Michael stood upon the altar, his bloody hands raised high, pearlescent wings resplendent in the late morning light that streamed in from the church’s shattered upper floor windows. Mind ablaze with power, spirit exultant as he reached the climax of his sermon, his conscious mind barely registered what he was saying, even as the words spilled from his mouth. The words weren’t important, not at this point in the service. What was important was the power that flowed from him into the lesser minds of his followers, keeping them pliable, docile, obedient. The gathered congregants sang atonally, following his commands eagerly now that he’d washed away what vestiges of their wills they’d managed to piece together since the last service.
At his feet, the body of a sheriff’s deputy sagged grotesquely downward, slowly succumbing to gravity and slipping from the altar to fall to the floor with a wet *plop*. It was barely recognizable as human anymore.
What a mess he’d made.
While he hadn’t set out to mangle the man so, Gull couldn’t help but revel in the sheer brutality of the lawman's death. Even now, when he looked upon the petty tyrant’s badge, somehow untarnished after Michael's little indulgences, the sight filled him with a barking, howling need for more. More blood. More lives rendered down to sloppy piles of meat. In a just world, they'd all end up like this.
Isabella, wearing the commandeered black dress Michael had given to her, stood at his feet, her tanned skin covered in crimson spatters of the deputy's blood, and as Michael lowered his hands, he let them trail down the side of the girl's face, leaving messy smears that gave her a savage, tribal look. He leaned in close and gave her a long, fierce kiss, tainted with the sticky red of this morning’s sacrifice, and when he pulled away, his voice was breathy with excitement. “Remember, you let this happen, little one. You wanted this, didn't you?”
The girl no longer shook or wept when Gull played with her, and he would be lying if he said it hadn’t diminished his fun. The girl had taken to staring off into the distance most of the time now unless she was told otherwise, a stunningly beautiful, poseable doll in all but name. Funnily enough, Gull didn’t know how to feel about that. Was she finally his entirely? Had he broken her, or had her will perhaps collapsed under the weight of his power? He was tempted to allow her mind to come up for air to see what she truly felt now that they’d been together for so long, but no. The mystery was part of the draw.
The congregation sang on. It sounded awful. He didn’t know why, but the mind control did something to people that left no sense of pitch or timing. He'd experimented with it a while back, trying to form a barbershop quartet of mind controlled minions, but as soon as Gull was in their heads, they lost all ability to think musically. It was just one of those things. As annoying as it was, it was a good indicator that he didn’t have any outliers with strong wills he needed to kill.
Not to mention, there was nothing like the death of an authority figure to to help the programming stick, and he'd given the people of Las Almas that today.
He tucked in his wings and glided down from the altar, basking in the adoring faces of his followers. All of them, to a person, could only gaze, slack jawed and vacant, upon him in his priestly robes. All of them waited to address his every need, no matter how small, no matter how unconventional, and, freshly programmed as they were, they’d do it with a mere gesture and a flex of his will. This was his favorite time of the day.
Gull beamed at them, magnanimous in his uncontested authority. He reached back with his blood covered hand and took Isabella’s, leading her down the varnished wooden isle of the Church toward the doors, a path that many of these people took in childhood, then when they married their soulmates, and would take when they died. It warmed his heart to be able to share this little thing with them, to be one of them as much as a god can be one of his flock. As the two of them passed by, all the faces of the people of Las Almas turned to follow them with blank eyes.
At the last row of pews, Gull turned to one of the stronger, younger looking men wearing a gray suit and tastefully straight tie. He would do. “You. Get people together, bury that thing and clean up the sanctuary. Make it shine again.”
The man nodded ponderously, then turned to the others to give orders.
Gull didn’t care if they did a good job, really, but he liked to work on a clean surface. Isabella could attest to that. She looked radiant in her scandalous black dress, a look the sticky sheen of tyrant's blood only complimented. She walked drunkenly at his side as they passed through the foyer.
“How many of them secretly enjoyed that, do you think, Isabella?” He queried playfully, nudging her with his elbow, just hard enough to stagger her. Of course, she didn’t answer. “More than you’d think, I'd wager. All the men at least. Even your father. Everyone thinks they’re above their base instincts, but when faced with the spectacle of raw, primal power they can't help but love it in their heart of hearts. Did I ever tell you how I-”
The bright morning light stung his eyes as he and Isabella descended the church steps together to enter the empty gravel parking lot.
Empty.
The parishioners all walked here, of course. None of them had the capacity to drive safely while they were under Gull’s power. However, what he was missing were the two black trucks of his “security team,” the pack of jackals he’d tamed just before he'd blown into this town.
Damnit. They were supposed to check in at this time every day. Of all the liberties those dirty, hairy shitstains were allowed to take, this was the only non-negotiable part of the arrangement. He’d told that old piece of jerky, on no uncertain terms, the way he liked to run his domain. He'd even used small words and a moderate amount of his power to get the point across.
Michael sighed. It happened sometimes, the rebellious streaks in his servants. All part and parcel of their function and the amount of autonomy Gull needed to leave them. Where the people of Las Almas were swept away in a tidal wave of his will, he had to nudge the 44 Reapers into their roles, appealing to their desires and proclivities instead of just imposing himself upon the men. The deeper he overwrote their minds, the more incompetent they would become at little things like speaking, driving, shooting, and bathing, and they really couldn’t afford to slack on bathing. He hated relying on such men, but that was the price he paid for semi-competent lookouts who could patrol while he slept.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The expansive pool of rage that had been his constant companion throughout his entire life began to bubble and churn inside of him. Already, he could feel it, a white light that pulsed in his brain, just behind his eyes, in time with the pounding of his heart. A volatile, sputtering blaze in his chest, ready to flare and consume the object of Michael's ire. Perhaps the murder of the deputy wasn’t enough to satiate him today. Perhaps a change of leadership was in order for the 44 Reapers as well.
A tremor ran through his body, a little thrill of anticipation at the thought of savagely bringing his dogs to heel, their mewling pleas for forgiveness graciously granted after a brief orgy of violence. The imagined scene filled him, and when he looked back at Isabella, a slight tremble made its way into his voice. “My love, wait for me here. I need to go take care of something.” The girl stared blankly ahead, far away, meeting his eyes but focusing on the middle distance. “Oh no. It’s nothing you need to worry about. Now, tell me that you love me.”
Her mouth parted for an intake of air. Her lips barely moved as they formed the words, so very softly that Gull couldn’t hear.
Heart fluttering in his chest, he put his hands on her bare shoulders, turning her to face him then lifted her chin gently to stare into her eyes directly. “Darling, I feel like I’m on the edge of doing something terrible,” he confessed, the roiling pool and pounding of his heart threatening to overtake him. “Please. You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”
Isabella, the real Isabella, as if summoned from beyond by an incantation finally resurfaced. She blinked and met his gaze, really seeing him for the first time in a while, trembling as she attempted to summon the words to obey. “I- I love- you,” she declared, her voice scratchy and weak with disuse.
Gull tilted his head, examining her and scouring her face for any sign of emotion. Such a mystery, this girl. Still, she'd said the words.
The rage didn’t disappear, but it cooled slightly at hearing her, the way she cared for others. For him. “I know you do, and you always will,” he promised with his best roguish grin, the one they used to use in his publicity photos and on the covers of magazines. "I'm irresistible."
Then he sprang into the air, wings unfurling fully behind him and bearing him up and up into the lower atmosphere until the town stretched out before him, quiet and still like a model.
Where were they, his minions? The black trucks weren’t driving around town. He’d have noticed the movement already. That left him with a systematic search, one where he’d have to hope they didn’t park inside someone’s garage somewhere as they took advantage of the home’s hospitality.
His pool of rage simmered. He’d been hoping for a lazy afternoon with Isabella, but that didn’t appear to be in the cards for him today, all because he was forced to deal with the scum of the Earth. They'd pay for this.
There.
One of the Reapers’ black trucks was parked on the North end of town in the old train depot, a favorite spot of theirs. If history told Gull anything, it was that the gang were most likely sleeping off a wild night involving the two women that were missing from the head count. He’d need to talk to them about that too. No one missed morning service.
So many uncomfortable topics to raise with the Reapers. "Heavy lies the crown," he sighed into the wind.
Gliding over the town and then circling the train yard in preparation for his descent, he observed that the place was a mess. Trash and debris were strewn everywhere, bottles broken next to overturned barrels and pallets of rotted plastic lying in chaotic clumps, and several lawn chairs sat empty around a blackened oil barrel. What ground that was visible was a bleached white gravel that hurt to look at in the morning light, glowing like a fluorescent bulb. If the gang had the energy to throw a rager at the train depot, doing this kind of damage, their work hours needed to be extended.
Gull dove, careening from the sky like a meteor, the wind roaring by his ears and ground rushing up to meet him at a speed much much faster than natural terminal velocity, only for him to land in a crouch atop one of the metal train cars. The rusted iron made a screeching sound as the force of his landing caved it in partially, and the entire car rocked under the transferred inertia. Dust billowed out from the caved in roof and from under the train car only to dissipate seconds later in the breeze.
Normally, that was an attention getter. However, nothing moved in the train depot even as he waited. No voices. No scuffling feet. Not even a cough.
He looked around, hoping to find some sign of life, but there was nothing but wind strewn trash and the faint smell of old smoke. His only promising lead was the yawning doors of one of the more intact buildings that overlooked this little favored courtyard where the Reapers liked to hold court.
The pounding behind his eyes was more insistent now. Isabella was waiting, and these idiots were playing hide and seek.
Hopping down from his perch, he tucked his wings, letting them “fold” into his body. He would approach the Reapers like a mere man, the illusion of comradery and shared mortality allowing him to get close. Then, he would tear into the old grizzled biker, ripping him apart in front of his brethren, wings igniting behind him as…
The warehouse was empty but for a container that sat at a slight angle in the middle of the cracked concrete floor. The morning sunlight contrasted heavily with the darker interior of the building, playing tricks on Michael’s eyes, making the shadows appear far darker than they should have. The desert wind moaned through the porous corrugated metal of the building’s walls, and a particularly loose sheet of tin banged arhythmically overhead. A dull, yellow glow peaked through the hinges of the slightly ajar door that led into the boxy shipping container.
Something was wrong here. Were they all sleeping in the container? With the light on? Why, when they could have chosen any house nearby? Again, that thrill of anticipation rippled through his insides, but, this time, the sensation carried with it a slight chill. What was this? What game was being played here? An uneasy curiosity slowly eclipsed the feeling of wrath he'd been stoking up until this point.
His boots echoed harshly off of the metal walls as he strode imperiously up the entrance of the shipping container, his heart skipping in his chest for no good reason as the shadows reached for him from the corners and crevices of the building. The thought of tearing the Reaper’s leader in half felt far away now. His priorities had shifted. Now, Gull only felt the need to find his minions and drag them into the light to get some answers, if only to settle this uneasy feeling in his stomach. He could wing it from there.
Halting just outside the metal box, his boots thumping loudly on the concrete, Gull took a hold of the swinging door’s handle and ripped it off its hinges with the sound of screeching, tearing steel.
He saw two things in that moment, lit by the dull yellow glow of a hanging work lamp. Papa, the Reapers’ aging captain, eyes milky white with his skull deformed by some heavy blow, was posed astride a rough finished gray tube. Some kind of barbed harpoon in a-
A shocked intake of breath and a panicked stumble was all Gull managed before the VLAD discharged its shrieking payload directly into his torso.