Dead Moon Chapel

three

IT WAS HARD TO TELL whether the liquid drenching his skin was blood or something else. With skin this red, it looked about the same either way. The dim candlelight did not help to create a distinction, but anyone with a strong enough nose could smell it on him: the metallic scent of iron and the foul stench of flesh, which stuck in chunks to the front of his half-unbuttoned shirt.

Jericho was desperate for a bath.

The moment the front door of his home was shut and locked behind him, he ripped open the shirt and tossed it aside. It was ruined already, he wasn't going to waste time trying to properly unbutton it with his long claws when ripping it apart was far simpler a task. He worked at his belt as he crossed through the front room and the kitchen, but something stopped him in his tracks.

From the shadows of the hallway he was walking towards, a figure appeared.

The figure was the size of a human woman at first, but the closer she got, the taller she became. Her limbs grew with every step until she towered over him, too tall and too long and entirely too wrong. But Jericho was used to her unsettling presence by now, and the way all three of her bright red eyes blinked one after the other.

"Jericho," she purred, lips cracking apart in a smile that spread all the way to her high cheekbones. She wrapped her long body around him in an embrace, and his thick arms enveloped her. It was like hugging a pole.

"Mother," he greeted.

She slithered back, reaching out to place her hands on his shoulders while she examined him. "You are filthy, child. Have you been out?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She beamed with pride, and her eyes grew in size. "Oh, what great news. How many did you devour?"

Jericho's stomach growled, and his heart sank in time with her faltering smile. Her mouth was now a straight, dissatisfied line across her face like it was a cut from a swift, sharp knife through flesh.

"You did not devour them."

"I did not."

"Well, did you at least enjoy killing them?"

This was something he could lie about easier. "Yes. I enjoyed it, Mother."

In truth, Jericho rarely remembered the instances where his body became drenched in blood. All he ever remembered was feeling so enraged, and the next moment there were bodies and he was soaked from head to toe. He was lucky his carelessness never led him into the hands of a priest.

Her smile returned, but it was not so large. "Then that is enough for me, child. Your joy fulfills me."

Mother was known to lie. Jericho knew this was one of those instances.

"How many was it?" she asked, sitting down at his small dinner table and tapping her bony fingers expectantly against the surface.

"About four," Jericho said, tossing his belt aside. "Um, I should probably clean up."

She was in front of him in an instant, cutting him off before he could leave the room. Her head tilted sideways to an unnatural degree, and she pushed him back with a hand to his sturdy chest. "Don't go. Mother isn't done with you yet."

She didn't stop pushing him until she had him pressed against the table. Her hand slipped upwards and clutched his jaw, nails piercing his red skin.

"What stops you? From devouring souls?"

Jericho gulped. "I just... don't enjoy it as much."

Her mouth dipped downwards. "But, my child, it is what you were created for. You devour the soul, and you are filled, and because I am your Mother, I too am fed. Don't you see? I need you, Jericho. God has locked me in this prison and you are my vessel, which is a great privilege."