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CONGUISE STARED OUT THE window at the rising sun. It was going to be a beautiful day, crisp and sunny. Unfortunately, he’d spend most of it in the basement. He could hold off another day or so, but sunny or rainy this task was never pleasant, so he might as well get it done and he would. Right after breakfast.
He added another slice of toast to the large tray of bread and fruit on the counter and picked up his plate of toast and sausage, carrying it to the table. He refilled his coffee and sat. There were two papers waiting for him today. It was early for the rebel’s propaganda. Usually, Afar only brought that paper on Saturdays. His hand skimmed over the rebel’s rag. No. He’d read the official paper first, like always. He scanned the news while he ate. There wasn’t anything unusual or interesting in the pages. His eyes darted to the other paper. If there was nothing interesting to report, why were the rebels early with their lies? He folded the paper and put it aside, picking up the second smaller one.
There was nothing but more stories about the freeing of the Guards and Servants from the shelters. It seemed the rebels had nothing new to report either. He turned a page and his hands shook as his gaze landed on a photo of Hugh and that creature they called Trinity. Hugh was bandaging her arm. Apparently, she’d been injured while helping to steal the Guards from the shelter. Hugh gazed at this female as if...as if he were infatuated with her. The professor’s hands fisted, wrinkling the paper. It was that creature’s fault Viola was dead. Viola had loved Hugh and he was betraying her again, defiling the memory of her love with that thing. He pushed his plate aside. One day, he’d kill Hugh. All he had to do was decide how and the more brutal the better.
Afar stepped into the kitchen from the pantry, closing the door behind him.
Conguise took a deep breath as he straightened the rebel’s paper and set it aside. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes, sir. There are four Guards in the back room.”
“Get two more. We may need them.” He walked to the counter.
“Of course, sir.” Afar collected the abandoned breakfast dishes.
Conguise added a glass of water and a large knife to the tray of bread and fruit. His reflection caught in the spotless blade. He’d aged a lot. Sorrow did that to a man. He opened the pantry door, grabbed the tray and headed down the stairs. Dread filled his stomach, churning with each step. This wasn’t a task he enjoyed. He wasn’t a cruel man, but he’d never again prepare or eat any food without knowing firsthand the source of the meat.
The first time he’d done this he’d had no idea what to expect. His plan and execution had been flawed and the results had been horrible. He stepped off the final stair, took a deep breath, plastered a smile on his face and entered the concrete room. He’d been right about leaving the room bare. It was cold and desolate, but easier to clean than tile or wood.
“Good morning, Professor.” The young, male Producer was lying on the cot in the cage. He scratched his chest, his shirt stained with dirt and sweat, as he stood and walked to the table and chair. “Whatever you have smells good. I’m starving.”
The cage was filthy, clothes and bedding littering the floor. This male was slovenly and his habits were unclean. “Yes, I’ve brought homemade bread—the brown kind you like. I even toasted a few slices.”
“Great.” The male locked his feet in the restraints attached to the floor by the chair and then snapped another shackle around one of his hands. “Can I leave the other off today?” He held up his free hand which was slightly swollen. “I’ve injured my wrist.”
“You know the rules.” The professor placed the tray on the table outside of the cage and retrieved the key from the wall across from the cell.
“Okay.” The Producer’s tone was sullen as he snapped the other lock around his wrist. “Ouch.”
“I’ll take a look at your injury after breakfast.” Conguise opened the door. It was best to keep up the chatter, no matter how inane. “It doesn’t look too bad. A cold compress should make you feel as good as new.” He picked up the tray and carried it into the cage, placing it in front of the Producer.
“Looks good.” The Producer lifted his hand toward the bread.
“Rules.” The professor touched the male’s shoulder.
“Okay.” He dropped his hand and closed his eyes, tipping back his head.
“How did you hurt yourself?” Conguise picked up the knife.
“I was trying to stand on my hands.” The Producer’s face flushed a bit.
“Whatever for?” He stroked the male’s hair. He was always surprised at how soft it was. It reminded him of brushing Viola’s hair when she’d been a little girl.
“I was bored. Can I eat now?” asked the Producer, eyes still closed.
“Not yet.” His voice was calm. That was important. These creatures could sense dread and unease. He raised the knife and in one smooth stroke slashed the Producer’s throat.
The male stiffed for one moment, his eyes opening and meeting Conguise’s. Confusion and surprise filled the male’s visage as he tried to stand, but the restraints restricted his movements. Conguise stepped back as the Producer grasped his neck, pushing the chair and table as he stumbled. The professor looked away from the betrayal in the creature’s brown eyes and focused on the blood pouring onto the floor. There was always so much blood. He needed to figure out a way to capture it. It’d be good fertilizer and some could be saved for blood sausage—cooked with peppers and onions would be delicious.
A few minutes later there was a thud as the Producer hit the table and fell to the floor. Conguise stepped out of the cage as six Guards moved down the hallway from the backroom. They always knew exactly when to arrive. He wasn’t sure if it were the sound or the smell, but he was grateful. He didn’t like to be alone down here as the body twitched its final fight. He strode to the room where the Guards had been. They’d follow in a few minutes with the carcass.
By the time the Guards carried the Producer into the room and hooked him on the hoist, the professor was ready. He had his knives, saw and spreader lined up on the table. The Servants cleaned and set up the room after each butchering, but he always sharpened his knives and double checked everything.
“He was a big one,” said a Guard.
Conguise placed his hand over the Producer’s eyes, closing them. They reminded him too much of Viola’s on the cart, glassy and unseeing. “Tell Afar to get another one right away. Have him get a large one, but make sure it’s obedient. I won’t have much time with this next one.” He was in charge of the menu for Jason’s granddaughter’s college graduation in a few months.