Blackwater, Montana, smelled like pine needles and death. The kind of death that clung to your skin.
Dean killed the Impala's engine outside the coroner's office—a squat brick building that looked like it hadn't seen a decent renovation since disco died. The fluorescent lights above the entrance buzzed like dying flies, flickering with just enough consistency to make you paranoid.
"Charming," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. My skin crawled.
Dean pocketed his keys. "You feel that?"
Yeah. I did. It was in the air. Metallic. Wrong. Like the whole town was holding its breath.
My vamp-hearing picked up a rapid heartbeat inside the building. Thready, panicked. Formaldehyde, fear, and coffee—a cocktail I knew too well.
Dean flashed his badge at the receptionist, and within minutes we were face to face with the county coroner, a jittery guy named Harris who looked like he'd lost a few nights of sleep and most of his nerve.
"This way," he said, leading us toward the freezer room with all the enthusiasm of a man escorting us to our deaths.
Four body bags lined the cold room like unwrapped Christmas presents from hell.
"Never seen anything like it," Harris muttered, snapping on gloves. "They weren't killed. It's like they were...unmade."
He unzipped the first bag. The victim's chest was peeled open like overripe fruit. Ribs splintered, organs missing—but not surgically. More like erased. No precision, just chaos.
Dean grimaced. "That's new."
I leaned in, letting the flicker of Dark Vision wash over the body. The edges glimmered with sickly green residue. Magic. Wrong magic. It clung to the corpse like mold in a damp cellar.
Harris hesitated, then unzipped a second bag. "This one...was alive when it started."
The man's face was locked in an eternal scream. Arms ended at the elbows, the flesh looking melted rather than torn.
I brushed his wrist, activating Psychic Echoes.
—A dark room. Screams echoing. A silhouette with too many arms and too many teeth. Bone against flesh. And eyes—none. Just smooth, pale skin where a face should be—
I jerked back, bleeding from my nose.
Dean looked at me. No words. Just the kind of look you exchange when things go sideways.
"You alright?" he asked under his breath.
"Peachy," I lied, wiping blood with the back of my hand.
Harris, thankfully oblivious, unzipped the third bag.
This one was worse.
The victim's spine had been unzipped, vertebrae exposed like some grotesque zipper. Her face was untouched, as if the thing wanted her to see every second of what it was doing.
Dean exhaled through his nose. "Bears, my ass."
"Sheriff's theory," Harris offered with a shrug.
"We'll take it from here, doc," Dean said tightly.
Outside, the air felt heavier than before. Like whatever did this was watching us.
I slid into the Impala and tossed the file onto the dash. "Not a shifter. Not a werewolf. Definitely not a demon—no sulfur, no signs of possession."
Dean rubbed his jaw. "Wendigo?"
"They eat their kills. These were...taken apart. And there's residue—some kind of magic."
He nodded. "Time to call in the cavalry."
I hit Bobby's number. He answered before the first ring ended. "Tell me you ain't dead."
"Not yet. You ever hear of something that unravels people? Leaves green magical gunk behind?"
Silence. Then: "Son of a bitch. You boys found a Flesh Weaver."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a friendly."
"Flesh Weavers," Bobby growled. "Used to be human. Got into some ancient Mesopotamian magic, started sculptin' flesh like it was clay. They think pain's an art form."
"How do we kill it?"
"You don't. Not the usual way. Silver, iron, fire—it'll laugh that off. You gotta—"
The line crackled.
"Bobby?"
Static. Then one last phrase:
"It's already watching you."
The call dropped.
Dean and I locked eyes.
Then the streetlight above us exploded in a hail of sparks.
We rolled out of the Impala just as something landed hard enough to crack the pavement where we'd been.
Seven feet tall. Skin like stretched paper. No face—just a smooth plane. And its hands? Fingers like bone-chisels, curling and shifting into saws, scalpels, hooks.
"M̴a̸r̷c̸u̸s̶," it rasped. "L̵o̴r̴d̵ ̸K̵h̸a̷r̸o̴n̴ ̷s̵e̴n̸d̷s̵ ̶h̷i̷s̷ ̴r̴e̷g̸a̷r̷d̸s̴."
My stomach turned ice-cold.
Dean didn't hesitate—he emptied three silver rounds into its chest.
The thing staggered... then straightened as the wounds closed with a wet slurp.
I kicked into Wendigo Speed, blurring forward and slamming a 10-ton punch into its ribs.
It bent... and snapped back, sending its scalpel-hands at my face.
I Shadow Jumped behind the Impala.
"Plan B!" Dean yelled, tossing me the machete.
Caught it. Spun it once. "Oh, I've got one."
Telekinesis flared. I ripped a fire hydrant from the ground and hurled it.
The Weaver tilted its head. "C̷r̴u̸d̷e̴."
It imploded the hydrant midair. Rusted metal and water rained down like shrapnel.
I cursed. "Okay. Plan C."
Dean dove for the trunk. "Buy me a minute!"
The Weaver's tools elongated—bone-hooks and surgical saws glinting in the dim light.
I didn't run. I remembered the shimmer. That residue.
If it was using magic to shape flesh—then its tools were its focus.
I grinned.
"Hey, Picasso!" I called. "Let's see you sculpt without your brushes!"
I Shadow Jumped behind it, slicing at its hand.
The machete cleaved through three bone fingers. The Weaver shrieked—green ooze gushing from the stumps.
Dean caught on fast. He lit it up with silver rounds, blasting the other tools off.
The creature staggered, trembling, form rippling like hot wax.
I didn't wait. I combined everything—speed, strength, and telekinesis—and slammed it into the pavement.
It writhed. "Y̵o̷u̶ ̴c̷a̵n̴'̸t̴ ̶k̵i̵l̶l̶ ̵m̷e̸."
I leaned close. "Who said anything about killing you?"
And I drove the blade through its neck.
The world inverted.
The power hit me like a freight train. My bones flexed. My skin burned. For a second, I thought I'd made a huge mistake. That I was turning into one of them.
Then it passed.
I gasped, sagging against the Impala as the last of the Weaver dissolved into green smoke.
Dean hauled me up. "What the hell was that?"
I looked at my hand—my fingers slowly extending into bone hooks, then retracting again.
"...I think I just got a new upgrade."
New Ability Unlocked: Fleshweaver Morph
Bone Manipulation: Can reshape own bones into weapons/tools.
Organic Restructuring: Can heal minor wounds, fuse broken bones, or disrupt tissue.
Drawback: Overuse causes temporary osteoporosis, brittle bones.
"Great," Dean muttered, eyeing my hand. "You're turning into Wolverine's creepy cousin."
I laughed. "Better than being a chew toy."
But deep down, a chill settled in my gut.
Kharon knew I was here. And he'd sent something handcrafted to deliver the message.
I needed answers. I needed control.
But mostly... I needed to stay alive long enough to keep my secret buried. Because if the wrong person found out what I really was?
It wouldn't just be demons or Flesh Weavers coming for me.
It'd be everyone.