Supernatural: Carved in Flesh (16 page)

She stared at the cards for another moment before tossing them onto the table. A second later, Dean did the same, and Sam followed his brother’s lead.

“What happened to the werewolf?” Dean asked.

“A couple hunters—your kind of hunters, not the regular kind—had been on its trail for several weeks. They finally tracked it down and killed it before dawn. Stabbed it in the heart with a silver blade. If they’d only found it a few hours earlier...”

None of them spoke for several moments. It was Dean who eventually broke the silence.

“It was your aunt, wasn’t it?” he said. “The werewolf, I mean.”

Trish nodded. “The hunters found us sometime after sunrise. We were still in the camp, both of us in shock. From what they told us, when people change into werewolves they become mindless animals, filled with nothing but hunger, hate, and rage. But some unconscious part of them is driven to prey on those they view as a threat, or who they have some kind of grudge against.” She forced a smile. “My aunt and uncle didn’t exactly have an amicable divorce.” Her smile faded. “I’m thirsty. Do you guys want a drink?”

The brother shook their heads. Trish got up from the table, went to the sink, filled a glass with tap water, and drank it straight down. She then put the empty glass in the sink and leaned on the counter, arms crossed as she continued her story.

“Dad didn’t believe the hunters at first. Who would? But they eventually convinced him that what they claimed was true, and they advised him not to say anything about werewolves when he reported the deaths. He agreed and the hunters brought my aunt’s body to our camp and... made it look like she was attacked by an animal, too. Dad and I stayed away while they did it. After what had happened to Mom and Ryan, it was the last thing either of us wanted to witness. Then the hunters wished us good luck and left. We got in our pickup and Dad drove us to town to report what had happened.

“The next several days were pretty awful, as you might imagine. Dad told the police that my aunt had come along on the camping trip as a last-ditch effort to fix their marriage. He told them he’d taken me on a hike before dawn so we could watch the sunrise together while the others slept. He said that everyone was dead when we got back, and so we jumped in the pickup and raced to town. The police suspected my dad of committing the murders at first, and I think they might’ve continued if I hadn’t backed up his story. After we’d buried everyone, the hunters stopped by our home to see how we were doing. Dad asked them dozens of questions about what it was like to be a hunter, how many of the monsters everyone thought were pretend were actually real, and how he could become a hunter, too. But even filled with sorrow and anger as he was, it was obvious to the hunters that my dad was too gentle a man to follow in their footsteps. As Dad taught art at a local college, that gave the hunters an idea, though. They said that in their line of work they often needed official-looking documents and identification. They didn’t use the word counterfeit, maybe because I’d refused to leave Dad’s side since the murders and they didn’t want to say anything in front of me that made them look like criminals. They said they had a hard time finding anyone to make such documents, let alone someone who could do it right. That’s how Dad started working in, as he calls it, ‘hunter support.’”

After she was finished, she swallowed. “I’m still so thirsty. Guess I talked a lot, huh?” She turned around and refilled her water glass.

Sam felt sorry for Trish, but he didn’t know what to say or do. His own mother had died when Sam was a baby, so he felt sympathy for Trish’s loss, but he couldn’t say that he shared it, exactly. He’d never gotten the chance to know his mom, but Trish had been nine when hers had died. Because of that, her mom’s death must have hit her so much harder than he could imagine. In a weird way, though, he was jealous of her. At least she’d had nine years with her mom. She had photos of the two of them together, maybe even videos. If so, she’d always be able to watch them and know what her mother’s voice sounded like, how she moved, how she smiled. Trish had
memories
of her mom. He didn’t have any of his, not a single one.

Trish stood at the sink, her back to them, when the glass suddenly shattered in her hand.

“I know what you’re thinking, Sam.” Her voice had changed. It was deeper, guttural. “You’re jealous of me. You think you had it worse than me because your mom died when you were a baby. You know what? That’s makes me angry.”

She turned around. Her eyes had become a feral yellow, her fingernails had lengthened into cruel, hooked claws, and her mouth was filled with sharp teeth.

“
Very
angry.”

She raised her clawed hands and ran snarling toward Sam and Dean, spittle running from the corners of her mouth, hunger blazing in her eyes.

Sam only had time to think
I’m sorry
before she tore into him.

* * *

Sam woke up to what he first thought was an earthquake, but he quickly realized it was just Dean shaking him by the shoulders.

“I’m awake,” he said, pushing Dean away from him.

“It’s about damn time! I’ve been shaking you for almost five minutes, but you didn’t respond. I was about to give up and haul your ass to the nearest hospital.”

Sam glanced around, still foggy-brained. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the crapmobile, seatbelt unbuckled. The passenger door was open and Dean stood outside, looking equal parts worried and pissed.

“Guess I dropped off. Sorry.” He hauled himself out of the car and nearly fell when his legs buckled underneath his weight. He managed to grab hold of the open door and keep himself upright, but it was a near thing. His body felt heavy and slow, as if it was filled with wet sand.

“Dude, something’s wrong with you!” Dean said.

“I’m fine. Well, no, I’m not, but all I am is tired. Once in a while everything catches up with you. After we’ve taken care of whatever’s going on in this town, I’ll zonk out and sleep as long as it takes to get my energy back, all right? Until then, I’ll just have to make do.”

Dean still didn’t look happy, but he didn’t protest, which as far as Sam was concerned, was good enough. Trying to look as if he wasn’t fighting to stay awake, he glanced around to see where they were. Dean had parked the car on a gravel shoulder. Trees lined both sides of a narrow blacktopped country lane that had no lines painted on it.

Back road,
Sam thought.
Probably not too far outside town.

His dream came back to him then, images and emotions slamming into his mind with sledgehammer force. He drew in a surprised breath, and Dean looked alarmed. He started forward, but Sam waved him off.

“I’m okay. I just remembered what I dreamed about during the drive, that’s all.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed as if he were scrutinizing Sam, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth or attempting to cover up how bad his condition really was.

“It was about Trish again,” he said.

Dean relaxed a bit. “Another rough one, huh?”

“Yeah. It started out normal enough. It was about the euchre game when she told us how her mom and uncle died. Remember?”

Dean nodded. “Like it was yesterday.”

“But at the end it turned... weird.”

For a second, he was afraid Dean was going to ask him how weird, but he was grateful that his brother didn’t press him for more details.

They looked at each other for a few moments without speaking.

“Maybe your crazy’s starting to affect your dreams,” Dean said. “It could be a good sign. Instead of producing hallucinations, your brain is shifting over to having regular old bad dreams. Maybe in time they’ll fade, too.”

Sam thought about the shadowy figure he’d seen when they’d carried Frankenmutt’s corpse to the car.

“Maybe,” he said, trying not to sound doubtful. He changed the subject. “So—why are we here?”

“Maybe you’re so tired lately because you’re catching a cold,” Dean said. “Your nose has got to be clogged with snot, otherwise you’d smell why we’re here.”

Sam frowned, drew in a deep breath through his nose, and regretted it instantly. Even though they were standing outside of the car, the stink of Frankenmutt was overpowering. Sam wondered if maybe Dean was right and something was wrong with him. How else could he have missed the beast’s rank odor of decay? Was it possible for anyone to be
that
sleepy? Maybe it was his crazy again. If his mind could make him think he was seeing and hearing things that weren’t there, maybe it could make him unable to perceive something that was. The thought wasn’t a comforting one.

“I take it that this is where we say goodbye to Frankenmutt,” Sam said.

“Stinkenstein. I changed his name. And yeah, if we don’t dump his rotting carcass soon, we’ll never be able to get his Frankenfunk off of us.”

Sam gave his brother a look. “You’re having way too much fun with the Franken-names.”

“In this job, you take the perks where you can get them. C’mon, help me haul its corpse into the woods. Then we can go back to the motel and take a couple dozen showers apiece.”

“You think we should burn it?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. So far it hasn’t shown any signs that it’s going to get back up and start tearing people’s throats out, but why take chances? If nothing else, burning it will kill the stink—I hope.”

“Sounds like a plan. Fire always works in Frankenstein movies, right?”

“That’s what I was thinking. Then again, fire kills just about everything. That’s the beauty of it.”

The brothers headed to the rear of the car, and Dean inserted the key into the trunk lock, but he didn’t turn it right away. “You might want to try and breathe through your mouth for the next few minutes.”

Sam nodded and Dean began to turn the key. His phone rang. Leaving the key in the lock, he pulled out his phone and answered it.

“Hello?” He listened, then glanced at Sam. “Yeah, this is he. Who’s this?” He listened some more. “Sure, yeah, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” He disconnected and tucked the phone back in his pocket.

“Who was it?” Sam asked.

“Local police. They found the card we left with Lyle Swanson—on his body. His withered, dried-up body. We got ourselves another victim of The Pruning.”

“Think the Double-Header paid him a return visit?”

“That’d be my guess. Whoever’s making these monsters, it’s like they’ve got a damn assembly line going. Let’s go torch Stinkenstein and haul ass over to Lyle’s.”

Dean turned the key and the trunk popped open. A stench wave hit them like a solid wall, and both brothers took a couple steps backward.

“Can’t we just burn him right there in the trunk?” Sam asked.

“Tempting, but we might blow up the car in the process. Not that it would be any great loss,” Dean added. “C’mon, the sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Sam nodded, and they got to work. One good thing about the stench: at least it kept him awake.

* * *

Conrad knelt naked on the floor of what once was the warehouse for Kingston Bicycles. The facility had no electricity and hadn’t for many years, but that didn’t trouble him. The warehouse’s windows were dirty and streaked, but enough light filtered through for his needs. Besides, electric light was still something of a novelty to Conrad. He’d gotten by for the majority of his long existence with candles or lamplight. Just because the world had changed didn’t mean he had to as well. Sometimes the old ways were best.

Case in point: hanging from the rafters in front of him was a piglet. He’d purchased the animal from a local farmer several days before, and had kept it tied up in a corner of the warehouse on a bed of sawdust with straw scattered over it. He’d made sure the animal had plenty of food and water—it was important that it be healthy and strong—and when he’d gotten the chance, he’d even taken it out for short walks to give it some exercise. Now it dangled at the end of a rope, wriggling and squealing, back hooves bound tight, head pointed at the floor. Conrad didn’t mind the noises the animal made. On the contrary, he appreciated them, for they were sounds of life, and the more life the piglet had in it, the better.

The tools Conrad had brought with him were simple. A stone bowl and knife, very old and worn from much use, both emblazoned with ancient runes. If a linguistics scholar had been present, he or she might have recognized the runes as being similar to those used by the Norse people, but these symbols predated those by centuries. The bowl rested directly beneath the squirming piglet, and next to it, the blade pointed north. The bowl was named Hunger, and the knife called Famine.

Conrad closed his eyes, bowed his head, and then spoke in a reverent voice. The language he used was a forerunner of Old Norse.

“Hel,
Frau Holle,
Dark Mother, Guardian of Graves, Queen of Night Unending, I beg you to accept this sacrifice from your most unworthy of servants.”

This particular sacrifice wasn’t as elaborate as those conducted in the old days, long before Conrad’s birth. Back then, entire villages would sacrifice pigs and horses, boiling the meat in large cooking pits, and sprinkling the animals’ blood on statues of their deities. The villagers would eat the meat, drink mead, and pray for a good year and peace. In some villages, during every ninth year there was a
blotan
—or sacrificial—feast of nine days, during which nine males of each species, men included, were sacrificed, their bodies hung from the branches of trees near the temple. The most devout villages sacrificed ninety-nine people—men, women, and children—and although Conrad admired their devotion, few villages were large enough to survive the loss of so much of their population every nine years.

Conrad knew rites such as the one he was about to perform were more symbolic than literal, but he’d served Hel for over three hundred years, and he knew that the dark goddess, while understanding the necessity of a downsized sacrifice in the modern world, still expected her servants to get the basics right, to cross their T’s and dot their I’s, as it were.

He opened his eyes, picked up Famine, and touched the blade’s tip to the sacred nine points of life on his body: the genitals (from which life sprung), the heart (which pumped blood), the nose, the mouth, and both lungs (all involved in breathing), the stomach (which digested food), the forehead (behind which lay the brain), and lastly his right hand (which held weapons and tools with which to fight, hunt, and build). Holding Famine with his left hand, he carved a single rune into the flesh of his right palm. To a modern English speaker, the symbol would have resembled a large X, but it stood for the word
gebo,
meaning gift. Conrad waited until the blood was flowing strongly, and then pressed his palm against the side of the piglet. He returned Famine to his right hand, gripping the stone handle tight so his blood smeared it, then carved the rune for
gebo
into the piglet—the animal now squealing in terror—until its blood mingled with his own, mystically linking the two of them. Conrad and the piglet were now one, and the sacrifice of its life would substitute for the sacrifice of his. That is, if he’d done everything right. If not, Hel would take his life along with the piglet’s. After three centuries, he could perform this ritual in his sleep, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of making a mistake, and even the smallest flaw might upset his lady. He hoped that if she found his sacrifice wanting, she would forgive him, if for no other reason than because she still had need of him.