He’d seen the movies.
“Look,” she said, impatience clear in her voice. “If I was a Howl I’d have killed you already. And if I was a necromancer I’d have turned you into a monster. Clearly, you’re too stupid to be either, so are you coming in or not?”
He hated to admit it, but she had a point. Not about him being stupid. But the rest.
He nodded and stepped inside. She locked all three dead bolts behind him.
She guided him deeper into the hostel. Past the foyer filled with forgotten backpacks and the reception desk littered with paper and a lounge filled with sofas and a fireplace long-since gone cold. He shivered. Now that they were inside and rain wasn’t pouring over him, he was reminded how damn cold he was.
“We’ll get you changed,” she said. “Afraid I don’t trust having a fire going, but there are dry clothes left over in some of the guest rooms.” She looked him up and down, and her face cracked into a wicked grin. “I think a few toddlers stayed here last. They should have left clothes that will fit you.”
Despite everything—despite the blood and the tears and the ache in his body—he actually chuckled. “You’re a bitch.”
She shrugged. “I’m a survivor. They go hand in hand.”
In the back, in the kitchen, was a makeshift cot and a few bags, their contents splayed out over the floor. Clothes. A few bits of food. Mostly, the space was taken up with weapons.
“You know, this is a hostel,” he said. “Which means there are actual rooms with actual beds.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Kianna said, plopping down on the cot. “Though I had noticed they’re all upstairs, and that—last I checked—I hadn’t grown wings to fly in case I was attacked. A kitchen is the perfect place to hide out. Plenty of weapons on hand, very few obstacles in the way, and—” she pointed to the barricaded back door “—an easy escape route if I need it.”
That’s when he noticed the crates along the wall by the entrance he’d stepped through. Another little barricade. It was no wonder she’d lived as long as she had. She was smart. Smarter than he was.
Not that he’d admit that.
“Go,” she said, pointing to the hallway. “There are towels and the like upstairs. And clothes. And before you even think of making some quip about me joining you to warm you up, just know I’ve already killed three men this week. Two by cutting off their balls.”
“I’m gay,” Aidan said. Of all things to worry about or admit right now, that seemed to be the least of them.
“And I’m not interested in any case. Go. Change.”
He didn’t move, though. He stood there for a moment, watching her organize her weapons, feeling the weight of everything settle on his shoulders. He wasn’t going to get attuned. Which meant he couldn’t fight back. Which meant he couldn’t get home. Which meant he would die here, unable to avenge his mom or go back and tell his dad he loved him. He’d die here, and no one would know.
“What?” Kianna asked. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Please tell me you aren’t about to start crying.”
He sniffed, realized he had been about to start crying. He pulled himself together. Or tried to. “I’m just wondering what we do next.”
“We? Who says this is a we thing? I’m just giving you a dry place for the night.” She paused, let her words sink in. “I work better alone.”
“You said you were looking for survivors.”
“Ones who can fight,” she corrected him.
“I can fight.”
She cackled. “How?” She nodded to the stake in his hands. “Planning on stabbing some vampires with that thing? Doesn’t quite work like the stories, love. You’re not a fighter—you’re a liability.”
His heart pounded. Not out of fear, but desperation. He couldn’t let her turn him away. He knew she didn’t need him. But he knew he wouldn’t last without her help.
Clearly, she knew it, too.
“I’m heading toward Inverness in the morning,” she said. “I’ve heard they’re mobilizing there. Putting some sort of resistance together. You can come with, but you’re not my responsibility. You die, you die. I ain’t risking myself to save your sorry arse. If you make it there, we part ways. Got it?”
He nodded slowly. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said. “Not yet.”
He wasn’t exactly heartened when he turned and walked up the dark staircase to the bedrooms. But at least he had a plan. At least he had a companion.
He had a chance.
“Oh, Aidan,” came a voice. Feminine, but older. Familiar. It chilled him, speared his heart in place. “You never had a chance.”
He turned.
There, pouring from the shadows, was a woman molded from nightmare. He knew her in an instant. Just as he knew in that moment that he was dreaming. And that he wasn’t waking up.
“Every step you’ve taken,” she said, gliding forward. She touched his cheek with a hand that glowed like St. Elmo’s Fire. “Every choice you’ve made. All of it has been by my design. All of it to bring you closer to me.”
She leaned in, breathing against his ear. He wanted her to smell terrible, like graveyards or dead things. Instead, the Dark Lady smelled of incense, frankincense. Holy. Pure.
“You could never escape me,” she said. “Not when I am the game board on which you play. You are mine, dear Hunter. Even now.”
She kissed his cheek. Fire flooded his vision. The world burning, innocents screaming. His mother and father, once more at his side. Alive. Whole.
“I will give you everything,” she promised, a burning whisper in his ear. “As soon as you have found the shard. You will aid me, and in return, I will bring back your family.”
“Why do you need it? I thought it was for Tomás.”
“Tomás is mine. As you are mine.”
“I’m not yours,” he hissed. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t push her away. Couldn’t stab her in the chest or burn her to cinders. He realized then that it wasn’t because she was forcing him to stillness.
He didn’t want to do any of those things.
He felt her smile against his cheek.
“You already promised yourself to me. Your words have bound you, body and soul. But keep the spark, my dear. I am afraid you are going to need it.”
Then she pressed her hand into his chest, curled her fingers around his heart.
His nightmare burned in a choir of ecstasy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Burning.
Everything burning. White and hot. Searing fire. But not the Fire Aidan knew.
Pain burned through him, wrenched screams from his lungs as the world spun and seared and he dragged himself out of the darkness. Out into a cold room, and a blinding heat. And the scent and pop of bubbling flesh.
He tried to struggle. Tried to wrench free from the awful nightmare. From the pain that dug into his arm. Through his arm. Searing down to the bone and deeper. Fire and lightning shattered down his spine as he convulsed on concrete, as strong hands pressed him down.
He screamed.
He couldn’t scream. Not against the pain that choked him.
He couldn’t scream, but that didn’t quiet the screams inside. The rage of Fire. The howls of anger and betrayal. They screamed louder than he ever could.
And when they reached their apex, when he thought his soul would rip apart from agony, the pain stopped.
He slumped against the floor. Broken.
And then, before he could speak, he turned his head to the side and vomited.
“There, there, my son,” came a voice. “The worst is now over. Your body recognizes this. It, too, desires purification.”
A face came into the light. An old man. Face lined and weathered, beard more gray than not. Black and purple robes. A bent bronze cross around his neck. Aidan knew him. How did
he know him?
The stranger put his hand on Aidan’s forehead. The faintest touch. Yet it still made Aidan jerk back in anticipation of pain.
He reached toward Fire.
He reached.
But—
No.
No no no no!
His eyes went wide as he struggled, tried to reach for the power that had filled and fueled him the last three years.
“What...” he gasped. “What have—”
“Shh,” the man said. “Do not fight. Rejoice in your victory, my child. Rejoice, for you are nearly free.”
He reached down and grazed a finger across Aidan’s forearm, over the tattoo that bound him to the Spheres. The mark that could never, should never, be corrupted or undone. The tattoo that was now crossed by a terrible, smoking welt. Another man held a scalding red brand at his side. Similar to the cross around the man’s neck. Angular, sharp. More than a cross.
A sigil.
A curse.
No. A rune.
He reached to Fire again. He wanted to burn the man alive. Wanted him to suffer for what he had done. But no matter how hard he fought, inside, he found nothing.
Tears welled in his eyes. From the emptiness in his chest. From the cold that leeched through his heart. Cracked against his bones.
Fire wasn’t there.
Fire.
Wasn’t.
There.
“Now you see,” the man said. He caressed Aidan’s brow again. “Let your tears flow. Cleanse yourself in their waters. And rejoice—never again will you feel the touch of the Dark Lady. Never again will you feel the taint of her power.”
Then the man leaned forward, peering deep into Aidan’s eyes. His mouth cracked into a smile. It was then that Aidan recognized him; the serpent he’d chased from Glasgow. The man he’d hoped to never see again. And when that recognition dawned, so too did a cold deeper than any ocean.
He was as good as dead.
“We know who you are, Aidan Belmont,” Brother Jeremiah whispered. “We know of your sins. And your pain—your salvation—has only just begun.”
“We have fallen far, my brothers, and yet
the Lord still speaks. The Word
rings clear. We must cleanse
the world of magic, lest we fall
even deeper
into the bowels of Hell.”
—Sermon of Brother Jeremiah, 3 P.R.
PART 4
WHAT MAN HATH WROUGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Aidan blacked out.
He didn’t dream. Didn’t hallucinate. He swam in midnight and felt the Dark Lady’s eyes on his back. His world jostled and crashed. Pain was a constant ebb and flow, a pulse along with his heartbeat. And with it all was the greatest sense of emptiness, of loss. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t grasp the sensation long enough to understand. But as he swam in the darkness, he knew the void without was nothing compared to the gaping nothingness within.
A part of him wanted to drift away forever, to vanish into the abyss. He knew what it would spell, but death seemed far more comfortable than an eternity of this.
Then his body slammed against concrete, and he jolted from his darkness with a gasp. Just in time to hear a door slam shut. A lock slide into place.
The shivers started a second later. And with them, the dull, throbbing pain in his arm that made him cry out once more. He curled over to his side. Tried to hold off the tears as he held on to his wrist.
He didn’t know what was worse: the cold, the pain in his arm or the emptiness that clawed at his chest. He curled tighter and tried to find some sort of heat. Tried to reach for the power that had kept him alive for so many years.
He couldn’t find it. He couldn’t hold back the tears. There, alone in the dark and the cold and the emptiness, he started to sob.
He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d cried, and it surprised him so much, he laughed. Snot dripped from his nose and tears ran down his cheeks and he couldn’t tell if he was still crying or just laughing or if it even made a difference.
Of course it didn’t make a difference.
He was royally fucked.
The pain of absence was immense. He kept reaching for Fire, the reflex so ingrained in his mind it felt like breathing. Kept waiting to feel the heat blossom in his heart and rush down his fingertips, filling his veins with purpose. With life. And every attempt was a missed breath, a broken heartbeat. Every time he reached for it, he felt like he was dying all over again, his fingers clenching and unclenching as though they could claw flame from the air.
“Eventually,” came a voice, “you’ll realize there’s no point fighting it.”
Aidan jolted upright, tried to shut down his emotions. He sniffed and rubbed his face, but it didn’t matter if he was covered in snot and tears—it was too dark in here to see. Besides, it’s not like his cell mate would have missed hearing him sob.
“Who are you?” He sounded pathetic. He tried to steel his voice as he sat up. Pressed his back to the wall behind him. Told himself he wasn’t cowering. Tried, but without Fire backing him up, there wasn’t much fight left.
“Name’s Lukas,” came the voice. “I’d, um, I’d shake your hand, but I don’t quite know where you are.”
A thousand questions warred in Aidan’s mind. The only one that came out was, “What the hell is this place?”
There was a pause.
“Hell.”
Aidan didn’t respond. He heard the guy sigh and shift, the creak of a cot frame.
“We’re in London,” Lukas finally said. “Home sweet home.”
The words made Aidan’s gut sink even further. “What do you mean, London? London is a Guild.”
“Was. Until the Church took it over.”
Aidan’s thoughts were slow. As if, without Fire, they were freezing in his mind. “When—”
“A few days ago,” Lukas replied. “We got word Calum had fallen. Everyone started celebrating.” A pause. “I wish I could say that the Church attacked us. Came in the night. But they didn’t have to. They were already here. There was a coup the moment the Guild let their guard down. Half the Guild was murdered in their sleep by civilians who’d been brainwashed into thinking they were doing God’s work. The rest were captured. Branded by the Church. Now, they’re—I mean, we’re—being tortured. Though as you’re finding out, the brand is torture enough.
“Turns out, all those horror stories about the Inquisition were real.”
Aidan wanted to vomit. He wasn’t certain if it was from what Lukas was saying or the pain that throbbed in his arm and skull. “The others I came with. Are they—”
“Dead? Probably not.” Despite the words, Lukas’s statement didn’t make Aidan feel any better. For one thing, Lukas said it like it was a bad thing.
“Where are they?”
“How the hell should I know? I’ve been locked in here since the coup. If they’re lucky, they’re down here with the rest of us. If not, they’re upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs?”
Lukas didn’t answer.
Aidan reached down, gingerly touched the skin where his tattoo rested. It hurt like hell, but he didn’t let up. The flesh was hot and welted. The moment he touched it, he felt...wrong. His head swam like he was spinning, falling, spiraling down into a pit. It emptied every emotion from his heart, a vacuum, a cavern he couldn’t escape. It hurt worse than the physical pain. It was something beyond hurt. Something beyond even death. It was absence. Absence of what it meant to be alive.
He hissed and drew back his hand.
What the hell had they done to him? Or, better question: How the hell could he undo it?
“I’d say it gets easier, but I don’t like lying. Once you’re branded, you ain’t getting your magic back.”
Apparently, he had been wrong.
“Why are they doing this?” Aidan asked.
“Don’t quite know,” Lukas said. “Glory of God? Spreading the good word? Good ol’ witch burning? It’s hard to say. That’s the thing about Inquisitors. When you’re being tortured, it’s usually them doing the questioning. Goes with the name. If I had to guess, though, it’s because—without Calum as a threat—they figured now was the time to take over England. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’d already done the same up in Scotland.”
It didn’t explain why they’d suddenly decided to abandon their truce with the Hunters and start overthrowing Guilds. At the end of the day, they were all supposed to be on the same side.
Sure, he’d heard stories of Hunters getting pulled in for questioning. Hunters who had never made it out to tell their tale. But for the Church to mobilize like this, to take over a Guild...it felt like an act of war. Especially when led by Brother Jeremiah. Aidan had thought the man dead. Was this some petty act of revenge?
They came after Calum fell.
Something snaked through Aidan’s chest. An emotion he could barely place until the weight of it dragged him down.
Guilt.
The Church had overtaken London because Calum fell. Because he had killed the Kin. Because his victory had made everyone cocky. Because he had kicked Brother Jeremiah and his followers out into the streets to die.
This was the price of his pride.
“What’s your name, by the way?” Lukas’s voice made Aidan jolt.
Aidan considered lying. Not that he could see telling the truth making things any worse.
“Aidan,” he said. “Aidan Belmont.”
Lukas hissed in a breath. “The Aidan Belmont?”
Even the awe in Lukas’s voice did nothing to make him feel better. Nothing would make him feel better.
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