“Pathetic!” Ronan taunted. He turned around in a circle, showing the puckering scars of bullet holes. “Is this all you have? A few weak spells? Man-made bullets? I trained you better.”
“Wrong, old man. We’re just getting started,” Bastian growled and took a strategic step, one that brought him in front of the kitchen to block Ronan from Morgan.
Rory pushed to his feet, swayed. He staggered across the room to stop at Bastian’s side.
Ronan grinned and showed a set of bloodstained teeth. He spit on the ground. “That’s the spirit. Catch!” Bastian’s father raised his hand and set loose another roiling crimson bolt of pure magic.
Instinct overriding common sense, Bastian threw himself in front of the streaming energy. No hesitation. He’d do anything, in the past had done everything, to save one of his brothers.
“No!” Rory yelled and shoved him out of the way with a shoulder. His brother took the hit in the chest.
The impact was instantaneous. Rory’s already faded shirt blanched from dull gray to white. The cotton disintegrated as if a hundred moths ate through the fabric in fast motion. Rory gasped. His face, so similar to Nolan’s, withered rapidly through the stages of time. Wrinkles formed around bright eyes dulling to a film of pearl. Hair streamed from Rory’s scalp and poured over his shoulders like flowing water. The blond and black strands turned silver, fell to the floor in wiry clumps.
Rory’s mouth twisted. His body contorted. Pain wrenched inhuman sounds from his rotting mouth. Frantic, Bastian’s brother pulled falling chunks of flesh from his face.
Morgan’s earsplitting scream filled the room, and Bastian turned to her. She pressed her knees tighter to her chest. Her eyes were closed. Back and forth, she rocked, head thudding on thinly veneered cabinets behind her. She sobbed and gasped when the shudders racking her petite frame jostled her ribs.
“No no no,” she moaned. “Wake up. Wake the fuck up. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.”
In front of Bastian, Rory dropped to his knees. Another scream wrenched from lips that were no longer there. Bastian forced himself to action. Ronan had used a spell he knew well—one Bastian could counteract with skin-to-skin contact.
Ronan laughed. “You actually thought you three could defeat me? I created you, brought life into your mother! I own your souls, and one day when it suits me, I’ll be claiming them. This has been fun, but I only want the girl. Now move out of the way.”
“I’ve got you covered, Bastian!” Nolan shouted. “Help Rory.”
Bang. Thud. Bullet into flesh.
The gunfire signaled his brother was back in the fight. Bastian dropped to the floor beside Rory and pressed his glowing palm against the rotted flesh of his brother’s chest, on top of the biohazard symbol they’d all been branded with so many decades ago. He forced magic inside, not to harm but to heal—one of the only gifts Bastian was grateful to have. His power hit Ronan’s, and the warring forces tore him apart from the inside out, a sensation he’d learned to overcome. He gritted his teeth in determination and focused on what he’d taught himself to do long ago to survive.
The ice-cold flesh beneath his hand reformed and tightened as it knitted over bone. Rory gasped wildly for air the moment his lungs reconstructed. Bastian forced more magic inside. Rory’s teeth chattered, his skin solidified, and still Bastian pushed and repaired until he stared down at the unblemished image of his brother. The only signs of damage were the pieces of his crumbling shirt, the clumps of rotted flesh, and locks of hair surrounding them.
Bastian rose and stalked across the room to where his father stood, back against a wall, body jerking with each bullet that found its target. Lifting his own gun, Bastian aimed for the head, but Ronan had enough magic to deflect. Blood flowed from several holes in and around his heart. A kill shot for a normal man. Yet, his father still lived. From the rapid rise and fall of Ronan’s chest, Bastian knew the last burst of magic and Nolan’s .38 caliber rounds had cost him.
The gun in Bastian’s hand clicked empty. He threw it to the ground. Nolan took a step. He stopped when his father reached into his pocket and held up a matchbook.
“Not so fast.” Ronan grimaced through obvious pain. Bullets wormed from open holes, clinked to the ground. He ripped out a match and struck.
Sulfur soured.
Bastian and his brothers watched the glowing flame warily. They all stopped moving. Fire and ice didn’t coexist. Magic would be useless in the midst of a house fire. As children, they’d been kept in heated rooms, skin blistered and raw from overexposure. Ronan tossed the match back, and the frail curtains behind Bastian’s father ignited in a whoosh. The fire spread as if fed by gasoline. Flames crawled to the ceiling, moved out over the paper-thin walls in either direction. Heat filled the room, and with it, sickness rose in Bastian’s stomach.
“You remember what it feels like to have the flesh seared from your bones, don’t you?” Ronan asked.
Oh, he remembered.
Beneath his feet, the ground rumbled and almost pitched him off balance. The roar of creaking wood filled his head. The first chunks of the roof fell, shattered in white bombs of dust as they hit the floor. The sweet scent of cinnamon mixed with the pungent odor of approaching death. Through the plumes of curling black smoke, he watched cracking paint fall to the floor and drywall crumble from the inside out.
Hollow knocking sounded. The noise came from within the walls, from corpses waiting to be awakened. Now animated, the zombies punched their way into the room. To the necromancer’s call.
He hadn’t raised the dead; neither had his brothers. Not his father.
In unison, he, Nolan, Rory, and Ronan turned to stare at Morgan. Her bloody hands were pressed to the yellowing linoleum floor. Her entire body trembled from the sheer force of magic pumping through her veins. Red ice dripped from her arms, hands, spread across the floor much like her blood had earlier. Morgan’s teeth chattered. The sound was a different kind of knocking.
Cinnamon covered all other scents, a powerful wave knocking them all back a step. The baby necromancer wasn’t as harmless as she appeared. Bastian searched the cold, dark place inside his head and tried to gauge how many corpses she’d called without a circle of protection.
No circle meant the zombies wouldn’t be bound to any master, and they wouldn’t stay put. The dead would seek flesh—stop at nothing to quell the never-ending hunger eating them from the inside out. Impervious to pain, the only thing to stop them would be a couple of well-placed bullets to the brain, decapitation, or full-body flame engulfment.
He counted six approaching zombies and knew the corpses were the death he’d felt before storming into the apartment. Morgan’s magic animated them, and he knew that when they emerged, her necromancy would reform the flesh around their decayed bones to make them look lifelike.
Fuck.
A fist punched through the wall, and then another. Rotted arms appeared in the holes, smashed drywall into rubble. Like idiots, the lot of Bastian and his brothers stood and stared while Ronan melted into the smoke like a fucking shadow. Through the haze, six hollow-eyed corpses shuffled into the room, their mouths gaping open and closed like hungry babies.
Chapter Five
There was no way to stop. Please make it stop. Hot tears streamed from Morgan’s eyes and burned her too-cold skin. Memories crept in as softly as the roaches skittering over the tops of her immobilized hands. When she stared at the thin, brown bugs, she was no longer inside her apartment…
* * * *
“Dépêchez-vous, bébé,” Mother cried. Hurry up, baby.
Each cold, gasping breath hurt. She was so tired and so afraid. Through the tears, she cried, “Non, maman. Ça fait mal.” No, mom. It hurts.
When she tried to stop, Mother’s hand tightened around hers and dragged her across the rough pavement. They ran through the unfamiliar streets for what felt like hours. Snow coated the narrow sidewalks. Each of her hurried footsteps slipped on the ice. Mother never stopp
ed, never slowed. The mouth of an alley loomed darker and more terrifying than the rest.
She shook her head and dug in her heels. Mother tugged until they were between the buildings where the wind howled. Her slippers splashed through dirty water. Icy sludge seeped through her thin cotton pajamas.
“The devil has found us,” Mother whispered.
Mother stopped at the end of the alley where a rusted fence blocked their escape. She gazed up the length of the enclosure to the razor spikes at the top. Frantic, Mother turned around in circles as she searched for another way out. Tiny hands shook from cold and fear, but she forced them to grasp on to Mother’s sleeve and tug. When Mother looked down, she pointed to the blue dented bin.
The foul smell of rotted food filled the air. Her stomach rumbled. She was so hungry, so tired. Mother nodded, a decision made, and crouched in front of her. Mother’s trembling fingers pushed a crimson lock of hair off her forehead. Tears streamed down Mother’s pale face. With her big blue eyes and smooth skin, she was so pretty.
Mother smiled with quivering lips. “Mommy loves you, baby.”
She started to cry, knowing Mother planned to leave her. Hiccupping sobs racked small shoulders. She hated the dark, the cold. She clutched Mother’s hand with all her strength, tried to crawl into her lap. “Non, maman.”
Her mother shook her head, and flashes of silver glinted in the chocolate strands. Face crumbling beneath sobs, Mother stood and opened the lid on the garbage container. As if she weighed nothing, Mother lifted her inside.
Mother pressed a finger in front of her lips, spoke softly. The tears fell faster. “No matter what happens, don’t make a sound.”
A shadow loomed at the entrance of the alley, big and black.
One terrifying word carried on the wind, “Necromancer.”
Mother shut the lid, and darkness engulfed her. Panic sped her heart. It was too black, too cold. She crouched in the corner near a brown and red crack in the metal, close to the sweet-smelling kitty curled into a ball. Roaches crawled over her hands, little tickling feet she shook off.
Footsteps echoed and splashed through the trickle of water running between the two buildings.
Through the hole in the bin, she peered out into the alley and watched the devil approach. Her breath caught. Wind blew a black cloak around his body, making him look a shadow. A nightmare come to life. His hair was short and black. Like her, he had red strands woven throughout. His eyes were so bright, green and glittering like the gems her mother had given her for her fourth birthday.
When the handsome man smiled, he looked mean.
As she watched him draw closer to Mother, frost moved down her arms like little glowing sparks of red ice. Absently, she reached down to stroke the kitty, hoping the soft fur would quiet her tears. Mother said not to make a sound. No matter what. The cat stretched under her hand and looked up. From the glow of red seeping from her hand, she saw the dull, glazed eyes of the animal.
She looked out the hole again and held the kitten close to her chest, making it purr as it came to life.
“You can’t run from the devil,” the man hissed.
Mother screamed…
* * * *
Morgan drew back to the present with a sob. Smoke filled the air and made the labored, painful task of breathing that much more difficult. The wall crumbled, and the sounds of battle drew louder. Through the smoke it was hard to see, but she could make out just enough. Ronan. He’d been there the night she’d been abandoned. The long-ago suppressed memory shoved at the edges of her mind, incomplete and terrifying. She couldn’t grasp the details but was certain in the knowledge that Ronan had killed her mother.
More slabs of plaster crashed to the floor. The ceiling collapsed. Wood burned, and the wires within the walls melted. The ground beneath her stopped trembling, but the roaring flames didn’t abate.
Heat feathered along her skin and eased the cold currents streaming from her hands. Thick, billowing smoke clouded the shadowed forms of the men before her. Bastian Hale. Her detective. Her blue-eyed stranger. He’d come for her.
Every breath she managed scorched her throat and stung her eyes. Terror warred with horror. Six half-rotted corpses shuffled through the smoke. Zombies. Tufts of hair still attached to the graying scalps hung low on their backs. The shreds of their clothing were at least twenty years out of date. Short, pleated jean skirts and tight, tie-dyed tops.
Moans escaped their cracked lips. The look in their unseeing eyes was vacant and glazed over in a film of gray. Just like the kitten in her flashback. The shriveled skin on their faces and arms was a sick shade of grayish-green. Their hunger hit her, called out to the cold, dark place in the pit of her stomach. Necromancer. Mouths that were half flesh covered, half exposed bone opened and closed like hungry babies’. There was no more power inside her, nothing she could give to draw their focus, to tie them to her as she had with Christian and Damien.
The lights cut out, the only illumination now coming from the flickering blaze. She sucked in a breath and was reminded of the Dumpster in the alley where police had eventually found her nearly frozen to death. Despite the raging red flames, the black smoke curling into the air blanketed everything in a haze. Something crashed to the ground in front of her. Another part of the ceiling? Crying out, she clutched her knees tighter and tried to press farther into the cabinets.
There was no escape.
Glowing red fingers crawled along the walls on either side of her, the fire now in the kitchen. The undead she’d released in her panic fanned out before her, mindless in their search for flesh and blood.
“Fuck me!” someone shouted.
More gunfire exploded. Each bang was followed by a hollow thud of a bullet hitting flesh. With every rapid pop, pop, pop she flinched and cowered tighter into the ball she tried to make. It didn’t help, not when one of the zombies came straight for her.
Morgan tried to scoot away, but the right side of her body wouldn’t work. Agony rushed from her ribs into her lungs, stole her breath and her ability to move the fuck out of the way. The undead thing she could just barely make out through the smoke fell to the ground on all fours and approached in a jerky crawl. Fire ate at the meager remnants of its clothing. Teeth sank into her leg. Pain engulfed her, and Morgan kicked. The zombie shook its head back and forth like a dog with a bone. Despite the hurt in her ribs, she screamed, “Bastian!”
Bang. Thud.
The zombie jerked at the bullet to its head, and when it reared back, the animated corpse took a chunk of her calf. Bang. Bang. Bang. Each shot was punctuated with a cold spray of blood that splattered her thighs, chest, and face. The zombie fell to the ground, still.
Through the smoke, Bastian’s electric-blue eyes haunted her. He walked to her and crouched. The haze of pain cleared, and she involuntarily jerked back. Blood, both black and red, dripped from his face. Soot smeared across his forehead and went into his hair to conceal the midnight streaks she’d seen what felt like a lifetime ago.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said and shrugged out of the dirty leather jacket he wore. He looked into her eyes, and she fought not to drop her gaze. “You know, we could have done without the zombies.”
She shook her head. “I…didn’t.”
“You did,” he said.
The jacket he put around her shoulders should have been warm from the heat of his body. Instead, the fabric was as frosty as the finger he accidently brushed against her naked shoulder.
“What are you?” She didn’t recognize the rasp of her voice.
“I’m the man who’s gonna get your ass out of here alive. Can you stand?”
A shadowy figure emerged from the smoke. “Now, isn’t this touching?” Ronan mocked.
Ronan held a hand against his sternum and breathed hard. Blood dripped from his face and chest. Flames licked his pants, danced over his arms. She hoped he burned in hell. He walked closer, and the sound of his boots against the floor touched something inside. Sh
e flinched back, desperate to get away from him. Through the blood, the smoke, and the death in the air, she smelled him on her skin—felt his fingers touching her, hurting her.
In the background the sounds of fighting continued. The zombies? She’d rather be eaten alive by the walking dead than let Ronan have another go at her. Morgan curled into the cold jacket protecting her skin. Almost frantically, she drew in the masculine scent of sandalwood the fabric gave off.
Fire crackled. The flames moved closer. Bastian stepped in front of her until nothing except his broad shoulders filled her vision. He raised the gun in his hand.
“Get away from her,” Bastian roared.
Ronan took another step closer.
Bastian fired. Click. Click. Click.
Laughter rang out and raised the hair on her arms. God, that laughter would haunt her for the rest of her life.
“I’ll let you take the girl, for now, but know this. Dead or alive, Morgan is mine, and I will have her.”
Ronan’s eyes, when he looked at her, were emerald again as they had been in the alley nineteen years ago. And his smile was just as venomous. The echo of flames writhed in the reflection of his pupils, and she understood why Mother had called him the devil. Ronan pursed his lips and blew her a kiss before vanishing into the smoke behind him.
“Bastian, get the girl. We gotta get out of here, now!” someone yelled.
Her detective looked at her, his gaze moving over her face but no lower. “Can you walk?”
She blinked up at him. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, a combination of the smoke and sheer terror coalescing.
“Oh, no. Don’t lose it on me now. You can cry all you want when I get you somewhere safe. I’ll even let you wipe your snotty nose on my shirt if you want. Right now, we need to leave. Can you walk?” he asked again.
“Yes,” she lied.
His lips curved into a smile, so soft, so genuine it touched a hidden place inside. “Liar.”
He gripped her arm, lifted. A pathetic sound rose in the back of her throat, and she flinched at the pain.
Crimson Sins Page 6
