veil between the spiritual and physical world was thinnest between the hours of three and four A.M. . . . so that’s when he buried them.

And sometimes when he

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