Something was screaming.
A shrill, high-pitched wail that could've been an alarm or a child or the inside of Caleb's skull.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
His chest was full of razors.
He was back in the motel bathroom, or maybe the cabin from two summers ago, or maybe inside the burning car where Rachel's legs wouldn't stop twitching.
The walls pulsed.
The mirror was bleeding.
His hands shook.
He looked down.
They weren't his hands.
They were too small.
Too pale.
They were Isaac's.
He screamed.
The room shattered like glass.
The Raven was perched on the dresser now, black wings spread wide, head twitching unnaturally. Its eyes burned like dying suns.
Then it opened its beak and spoke.
The voice was warped. Childlike.
Isaac's voice—but stretched, echoing, dreamlike.
"Dad… Wake up."
Caleb clutched his temples. "No—"
"WAKE UP."
BOOM.
Caleb gasped as if rising from underwater — lungs exploding, eyes flaring wide.
The smell hit first — piss, blood, ammonia, old carpet soaked in chemicals.
A meth house.
A dead meth house.
And he was standing in the middle of it, breathing like a rabid dog, his fists clenched and dripping blood.
Two Vultures lay at his feet — one with his jaw caved in, teeth shattered across the linoleum like broken seashells.
The other had a screwdriver buried in his eye socket, his foot twitching like the brain hadn't figured out he was dead yet.
Caleb looked at his hands.
Red. Black. Soaked to the elbow.
He couldn't remember how he got here.
He couldn't remember killing them.
But he knew they were part of the Vultures.
He'd seen them once at a gas station handing off a package.
They were supposed to be saved for later.
He staggered back, slipping in blood.
His heart pounded, trying to break through his ribs.
Sirens.
Outside.
Getting louder.
Then—FLASHING LIGHT.
Red and blue through yellowed curtains. Tires screeched. Doors slammed. Boots thundered up wooden steps.
He turned toward the door just as it exploded inward.
Sergeant Crowe.
Gun drawn.
Tactical gear.
Eyes hard and hungry.
"FREEZE!" she screamed.
"GET ON THE GROUND! NOW! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
Caleb didn't move.
He was staring at her face.
Because in that moment, through the blood and noise and memory static—
He recognized her.
"GET ON THE GROUND! NOW! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
Caleb just stood there.
The blood. The bodies. The shriek of sirens.
The vision of Isaac's hollow throat still hanging in his eyes like smoke.
He blinked once, slowly, and Crowe stepped inside.
Boots hit the floor like thunder. She didn't hesitate.
She rushed him, grabbing his right arm.
He twisted, spun—
One of the officers behind her moved in with a taser.
"Don't fucking touch me!"
Caleb headbutted the nearest cop, the man's nose cracking with a wet pop. A hand reached for his collar—he bit down, hard, tasting blood and glove leather.
Crowe swung her nightstick.
CRACK.
The world spun as something in Caleb's skull gave.
He hit the floor.
The edge of the counter kissed his temple.
The room trembled.
The walls smeared like oil.
Another blow — harder this time — to the back of the head.
Everything went dim.
Through the ringing in his ears, Caleb felt his arms being wrenched behind his back. Cold metal on torn skin. A knee in his spine.
Then Crowe leaned in.
Breath hot on his ear. Voice full of venom and silk.
"Found you! Got you now, bitch."
She spat the words like a lover spitting poison.
His face pressed into the sticky floor, inches from a puddle of blood that still hadn't dried.
Somewhere, muffled, the Raven screeched from the window ledge.
And Caleb… smiled through the blood.
End of chapter 10.