Obviously, I had been hopelessly tainted by years amongst the ComancheâI was no more than a murdering savage, inflamed by the sight of womanly flesh to the most horrific acts of rapine.
Gent hadnât been too thrilled about this key bit of evidence suddenly making its appearanceâafter all, heâd already hung a man for the crimeâbut the Reverend wasnât about to let it drop. So off to the pokey I went, manacled hand and foot.
Vermilionâs âjailâ was an airless adobe hut divided into two rooms. The front room, theoretically, was Gentâs office, although he preferred lounging outside the Spread Eagle to spending time in that sweat-box. The second room was a tiny closet of a cell, with a wooden plank set on sawhorses for a bed, and a rusty coffee can for a slop jar. The door to the cell was made out of iron, with a trap at the bottom for meals to be pushed through, and there was a single, narrow barred window set above the makeshift bed. The cell itself stank of tobacco juice, vomit and old shit, since Gent rarely had occasion to use it for anything but keeping rowdy cowboys in check until their trail bosses came to round them up.
As I sat on the plank bed, studying the heavy manacles that hung from my wrists and ankles, I realized my time as a citizen of Vermilion had reached its end. I knew what I had to do, and there was no joy in that knowledge. I had come to this place in hopes of learning how to tame the darkness in my heart, only to be forced farther from the light than before.
Around dusk, Gent pushed a dented tin plate of red beans, cornbread and a cup of cold coffee through the trap. He did not say anything, but I could feel him looking at me through the observation slit as I ate what was to be my last meal in custody. I pushed the empty plate back through the slot and remained crouched by the door, listening to the clock-clock-clock of his boots as he walked away, locking the front door behind him. I then waited until it was well and truly dark before shapeshifting.
Although my kind are stronger than a dozen men, our natural state is deceptively slight, with long, narrow hands and crooked legs that would make us seem ill-equipped for running at high speeds and bringing down prey with nothing but our claws and fangs. The heavy manacles dropped from my transformed wrists with a shake of my hands. I stepped out of my leg shackles, my paws scuffing the floor in ritual dismissal. I could have made a symbolic show of force by literally snapping the chains that bound me, but I had neither the time nor interest in such foolishness.
Once transformed, it was relatively simple for me to yank the bars out of the window in my cell, leaving behind only empty manacles and my discarded clothes. The night was dark and windy, with lightning dancing on the far horizon. My pelt prickled, and my nostrils twitched as I caught the scent of distant rain.
I slid through the shadows towards the edge of town, careful not to be seen during the brief stutters of lightning. I neednât have worriedâmost of Vermilionâs citizens were already sound asleep, and the few that were still awake were busy whoring, gambling and drinking themselves insensate at the Spread Eagle.
The front door of the church was unlockedâas usualâand I found the Reverend passed out, face down, at the kitchen table, an empty bottle of Mug-Wump Specific at his elbow. Next to the patent medicine was an open Bible and a pair of childrenâs drawers. Judging from the stains, this pair of knickers was considerably older than the ones heâd taken off the little girl.
The Reverend made a slurred, grunting noise when I tickled his left ear with the point of my claws, then screamed like a woman when I tore it from his head. He sat up with a violent spasm that almost sent his chair toppling backward. Without his left ear to support them, his smoked spectacles dropped away, revealing eyes that bulged from
Gent hadnât been too thrilled about this key bit of evidence suddenly making its appearanceâafter all, heâd already hung a man for the crimeâbut the Reverend wasnât about to let it drop. So off to the pokey I went, manacled hand and foot.
Vermilionâs âjailâ was an airless adobe hut divided into two rooms. The front room, theoretically, was Gentâs office, although he preferred lounging outside the Spread Eagle to spending time in that sweat-box. The second room was a tiny closet of a cell, with a wooden plank set on sawhorses for a bed, and a rusty coffee can for a slop jar. The door to the cell was made out of iron, with a trap at the bottom for meals to be pushed through, and there was a single, narrow barred window set above the makeshift bed. The cell itself stank of tobacco juice, vomit and old shit, since Gent rarely had occasion to use it for anything but keeping rowdy cowboys in check until their trail bosses came to round them up.
As I sat on the plank bed, studying the heavy manacles that hung from my wrists and ankles, I realized my time as a citizen of Vermilion had reached its end. I knew what I had to do, and there was no joy in that knowledge. I had come to this place in hopes of learning how to tame the darkness in my heart, only to be forced farther from the light than before.
Around dusk, Gent pushed a dented tin plate of red beans, cornbread and a cup of cold coffee through the trap. He did not say anything, but I could feel him looking at me through the observation slit as I ate what was to be my last meal in custody. I pushed the empty plate back through the slot and remained crouched by the door, listening to the clock-clock-clock of his boots as he walked away, locking the front door behind him. I then waited until it was well and truly dark before shapeshifting.
Although my kind are stronger than a dozen men, our natural state is deceptively slight, with long, narrow hands and crooked legs that would make us seem ill-equipped for running at high speeds and bringing down prey with nothing but our claws and fangs. The heavy manacles dropped from my transformed wrists with a shake of my hands. I stepped out of my leg shackles, my paws scuffing the floor in ritual dismissal. I could have made a symbolic show of force by literally snapping the chains that bound me, but I had neither the time nor interest in such foolishness.
Once transformed, it was relatively simple for me to yank the bars out of the window in my cell, leaving behind only empty manacles and my discarded clothes. The night was dark and windy, with lightning dancing on the far horizon. My pelt prickled, and my nostrils twitched as I caught the scent of distant rain.
I slid through the shadows towards the edge of town, careful not to be seen during the brief stutters of lightning. I neednât have worriedâmost of Vermilionâs citizens were already sound asleep, and the few that were still awake were busy whoring, gambling and drinking themselves insensate at the Spread Eagle.
The front door of the church was unlockedâas usualâand I found the Reverend passed out, face down, at the kitchen table, an empty bottle of Mug-Wump Specific at his elbow. Next to the patent medicine was an open Bible and a pair of childrenâs drawers. Judging from the stains, this pair of knickers was considerably older than the ones heâd taken off the little girl.
The Reverend made a slurred, grunting noise when I tickled his left ear with the point of my claws, then screamed like a woman when I tore it from his head. He sat up with a violent spasm that almost sent his chair toppling backward. Without his left ear to support them, his smoked spectacles dropped away, revealing eyes that bulged from
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