"Good."
Yes, Herald.
"Cull the herd."
I will.
"Perfect."
A twitch of muscle disturbs the way his neck hangs, his head heavy. There is heat present in his chest, as it always is when Jacob speaks, murmurs, encourages. It permeates past his ribs, slipping through hollows of meat, filling him completely. It is all he knows and understands, that voice, those commands, bow your head and obey. He will, he does, he is good and strong, he is.
That Jacob's words are meant for someone else pursues that sensation of warmth with cold fissures that crackle across his flesh. Hatred, envy, as his gaze flickers toward the Junior Deputy.
Rook, who he'd once shared beers with. Gone shooting with. Spent hours getting to know, to enjoy, before the world began to end. He sits there, slumped in that seat, those bindings Staci knew to be tight, lacerating. There are still faint scars from them on his own wrists.
Jacob hovers over him. Longer than he usually does, longer than he should. His whispers are more precise, more devoted. An order of the Father's, Staci promises himself. That's all it is -- Rook was predestined. Staci is just--
"Perfect," Jacob mutters again, his fingers slipping across Rook's bound forearm.
He is meat.
Another twitch, Staci's lip, that sneer. There and gone.
Not so soon that Jacob doesn't see it, his own mouth quirking with a smile.
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