The Book Eaters(8)

First, though, she had to find them.

For reasons that Devon could not fathom, the Ravenscars were, as far as she could tell, apparently continuing to manufacture Redemption. There was no reason for them to do so, since they did not have mind eaters of their own to feed.

Whatever their motivations, it made Devon’s life easier. For the past year, she had traversed the country, trying to track down the Ravenscars through their chemical suppliers.

In the meantime, she fed her son humans to keep him alive.

After months of searching, she’d finally had a reply. One man, an illicit drug dealer, admitted he was still selling quantities of certain compounds to the Ravenscars. He also claimed he could put Devon in touch. If he were telling the truth, this was the breakthrough she’d sought.

A moaning shuffle broke her reverie. The vicar stirred mindlessly in Cai’s room.

Reluctantly, she folded the phone shut. Replying could wait until she got back and Cai was awake. He could help her with the typing.

The vicar lay curled on his side on the floor of Cai’s room. A tiny trickle of dried blood ran from his ear. He was still alive; he breathed, he blinked, and his heart still beat. Sometimes he grunted. His survival surprised her. Many of Cai’s victims did die from shock, or internal cranial bleeding. Having a chunk of one’s brains liquefied and sucked out wasn’t pleasant.

But in every practical sense, he might as well have died. His memories, personality, and all he had ever been now belonged to her son. Until the next meal, anyway, when much of that would be overwritten afresh.

Devon went through his worn pockets. Vicars didn’t tend to have much money, and he was no exception. She plucked out all the ID but otherwise left the wallet intact. He didn’t have enough worth stealing. Not compared to the twenty-odd grand she kept in a bag.

He did have a Bible, at least. Devon liked those. She unsheathed her bookteeth and bit through the spine. Worn leather, loving hands, sweat, communion wine. Words flowed across her tongue, psalms merging with commandments, sacred newborns blending with war and desecration. Wafer-thin paper flesh crinkled delicately with every chew.

Used books never had the crispness of new ones, but they each carried a flavor unique to their owners that Devon, like every proper Fairweather, enjoyed discovering. Twelve bites to finish the book. She wiped ink from her chin, belly pleasantly full even as her head buzzed with archaic verses and old prophecies. Eating settled her mood, and her lingering queasiness from the alcohol abated.

Devon stripped the vicar down to his boxers. He’d wet himself; they usually did. From a sack in the closet, she dug out a selection of tattered, dingy clothes she had collected from charity shops. She dressed him in trousers, shirt, and foul-smelling coat. That done, she put the empty Scotch bottle in her bag and slung it on.

“Up you get.” Devon slid an arm underneath his shoulders. He weighed about a hundred and eighty pounds, she judged, but book eaters were strong. She supported him with ease, guiding his shuffling form toward the door. Of those who lived, some could walk, some couldn’t. He could. So much the better for her.

Devon checked her watch. Timewise, it was almost half past one in the morning. She steered her charge down the stairs, toward the alley exit. The night hung moonless and dark, punctuated at semi-regular intervals by rusted lamps.

“I’m glad you aren’t married,” she told him softly as they stepped into a puddle of streetlight. “It kills me to pick the married ones. You know? It’s not fair on the children. Or the partners.”

The vicar didn’t answer. He had no more words to give; the pages of him were blank.

Devon skirted the main streets, sticking to alleys and underpopulated areas, crossing through the local unlit park to avoid a busy neighborhood. In the dark and at a distance, they looked like two lovers, out for an evening stroll, or two drunk friends leading each other home.

Disposing of Cai’s victims was one of her biggest hurdles. Ethically difficult, because she struggled with the guilt, but also logistically difficult: the grimly practical aspect of hiding bodies. Even when they survived, she could not keep them with her, incontinent and unable to feed themselves. And simply leaving them at a hospital would be suspicious. Medical examinations might bring to light the strangeness of their injuries.

Fortunately for her, human society already had an entire underclass of people who were functionally invisible.

The homeless shelter came into sight as Devon and the vicar drew closer. Much like the people it served, the building had seen better days. Someone had converted a series of shopfronts by knocking through the walls and replacing the glass windows with metal gratings. Concrete steps led up to a triple-locked door. Some shelters had CCTV, which made things awkward. Devon knew from past experience that this one did not.

She settled the vicar on the steps. He slumped sideways. Devon adjusted him to be more comfortable, tilting his head to a better angle. The absolute least she could do. Then she took the now-empty Scotch bottle from her bag and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

All that done, she cast a final glance around. Empty road, spilled-ink sky, no one about. She gave the vicar a tiny salute. He stared with vacant eyes, a soul unknowing and lost.

“Bye,” Devon said, and walked away. She didn’t look back, irrationally afraid she might turn into a pillar of salt. The Bible she’d eaten was coloring her fears with a religious tint.

In the morning, someone would find the vicar and bring him inside. Just another poor sod on the streets, having a breakdown, having a stroke, something. They’d be suspicious, but unless they gave him an MRI, no one would ever know what he was missing.