by Andre, Becca
Mature forest encroached from every side, giving the impression that the building had been dropped in the woods. No overhead power lines, no trappings of modern civilization. Just the scent of fallen leaves, damp earth, and crumbling stone. He didn’t even hear any cars in the distance.
“Where are we?” Rowan asked, head hanging.
“I don’t know.”
Rowan lifted his head to look at him. A sheen of sweat coated his face and dampened the edges of his auburn hair. “How could you not know? You brought us here.”
“I found a thin spot.”
“What?”
“A thin place between the mortal plane and the next.”
Rowan wrinkled his brow.
Uncertain what the expression meant, James hurried on. “I panicked, okay? It takes less time if I use a preexisting portal.”
“A natural phenomena?”
“No. More like a heavy traffic area. A lot of people died here.”
“Here?”
James waved at the building.
Rowan followed the gesture and grunted. “We’re near Cleves.”
“You’ve been here.” Thank God. Maybe they weren’t that far from the manor.
“No, I read the words on the portico.”
Portico? James looked closer at the front of the building, his eyes settling on the decorative porch over the open front door. The weathered letters carved into the stone facing were barely legible. Winters Crematorium.
“There are urban legends about this old crematorium up on Buffalo Ridge,” Rowan said. “Some crazy doctor by the name of Winters owned the place. Rumor has it that he was convicted of abuse of a corpse, and the place closed down.”
Disturbing. “Buffalo Ridge? Are we still in Cincinnati?” James wasn’t a native to the area, but Rowan was.
“West of the city.”
James frowned, eyeing the building. “But why is the veil so thin here? You take the dead to a crematorium, you don’t use one to make them dead.”
“You tell me. Death is your element.”
James wanted to shoot back a smartass comment, but what could he say? Rowan was right. If anyone knew death, it was James.
Rowan braced his hands on his thighs and bowed his head.
James studied his face—or what he could see of it. Had he always been that pale? “Are you all right?”
“No.” A drop of blood fell from his upper lip.
Anxiety dumped adrenaline into James’s bloodstream, but he had no outlet for it. Nothing to attack, nothing to hunt. Nothing but guilt.
“I need to get you home,” James said.
“Not through…that place. I’ll walk.” Rowan kept his head bowed.
“Can you walk?”
“Screw you,” Rowan mumbled.
James sighed. He hadn’t been trying to insult him. “I don’t suppose you have your phone?”
“It’s in my car, at the hospital.”
The hospital? James decided not to ask. “I can go to the manor and let Donovan know where you are.”
Rowan grunted, head still hanging.
James didn’t want to leave him here, but it was either that or carry him out of these woods and hope to find a pay phone—or a sympathetic motorist.
James heard a distant rumble. Thunder? He sniffed the air, sorting through the scents: the pungent pine near the corner of the building, the musty dampness of the moss along the foundation, the faint spice of Rowan’s cologne…but there, a hint of ozone.
“A storm’s coming. Why don’t you wait on the…” What had he called it? “Porch-thing.”
“Portico,” Rowan muttered.
“It looks like a porch.” James slipped a hand beneath Rowan’s arm.
“I can walk.” Rowan pushed himself up, swaying as he got to his feet.
“Uh-huh.” James kept his grip on his arm.
“It’s Italian.”
“Say what?”
“Portico. It’s Italian for porch.”
“Ah.” James started him moving. “Do you know Italian?”
“Took an architecture class once.”
“I thought you studied volcanoes.”
“There was this cute co-ed. She was studying to be an architect.”
“I see.” James bit his lip to keep from smiling and helped him to a seat on the steps. Rowan must be a little out of it if they were having this conversation. “If it should start to storm before I get back, take shelter inside.” He glanced up at the building. It looked structurally sound and—
A flash of movement at an upstairs window drew his eyes. Something white, but now that he looked closer, he didn’t see anything. A trick of the light?
“So, you strand me in the forest and leave me to take shelter in a haunted crematorium.”
“Haunted?” James called the hound and studied the building. The walls weren’t an obstacle; if anyone were inside, he’d see the glow of their soul. For an instant, he thought he saw a flicker, but it didn’t reappear. “It’s empty.”
Rowan raised his head. “You looked for ghosts?”
“I see souls, the living and the dead.” He stepped away.
Rowan frowned, but James didn’t give him a chance to comment.
“Be right back.” Using the hellhound’s dimension as a way to travel between points on the mortal plane, he became the hound, ripped open the portal, and jumped through.
James stepped out on the manicured lawn in front of the Elemental Manor. Ivy scented the air from the vines climbing from the gray stone exterior of the first floor to the timber and stucco of the second floor. Cedar mulch and juniper bushes competed for his attention, but he went deeper. Hot metal and burnt oil. Not Cora’s sleek little BMW. Donovan’s decade-old SUV. Good, he was here.
James examined the souls scattered around the large house and found the one he sought in the garage. Donovan must have just arrived.
James slid into that twilight region between the mortal plane and the next, effectively becoming a ghost. He didn’t need an opposable thumb to open the garage door; he walked through it.
Donovan had his back to him, digging through the mountain of outdoor supplies in the back of his vehicle. “Glad you’re back, son. I was getting worried.” Donovan tugged a warped campstool from the bottom of the pile and turned to face him.
James stopped, surprised anew at the big man’s awareness of his surroundings. There was no way Donovan could have heard him. Shifting to human form, he crouched before Donovan, the cement cold beneath his bare feet.
“Donovan, I—” James hesitated. Donovan had always been kind to him, always giving him the benefit of the doubt. God, how could he tell him he’d almost killed Rowan? He forced himself to continue. “I screwed up. I got angry and—”
“Son, it’s okay. All that matters is that you’re safe.” He opened the stool and set it on the floor. The stool began to move, the bent leg appearing to straighten on its own, though James knew it was Donovan’s magic at work. Donovan possessed the elemental power of earth, though in this modern world, elemental magic was specific to a state of matter: solid, liquid, gas, and plasma. Donovan had the power to manipulate any solid object.
“Did Rowan and Addie find you?” Donovan asked.
James released his tense crouch, and his bare ass hit the cement. He’d forgotten; Donovan didn’t know. He hadn’t read Addie’s journal entry.
“James? What’s wrong? Have you seen Rowan and Addie?”
“Yes.” The word was little more than a whisper.
“You’re scaring me. Where are they?”
“She’s—she’s not—” He had to stop to swallow. He wanted to soften the blow. Protect her. But what could he say? He settled for the truth. “It was
her all along.”
“I don’t follow.”
A slight hesitation, then the words tumbled free in a mad rush. “She had Era captured and used her to brew the Final Formula. Neil did the dirty work for her and in exchange, she was going to give him…me.” His voice broke on the last word.
Donovan frowned, though he looked more concerned than angry. “Did she regain her memories?”
“No. Neil had her journal. He was behind it all: the zombies at the clinic, Lawson and the other liches. We read her journal entry, Rowan and I. Rowan commanded her to fix Era, and we left.”
A shorter pause this time. “Where’s Rowan?”
“The Winters Crematorium near Cleves.”
Donovan grunted. “What were you doing out there? Was Neil—”
“I got mad. Again. I picked a fight with Rowan, then jerked him into the place where the dead go. It…it hurt him.” Donovan didn’t look happy, so James hurried on. “You need to go get him.”
“All right.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, but it’ll take me an hour, maybe longer, depending on traffic.”
“Okay.” James rose to his feet, then stilled as Donovan moved closer. “I’ll go back and stay with him until you get there.”
“Good. I’ll feel better knowing you’re watching over him.”
Donovan trusted him to watch over Rowan? Stunned, James didn’t know what to say.
“How about some clothes? I’ve got your duffle bag in the truck.”
James blinked, forcing his attention on Donovan’s question. “Wouldn’t work. I change form as soon as I jump through. Any material object touching my skin vanishes.”
“If I tossed in the duffle after you jump in?”
“That might work.” James hadn’t experimented much with the portal. Growing up, his brothers had been very adamant that he not shift forms. Even to the point of making up lies about certain body parts shriveling and falling off if he shifted too much. Gavin had cracked up when he asked him about it.
Donovan returned to the SUV and quickly threw a few things into the duffle bag: granola bars, a couple bottles of water, and a first-aid kit. James frowned at the last. Rowan healed so quickly, he rarely needed medical attention.
“There’s some ibuprofen inside,” Donovan said, catching his frown. No doubt, he knew Rowan had another headache. It was a common side effect when Rowan used his gift, and Donovan probably suspected he’d used it to defend himself against James.
“I’m sorry,” James said.
A big hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Apology accepted. Now keep an eye on the hothead until I get there.”
James nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He stepped away, forcing Donovan to release him, then shifted into the hellhound to jump through the portal.
“You know, that’s some very cool magic you have there.”
James looked up, meeting his eyes. That might be true, but he doubted Donovan would be willing to pay the price to possess such magic. He pulled open the portal and jumped through, his body morphing into the hellhound-human hybrid on its own. Reaching back, he caught the edge of the portal before it could close.
“Unreal.” Donovan stepped up to the opening, his eyes sliding upward to take in James’s new form. He’d never witnessed this aspect of James’s ability. Maybe it would change his mind about his cool magic. Wordlessly, Donovan thrust an arm through the opening to hand James the bag.
Thank you.
“See you in a bit.” Donovan stepped back.
James released the portal and it winked closed. The bag fell from his hand, his claws slicing through the handle. He sighed, the sound more like a low growl in this form. He hoped he could get it out the other side without destroying his change of clothes.
The duffle bag tumbled across the cobbles and James landed beside it. A wind had kicked up, sending cool fingers combing through his fur. He returned to human form, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
The front steps were empty. “Rowan?” Perhaps he’d gone inside to get out of the wind.
James opened the duffle bag and pulled on the sweatpants and long-sleeve shirt inside.
Tucking the bag under one arm, he hurried up the stairs. He stepped across the threshold and froze. The weight of the place bore down on him, making the air almost too thick to breathe. The energy here was staggering. He was dead, with little to fear from such things, yet the fine hairs on his body rose as if charged.
He stood in a large, two-story foyer. Old checkerboard tile cover the floor, most of the pieces cracked or missing entirely. A counter ran along the rear wall, and high windows above the door let in the fading afternoon light. But what dominated the space was a large white statue of a woman. She wore an old-fashioned nurse’s uniform, the long skirt reminiscent of something from the early 1900s. Not something he’d expect to see in a crematorium. Maybe a hospital.
“Rowan?” James didn’t see him in the room. He spun in a slow circle, searching the dim corners. With the storm rolling in, the light was fading fast. James couldn’t imagine Rowan deciding to take a tour of the building. Perhaps he’d wandered off into the trees for a bathroom break. James searched for the familiar glow of his soul and found…nothing. He’d have to be dozens of yards away to escape James’s notice. Had he gotten lost?
“Rowan!” James’s voice echoed in the empty room.
A glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and James whirled to face the open doorway and the man who stood in the shadows beyond the threshold.
“Where did you—” James fell silent, his sensitive nose picking up the odor of charred meat and ashes. It wasn’t Rowan.
A man stepped into the room, the source of the odor, his dark complexion almost the same shade as the decades-old suit he wore.
The man moved closer and James realized that the guy’s skin wasn’t brown, it was charcoal. Literally. The man’s head swiveled toward James, black pits where the eyes should be.
Get out. The man’s lips didn’t move, but James had no doubt the raspy whisper was his. The man’s appearance began to change, the flesh of his face falling away to reveal charred bone.
James stood his ground. “You first.” He let the hound rise, coloring his tone and his eyes. It wasn’t an empty threat. The ghost’s soul was in the mortal plane and as accessible to James as any other.
The ghost tipped his face toward the ceiling, then faded away.
Something snapped above him, and James looked up. The chandelier two stories overhead broke free. James dove through the door into the open hallway an instant before the heavy chandelier crashed down where he’d been. The wrought iron arms shattered the tile floor, lifting a cloud of dust.
Wrought iron. Had the ghost known that James was weak to iron?
James pushed himself to his feet. He pulled in a breath—and froze. In the narrow confines of the hallway, he picked up a new scent. A familiar scent: Rowan’s blood.
Chapter
3
James found the first droplet a dozen feet down the hall. Squatting, he touched a finger to the spot. The blood was fresh. What was Rowan doing here? James lifted his head, searching his surroundings for souls. If Rowan was still in the building, he should be able to see him.
Dim flickers from the souls of the building’s other occupants winked in and out of existence. Had they hidden from him before, trying to entice him into the building? He’d encountered a few ghosts over the course of his life. Most avoided him, while others had been unaware of their surroundings. James wondered if they even knew they were dead.
He sighed and let his vision return to normal. Unable to locate Rowan by sight, he was left with one option: he’d have to hunt him.
Like his brothers, James was a
Hunter. It was their genetic heritage, passed down not only through their genes, but also in their blood. Though nowhere near his strength, his brothers were still magical. Traces of hellhound blood flowed in their veins, enhancing their senses and their intuition to second-guess their prey. James didn’t want to think of Rowan as prey, but as long as he stayed in human form, that shouldn’t be a problem.
He closed his eyes and touched the blood to his tongue. Heat seared across his senses and he pulled back in surprise. It was just magic, but damn, he’d never felt anything like it. Moving past the magic, he focused on the taste of Rowan’s soul. Molten metal flowed across his senses, hardening into an unbending will, but beneath it, James picked up the disorienting tang of confusion. That didn’t mesh with the man he knew. Had their trip through the hellhound’s dimension messed him up that much?
James was reminded of a conversation he’d once had with Addie. She’d admitted that blood alchemists would torture people to imbue their blood with certain characteristics. Scare them, and bottle the essence of fear. Hurt them, and their blood held pain. Starve them, and capture the want of hunger. At the time, he’d been too shocked that she knew such things, but now, he looked past that and saw the truth in her words.
He raked a hand through his hair. What had he done to Rowan?
James rose to his feet, the taste of Rowan’s soul heavy on his tongue. The thrill of the hunt filled him, tingling across his skin and urging him to change. He resisted the temptation, determined to let the cool head of logic prevail.
He continued down the hall. The dust wasn’t heavy, but he still noticed the scuff from a shoe, the scent of disturbed plaster where Rowan had brushed a wall. And of course, the blood. He found the next drop near a closed door a few yards further down the hall. He touched his fingers to the peeling paint and the door swung open, the hinges protesting with a screech. He stepped inside and stopped.
