When I reach for a jar, Elijah lunges, catching my hand. I turn, the jar lifted along with my eyebrows.
“Saving me from the killer pickles?” I ask.
“Are you sure they’re . . .” He trails off as I wipe dirt from the jar and hold it up, showing green spears inside.
“Pickles,” he says.
“I don’t even want to know what you thought it was.”
“Fingers, okay? It looked like a jar of preserved fingers.”
“Chubby, four-inch pickles.” I squint. “Maybe three inches. Huh. Are you sure you didn’t mistake them for—”
“No, I did not.” He plucks the jar from my hand and puts it back on the shelf. Then he takes the light and shines it over the rows.
“Pickled cucumbers,” I say. “Pickled onions. Pickled beets. No pickled body parts. Also cans, cans and more cans. I wouldn’t trust the food safety of the homemade stuff, but if we’re stuck here, the cans should be fine. However, what interests me a lot more is . . .” I repossess the penlight and shine it on a wooden door.
It’s a very rustic door—boards nailed together with a small piece attached for a knob. As Elijah reaches for that, I should warn him against yanking open strange doors in a spellcaster’s house, but he’s determined to play fearless explorer, so I let him at it.
He grabs the makeshift knob, yanks with all his werewolf might . . . and the door smacks him in the face as it swings open, unobstructed.
I walk through the door, penlight high, while he grumbles behind me. The door leads into a passage, similar to the cold cellar—carved-out dirt with wooden supports.
“Looks like a mine shaft,” Elijah says as he comes up behind me.
“Well, I don’t think this is for mining.”
“Because we aren’t within a mile of the mountains.”
“True,” I say, “but also . . .” I run my fingers through the dirt and lift them to my nose. Then I pass them to him.
“Sulfur?” he says. “Isn’t that a sign—?”
He stops, teeth clicking as he cuts himself off.
“Of demons?” I prompt as I resume walking.
A short chuckle. “Yeah, I almost said that. Thankfully, I stopped myself before I looked like an idiot.”
“I’m sure the average supernatural equates sulfur with demons. We watch the same movies as humans. But it’s more often used to protect against demons. I haven’t noticed the smell of it anywhere else, suggesting it’s not naturally occurring here.”
“Our witch smeared it on.” He pauses. “Witch or sorcerer, I should say. Gotta watch that, or I’ll insult Holly. More Hollywood bullshit. Witches evil, sorcerers cool.”
I shrug. “I’m not sure whoever lives here is evil. She’s protecting herself from the demon and the hell hounds. Nothing wrong with that if you’re using recycled bones.”
“Grave-robbing.”
“Better than do-it-yourself. Evil or not, it’s more likely to be a witch than a sorcerer.”
“Defensive magic rather than offensive.”
I grin over my shoulder at him. “Good.”
He gives me a look. “I don’t need the head-pat, Kate. Just because I’m not an expert on supernatural lore doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I’ll compare grade averages with you any day.”
“Ninety-two.”
“Or . . . maybe not.”
I tug a lock of my hair. “This fooled you, didn’t it?”
“I’d never mistake you for a dumb blonde. Also, at the risk of bragging, I’m only lagging a couple of percentage points behind you, and that’s just because I had a shitty year.” He pauses. “Though, considering what your brother said, so did you. So let’s skip the IQ contest and agree that we’ll also skip the pats on my head when I get an answer right.”
“It wasn’t meant to be patronizing, but I will apologize.” I stop, shining the light ahead, and he moves up behind me, close enough for me to feel his breath on the back of my head.
“You heard something?” he asks.
“No, I just realized how far we’ve walked while we were chatting. This isn’t a basement hall. It’s a full-on secret passage.”
“It’s a back door,” he says. “An escape route.”
“Yep. Our way out of the cabin while avoiding the demon and hell hounds. Time to go back and tell Logan.”
I turn and bash into Elijah as he does an excellent impersonation of a blockade. He’s only an inch or so taller than my five-eleven, and his build is more runner than quarterback, lean muscle and low bulk. But he fills the narrow passage, and when I motion him aside, he doesn’t move.
“Should we really go back before we actually find the exit?” he says. “Drag everyone down here to discover it’s just a tunnel? Your brother will blame me, and that Mason asshole will be, well, an asshole. If you want to go back for them, I’m not going to stop you.” He turns sideways, making his point. “But I’m continuing on, and I’d kinda like you here to watch my back.”
I look from one end of the tunnel to the other.
“We left the hatch open and busted,” he says. “If your brother comes looking for you, it’s obvious where you went.”
He’s right, of course. There’s no reason to return before confirming an exit, and I’m not sure why I’m insisting on it. Maybe because Logan and I have finally broken through our stalemate, and I don’t want to do anything that might make him think I had an adventure without him. Which is silly when the “adventure” is only looking for an exit.
We get another ten paces before a second tunnel appears to our right. Then, what seemed like a curve in the main corridor turns out to be a split, leaving us three potential choices.
“Let’s back up to that first side tunnel,” Elijah suggests. “Approach it methodically.”
We head back. The side tunnel doesn’t go far before it also splits. We decide we’ll stick to the left. We’ve barely gone a dozen paces when footsteps echo.
Presuming it’s the others, I open my mouth to call out, but Elijah shakes his head and motions for me to be quiet. He points, and after a second, I realize he’s indicating the right-hand corridor, the one we didn’t take. I strain to listen, and yes, that’s where the footfalls come from. Which means it isn’t one of our fellow campers.
Someone else is in this tunnel.
I motion going back upstairs to get Logan. Elijah’s brow furrows, and he points from me to himself.
There’s two of us, he means. Two werewolves and one set of footfalls. If someone’s down here, we want to know who it is, and running back to the others would only scare the intruder off. Or alert them to our presence and let them follow us back to the others.
Am I just being cautious? Or am I being timid?
A year ago, there’d have been no question. That’s one advantage to being reckless and a wee bit overconfident: when I do hesitate, I know it’s justifiable caution. But this last year has been a tiny dagger slicing at my confidence, leaving the edges tattered, and when Elijah gives me that look of confusion, I am shamed. This isn’t like me.
And yet . . .
I touch the wall. The smell of sulfur tickles my nose, but it’s more than that. Something tickles over my nerves, too, and sets my teeth on edge. When I close my eyes, the sensation slides up my arm.
“Uh, Kate?” Elijah whispers.
“Hmm?”
I open my eyes to see him staring at my arm. When I look down, my forearm is pulsing, hairs poking through the skin. Shit. I rub my arm hard and shove my hand into my pocket.
“Something bothering you?” he whispers, lips at my ear. “I presume that’s why you’re Changing.”
He touches the wall as I did but only frowns and shakes his head.
“Is it a smell?” he whispers.
No, a feeling.
Kate Danvers doesn’t deal in “feelings.” Not when it comes to danger. I give myself a shake and pull a face.
“Just residual nerves,” I whisper, “from earlier.” I turn toward the source
of the footfalls, which have gone silent now. “We’ll leave the others where they’re safe. Let’s see who’s come to call.”
Chapter Five
Logan
Holly and I follow Allan from the kitchen. We pass Mason, who is pretending to sleep on a ratty, overstuffed sofa. I say pretending because, as we approached the doorway, the scurry of footfalls told me he’d been up.
When I glance in the room, the board we jammed into the open window is askew. In other words, he’s been peeking out, checking on the hell beasts, but God forbid we realize he’s nervous.
Seeing him, I lift a finger to the others. Then I slip in and pad silently to the sofa, pick up a moth-eaten blanket and drape it over him. He jumps up, flailing as if I tossed a bucket of ice water on him.
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. You looked a little tense there, pretending to sleep. I thought a blanket might help.”
He lifts a middle finger in response.
“Are the hell hounds still outside?” I ask, pointing.
I see the denial coming, but at the last second, he sucks it back and grunts, “Yeah. You guys come up with an escape plan?”
“Working on it,” I say. “If you could keep an eye on the hounds, we’d appreciate that.”
Again, that working of his jaw, as if fighting the urge to tell me he’s not planning to do anything except nap. Then an abrupt nod before he closes his eyes again.
“Dismissed,” I murmur under my breath.
When I get back to the hall, I find Allan standing in an open doorway down the corridor, Holly apparently inside. I pop my head in, expecting a bedroom. Jammed bookshelves line two walls. The third holds a wooden cabinet with precisely labeled jars on the open shelves. A table takes up the last wall, complete with beakers and a Bunsen burner, the workstation reminding me of a high-school science lab.
As tempting as those books and jars are, though, what catches my attention is Holly, standing beside a rope ladder. My gaze follows the ladder up to an open hatch in the ceiling.
“I was looking for an alternate way out, so I looked up and found the hatch with the ladder tucked up there,” Allan says.
“And an attic,” I say. “Definitely a possible exit.”
“Uh, maybe . . . but what I found up there is a little more . . . You’ll see.” He slaps a flashlight into my hand.
I lift my brows, but it’s clear he’s not explaining. So I climb the ladder, which reminds me of those awkward rope ladders in gym class. It takes a bit to get the hang of it even after Holly and Allan grab the bottom to keep it from swinging.
I crest the ladder into an open attic stretching the length of the cabin. The smell of bleach hits me first, and I follow it to a wooden crate filled with bleached bones. I lift a skull.
“Alas poor Yorick,” Holly says. “A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”
She’s walking over. Allan follows, looking a little green. I set down the skull.
“Yes,” I say. “They’re human bones. Extras, I presume, for the warding. Not exactly what we hoped to find, but still, this attic could be useful.” I shine the light at the roof. “As a last resort, Kate and I could break through there.”
“Sure,” Allan says. “But those bones aren’t what I wanted to show you.”
He points, and I turn the flashlight on a seated figure. Holly yelps, and I give a start. I’m lunging between them and the figure before I realize it’s not a person. Not one who’s likely to attack us, anyway.
“A mummy?” Holly frowns and moves toward it. “They’re used in dark magic when you need desiccated flesh. They’re not easy to get, obviously. Seriously black market.”
“It isn’t a mummy,” Allan says. “Not the kind you’re thinking of, at least.”
She turns her frown on him.
“I don’t think you can buy seated mummies even on the black market,” Allan says.
It’s not just the position that’s wrong. The bandages binding this mummy are too white to be hundreds of years old. They’re strips of ordinary cloth. New cloth.
The figure sits with his hands on his thighs. I guess male by the narrow hips and broad shoulders. He looks like every carved statue of a pharaoh on a throne, his back ramrod straight, head lifted, hands flat against his thighs.
As if someone wanted to recreate a mummy and used those ancient statues to do it.
I want to tell myself it’s a prop. A stuffed dummy swathed in plaster cloth. I crouch in front of the figure and tap the knee. I expect my finger to sink into cloth. Instead, it makes a dull thunk, like touching wood.
I tap harder. The sound comes, and it pings a memory. When Kate and I were little, we jumped from a second-floor window in our house. We’d seen our parents do it, and it seemed a perfectly rational way to get outside faster. So we jumped, and Kate sprained her wrist, and I twisted my ankle. When Kate wouldn’t keep her arm in a sling, Jeremy put a cast on it. This is what that cast sounded like when we flicked it with our fingers. A hollow thunk.
It’s not just the memory of that sound, either. It’s the smell. I pick at a cloth and peel it away to see plaster beneath.
I inhale. Another smell wafts out, the faintest whiff of a scent that should not permeate the plaster. Meaning there’s a crack. I move around the figure, looking and sniffing, and I find it.
I’d noticed the hands earlier, so perfectly placed on the figure’s thighs. That’s because they’re plastered in place. The job is imperfectly done, though, and there’s a crack under the left hand. I peel back the outer cloth, and the stench hits me.
I turn to see Holly at my shoulder, hand over her nose.
“Would you get Kate, please?” I ask.
“I’ll go,” Allan says. “Something tells me I do not want to see what’s inside that thing.”
He jogs off. Holly and I exchange a look. I finger the crack in the plaster, and it crumbles at the edges.
I know what’s inside, and I should leave it alone. This is a crime scene, after all. Whoever put a person in this macabre tableau wasn’t performing a burial ritual. As for what they did intend . . .
I glance at Holly. “Does this mean anything to you? Embalming a person this way?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Holly,” I say, my voice a little sharper than I intend. “I have no idea what we’re dealing with here, and if you know, I could use some help.”
“It’s ritual desiccation,” she says. “Some spells require mummified parts, which aren’t easy to obtain even on the black market.”
I know about using desiccated remains in spells. Like Holly said earlier, getting Egyptian mummies isn’t simple or inexpensive. Someone is making their own.
I look back at the mummy. “Why is he seated, though? Someone killed him and then plastered him, which is a lot more difficult to do sitting up. Also, why bother with the old-school mummification? There are easier ways to desiccate a corpse.”
Again, Holly says nothing.
“Holly?” I say.
She steps away from the mummy. “We’re in a witch’s lair. A witch who practices dark magic. If we needed more reason to get out as fast as we can, we have it right here.”
She starts for the hatch. I sit on a nearby crate.
When she looks back, I say, “You’re right. We’re in the cabin of a dark witch. And our resident witch is you. We need your expertise, and you’re hedging.”
“Because I’m not a dark witch.”
“Okay. But you are a research geek, like me. Why the ducking and weaving when you have a legitimate excuse for knowing what this is?”
“I’m not ducking— Fine. It’s a ritual. Very old, very dark magic. It isn’t done to a corpse.”
I frown. “I smell decomp. There’s definitely a person in there.”
She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks, her eyes are closed, the words coming in a strangely detached voice as if she’s reading from a textbook. “The subject must be bound to a chair of willow wood and given a paraly
zing tonic. When the tonic takes effect, the bonds are removed and the mummy is cast.”
“Paralyzing . . .” I say the word slowly, my mind working through it, flinching from where it leads.
“The victim was alive. Paralyzed and sealed up in that mummy. I dodged the question because I didn’t want to freak anyone out, okay?”
I’m turning to the mummified figure when Allan clambers up the ladder calling, “Logan?”
I turn, my mind still on the mummy, on the horror of what was done to this man.
“Hmm?” I say, distracted.
“It’s your sister. I can’t find her. She’s . . . she’s gone.”
Chapter Six
Kate
“We did hear something, right?” I ask as Elijah and I pause in front of yet another junction in the tunnel.
“Footsteps. One distinct set.”
I nod. “Okay, so auditory hallucinations isn’t our answer. We both heard the same thing.”
We’ve been following the footsteps for at least ten minutes. Every time I think we’re close, they disappear, only to come again somewhere farther off.
If there’s an exit to this tunnel, we haven’t found it. All we find are more branches and more passages. Like an underground maze.
“Does this make sense?” Elijah whispers at my ear exactly as I’m thinking the same thing.
“So many routes and no destinations?”
He nods, his gaze shooting from side to side, watching all three directions.
“No . . . but also, yes,” I say. “It’s weird, and I don’t like it, but if you have a warded secret cabin, and you’re as security paranoid as this spellcaster seems to be, you won’t want your back door running straight to the cabin.” I look around. “I bet when our homeowner is in residence, these are magically alarmed.”
“Giving her—or him—the chance to hear an intruder and ambush them while they’re wandering around, lost.” He pauses. “Kind of like we are.”
Yep, that thought did occur to me.
I open my mouth to say that I think we should retreat. Then I look ahead to the fork in the passage where a single footprint mars loose dirt. I walk over to it and bend.
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