Oh! The magic of repulsive little Malachi. If he grabbed him by the collar and pushed him at the back, would he part crowds ahead of them like Moses the sea? What were miracles but divine malice, directed at the right people?

The look Malachi gave Chris was perverse. That was a first. Usually, he had the luxury of making onlookers blanch. Instead, the damned orphan looked on the way some of his friends looked at burlesque dancers. Problems violating this corpse: unlikely. Instead, he faced a new predicament: getting Malachi’s old man alone.

Cold, light eyes studied Malachi. Was he docile enough to slaughter like a lamb? Have a round with a still-warm corpse in addition to cracking open a cold one? Get to watch the light go out in this nothing’s eyes as he stacked them one on top of the other?

He’d bring his gun, just in case. Concoct a story about going to pay his respects to dear Lyle, who had been like an uncle to him, when all of a sudden this crazed, gangly thing leapt out of nowhere in a rage. Mrs. Brennan, no doubt, would back him over the orphan out of principle. Or maybe the little creep would just be content to watch him fuck his dead keeper. Trustworthy help was nonexistent, after all – Lyle should have known that.

The murderous look shifted to something less … imminent, when the orphan saw fit to ply him with details. He shook his head to the first part and sighed ‘sadly’ … while his hand encircled Lyle’s bent neck and squeezed, as easily as a child might grasp his fingers through sand.

“Poor guy,” he said, sporting a boner.

Another sigh, this time through the nose – though it sounded suspiciously close to a laugh.

“So,” he whispered back, “you’re saying his dying wish was to go out like a rack of ribs?”

He glanced to and fro, then bent forward and sniffed.