The Dusk Reapers by Lawrence JT & Kraus MJ

Author:Lawrence, JT & Kraus, MJ
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Muonic Press Inc
Published: 2022-08-19T00:00:00+00:00

The sun was slowly melting the view, turning the pavement the color of marmalade. I was glad I only had fifteen minutes with Nicola Landau, because I didn’t want to be inside the building after dark. The huge security guard at the gate grunted at me in greeting and proceeded to search my handbag with his supersize hands; it was like watching a bunch of bananas dipping into the bag. He was clearly human, but his physique made me wonder if he had any orc DNA running through his veins. After walking through the metal detector, he took my phone, wand, and knife, but not before inspecting the weapon and looking me up and down, as if he couldn’t imagine why a petite little sister of an inmate would be carrying a ritual knife. I didn’t want him to think I was trouble and turn me away.

“It’s my gardening knife,” I said.

“Gardening knife,” the guard repeated, blinking slowly.

I nodded.

He didn’t break eye contact. “You always bring your gardening knife to psychiatric correctional facilities?”

I don’t always visit psychiatric correctional facilities, but when I do, I bring my gardening knife.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Cute,” he said, and let me through, watching with beady eyes as I moved through the next stage of access. A woman behind a counter barked at me to look up, then blinded me with the flash of a camera.

“Sign here,” she said, passing me an electronic clipboard. I signed Landau’s fictional sister’s name, and she motioned with her head for me to keep walking. The next guard smiled at me, then picked up the card that the machine beside him spat out. He clipped it to a lanyard and I put it around my neck. Hot off the press, the visitor’s pass was warm against my chest. All three of the employees had guns in their holsters and pepper spray in their utility belts. They also had walkie-talkies. Suffice to say that if we were going to ever break in, I doubted we’d come through the front entrance. As I was congratulating myself for getting through the first three stages, a gray-haired nurse strode up and peered intently at me.

“Sharon Metcalf?” she enquired. “Nicky Landau’s sister?”

I cleared my throat. “Mm-hmm,” I murmured, nodding. Something told me I wasn’t very good at deception, or perhaps it was just nerves.

The nurse didn’t smile. “I’m Sister Ingleby. I’ll take you through.”

Sister Ingleby was exactly as I had expected. When you think of a nurse in an asylum for criminally insane people, what do you picture? I was thinking a heavy-set body, thick flesh-colored stockings, and sensible gray shoes. Steel-colored hair, varicose veins, bunions.

“She’s not in a good place right now,” said Ingleby. “We have her sedated.”

“Sedated?” How was I going to speak to her when she was asleep?

“We had no choice,” said the nurse. “She’s a very troubled woman. She was about to hurt herself.”

I dropped my voice. “Can you tell me …”

She spoke over me. “Your sister arrived in an extremely bad condition.

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