ashley hasn’t felt pain in such a long time. in the corps, pain was weakness. weakness was eliminated in a series of shots and serums. weakness was left to rot in a ditch as they called out their cadences.
left, right, left. left, right, left. you could get used to anything. ashley carved at the pain like it was fat on a slab of meat. he carved it off and fed the scraps to the hounds. he carved it off until there was nothing left but meat and blood and his hands, gripping. he could get used to anything. he got used to the absence of pain. it shocks his body now, liquid fire. a shower of sparks. enamel sinks into his neck and it rips, it severs, his carotid artery sprays blood into the maw of the beast. left, right, left. three, two, one. tears spill from the corners of his eyes, white-hot as they trickle down. burning. he blinks again and it’s agony, the enamel digging deeper until blood fills his lungs. there’s only so much blood the human body can spare before the heart starts to panic. there’s only so much blood you can extract from your witness before torture leads to expiration. with a severed carotid, he’s running out of time too quickly. too soon. there’s only so much blood the human body can spare before the suffering ends. and the end is in sight. the devil is losing his grasp on ashley’s throat, slick with blood. the devil is about to lose his bet.
in alaska, a bet was made, before god allowed ashley to experience what it meant to be a soldier. a slayer. god says, ashley graves is going to die. the devil bets twenty bucks that says he will not. ashley graves will not be spared from one more decade of suffering. twenty-three hours pass, and they cut to the moment of truth. the battle. the vampire, with his hands wrapped around ashley’s throat, demanding death so desperately. ashley’s mind and body thrash in turmoil. his mind asks, how long can you go without air? his body says, watch this. his mind asks, for how long will your heart stop beating? but his body does not answer. three shots. henri’s calloused hands check for a pulse. a cry of anguish pierces the shouting, the gunfire, a powder-white fallout defining the hellscape. his soul asks, is it over? and god holds out his hand, waiting for that twenty dollar bill. the devil says, watch this.
now, god says, i told you so. white-hot tears keep rolling as his body loses to ability to struggle. enamel rips through flesh and skin. arterial spray. he is going to die. henri lapierre, the man who raised him, is going to kill him. henri lapierre is a shell above him. henri lapierre died six years ago. ashley graves is going to die in three, two, one —
the shell of a man above him stops. but the blood keeps spilling out, out onto the wildflowers, out onto the four-leaf clovers that could not save him. morgan died like this. with his throat ripped out, his body limp in someone else’s arms. morgan bled out onto white snow and the shore of alaska. ashley was bleeding out onto four-leaf clovers and the flowers that had overtaken his family graveyard. god, he was cold. god, he could feel it coming again. quiet wading into the stream. into darkness. he didn’t want to go. but his palms were too slick with blood to hold on for any longer.
the shell of a man above him makes a wounded noise, as if he’s realized what he’s done. the grotesque picture of saturn devouring his son.
twenty years ago, ashley’s cousins planted a flower garden in the front yard of his uncle’s farmhouse. twenty years ago, he and henri had driven to the farmer’s market, and henri let him buy as many cherries as his wiry arms could carry. the day was full of cherries and honey and love that would be printed on a photograph, which henri would treasure for the years he had left among the living. henri lapierre loved his godson. when he was born, henri swore he would raise him right. he swore, to zachariah and to every good man that the graves curse had killed, that he would raise ashley as his own, with patience, with kindness, with the love his father would never show. twenty years ago, henri posed for a photo, smiling beneath the shadow of his stetson while ashley, just a boy back then, beamed at the camera. oh, our father, who art in heaven. our father, who art buried in the yard. it’d been so long since henri held ashley in his arms.
the first time henri held him, ashley was an infant, crying. ( ‘ hey, hey, i’ve gotcha, kid, i’ve gotcha — ’ henri cradled him in his arms, tried to soothe him. and ashley’s aunt would never forget the absolute adoration she’d seen on henri’s face as henri held the child, fast asleep in his arms, in the rocking chair on the porch. henri smiled, believing that they had their whole lives together. henri was wrong. )
good fucking god, henri could not stop the bleeding. the taste of ashley’s blood is awful and metallic on his tongue, pooling in his stomach, revolting. when he came to, ashley was bleeding. when he realized what he had done, ashley was dying. henri watched as life slipped past, as crimson coated the mourning flowers. water in his palms. blood in the water. he is taken back to the first day he ever called ashley his son, the first slip of his tongue.
good god. oh, god. ashley’s heartbeat comes to a halt and it sounds like a fucking collision in henri’s ears. it is total, awful catastrophe. but the world does not stop spinning. henri cannot stop the bleeding. blood in his palms. end of the road.
as ashley graves dies for the last time, he sees clear skies. divine light pierces the canopy above. in alaska, the sun had been blocked by the clouds. it was dark when he died. it was cold. he’s still cold. blue-gray eyes catch the god rays, but they don’t light up like they used to.
as a death rattle escapes his lips, he sees his uncle’s cracked tombstone. his own blood on the earth.
file. henri isn’t a monster by possession, he’s a monster by resurrection. he is the horror. you cannot separate him from the monster, and you cannot separate him from the evil. this is what makes him such a horrible monster — the fact that he used to be a man. a good man.
now, ashley has never, ever hesitated when pulling the trigger. killing is instinctual to him. he will think, it’s him or me, choose me, and kill him. but — henri, when he was human, loved ashley, and raised him as his own son. even though ashley knows that henri, through his actions, is a monster, henri still wears the face of a father. and there is a part of ashley that can’t see past that visage, that believes henri couldn’t possibly commit the acts of evil he’s being hunted for. ashley can’t bring himself to believe that henri, a father, the kindest man he’s ever known — is a monster. a monster even worse than ashley himself. a monster even worse than every other evil the deputies faced before. to christian, henri is a disease. an infection. something they must eradicate. but to ashley, henri is a father. his father. which is why, even at point-blank range, even when ashley confirms that henri killed tim and put james in the hospital — ashley just can’t pull the trigger.
