HELLION: THE DEAD HEX: (Hellion, Book 2)

by Jenna Lyn Wright

  Mina shrugs and says, “They can’t all be winners,” and shoots me a wink.

  “She owes me,” Luke says to Mina, “and you knock the last six months off of my tab.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mina responds.

  “Then no deal.” He leans his back against the edge of the polished-wood bar, crosses his arms, and waits.

  Mina stares him down, and to his credit, he does not break eye contact. If she’d have turned that starry gaze on me, I’d have become a pile of ash on the floor. “Fine,” she mutters, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “I can’t believe this…”

  Her stiletto heels click click click as she stalks back across the dance floor, strides into her office, and slams the door behind her.

  “She’s not actually angry,” Luke says.

  “Looked pretty angry to me,” Runner responds, still watching the doorway as if she might come back out and cut us down where we stand.

  “The Daughters of the Dead,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to what’s important. We need to get out of here before Mina changes her mind and Luke drowns himself in booze. “What is that?”

  Luke flashes me a mirthless grin, and the effect is utterly wolfish. “More like who is that. A coven of necromancers, and if Mina wants me to take you there, then you must be in some serious shit. Are you?” he asks, looking from me to Runner. “In serious shit, I mean.”

  “She is,” Runner responds. “I’m just the driver.”

  “I’m fine. He’s concussed,” I say, and gesture toward the door. “Shall we?”

  ***

  “Make a left here,” Luke says, pointing out the windshield of the hearse.

  From my seat behind them, I can see the confusion on Runner’s face in the rearview mirror. “That’ll take us out of the city.”

  “Nothing gets by you,” Luke mumbles.

  I poke my head through the space between the passenger seat and driver’s seat. “Is that a problem?”

  “No, I just… that was more for me, I guess. I can’t remember the last time I left the city.”

  “And you?” I ask Luke, who’s staring stoically at the road.

  “I get out of that hellhole every chance I get.”

  “Yeah, but you like nature,” Runner says.

  “You two know each other?” I can usually pick up on these things, and the fact that I might’ve missed this has me thinking I need to step up my game.

  “No,” they say in unison, and then Runner adds, “but I know what he is.”

  Again, my rookie inadequacies stand out like a gods damned beacon to everyone else. The minute I’m done with this mission I’m going straight back to Mina’s and I’m not leaving until I know enough to not be completely incompetent.

  “And what is he?” I ask.

  Luke shifts to better face me and for a moment I’m confused because he says nothing. Then, quick as a blink, his eyes flash an unearthly neon-blue, and when he smiles at me his canines are the slightest bit elongated. “Lunatic,” he growls, and just as quickly as he went wolfish on me, his eyes are back to icy and his grin nothing more than amused. “How new are you?”

  “Less than a month,” Runner interjects.

  Luke lets out a low whistle. “And who are you again?”

  “Gray Carver. Nobody you’d know. I’m too fresh. Practically human, aside from the demon thing.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head, “your name is ringing a bell. Why do I know you?”

  “You hear about what went down with Lilah?” Runner asks.

  “Who hasn’t?” Luke replies, and then those light eyes go wide with understanding and he turns them on me. “That was you?”

  “I helped,” Runner chimes in, like a kid who hasn’t gotten credit for setting the table for a five-course meal he didn’t prepare.

  “That was me,” I confirm.

  “Well, this certainly makes things a bit more interesting,” Luke says. “I didn’t realize I was traveling with a mass murderer and her chauffeur.”

  “Right-hand man,” Runner says.

  “Really? Because you’ve been insisting you’re just the driver from the moment I met you in the bar,” Luke counters, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “I’m a man of many talents. Some known. Most unknown.” Runner makes a show of leaning forward and squinting out into the murky twilight in an attempt to seem like he’s very busy driving and can’t possibly pay attention to further questions. It hits me that watching Luke bust Runner’s chops is the most entertainment that didn’t involve some sort of violence that I’ve had since I ended up in Counterfeit City, and I decide I like our guide. “How much further?” Runner asks.

  It’s then that I realize the bright lights of the city have faded and the concrete jungle has given way to thick forest on either side of the road. The sky out here is a deeper shade of purple, bruised and dark above us.

  Luke glances out his window and says, “Get ready.”

  “Ready? For what?” Runner and I both follow Luke’s gaze, then glance at each other in confusion. There’s nothing to the right but nature.

  “Turn right,” Luke says.

  “Where?” Runner yells. “There’s no road!”

  Luke reaches over and yanks the wheel toward himself, sending the hearse careening toward the forest. Instinctively, I throw my hands up as Runner jerks back, trying to get as far from the windshield as possible to protect himself from the glass that’s going to go flying when we slam into a tree.

  And then we don’t.

  Slowly, I lower my arms to find Luke driving one-handed down a smoothly-paved one-lane road that slices through the trees and snakes back into the darkness. “You want the wheel back, Right-hand Man? Or should I keep driving?” he asks dryly.

  Hands trembling, Runner takes the wheel back from Luke. “If I’d made that turn without you in the car, would we be on this road?”

  “You’d be wrapped around a tree,” Luke admits. “It’s like that scene in Indiana Jones where he has to cross that invisible bridge. Lack of faith means you step out into nothingness and plunge into the chasm below. Faith means your foot hits solid stone and you continue on your journey.” He waves a hand at the windshield and the forest outside. “I knew this was here. So it was.”

  Runner white-knuckles the steering wheel, clearly unhappy that we have to take our navigator’s directions on faith. “That is a bad system,” he mutters.

  “Or is it the best?” Luke counters.

  “What do I need to know about the Daughters of the Dead before we get there?” I ask, steering the conversation back to what’s actually important. “Because I’m fairly tired of looking like a jackass to all you seasoned Counterfeiters.”

  That gets Luke to crack a smile. “They’re necromancers, they’re the best at what they do, and she scares the hell out of me.” He frowns. “They scare the hell out of me,” he corrects. “As for the details, you can ask them yourselves.”

  Ahead, the trees fall back to reveal a three-story gothic estate. It reminds me of Lilah’s, but it’s older, the stone darker and dirtier, and it one-hundred percent does not belong smack dab in the middle of nowhere. This is the kind of old-money building you’d see in the fanciest parts of the city, protected by landmark status while futuristic skyscrapers of glass and chrome pop up around it over the years. It’s like Dracula’s vacation home, perfect for when he just wants to get away from the urban hustle and bustle but doesn’t want to give up the creepy creature comforts and aesthetic he loves.

  The base of the estate is glowing, blue light flickering and flashing through small windows set just above the ground. From somewhere inside a shriek cuts through the night, audible even through the thick stone and the sound of our engine.

  Luke chuckles low. “Looks like you two are in for quite the show.”

  7

  NICE NIGHT FOR A RESURRECTION

  Our knocks go unanswered. The thief in me begins to surreptitiously scan the outside of t
he mansion for a place to break in.

  “There’s a window cracked open on the second floor,” I say, stepping back and pointing up. “If you two can boost me I can probably…”

  I trail off at the looks on their faces. Runner’s amused and maybe a bit scared by my instincts, but Luke is looking at me like I’ve lost my damn marbles. He digs into his pocket and produces an old skeleton key, darkened by oxidation and time. “I have a key. I was just being polite.”

  “Right,” I say. “You know what they say about old habits.”

  “They get you imprisoned?” Runner offers helpfully.

  There’s a terrible crash from inside, loud enough to make the heavy wooden door before us rattle on its hinges. Luke turns to us and holds up the key. “You’re sure you want their help?”

  I nod. “Mina hasn’t been wrong with her suggestions yet.”

  “You’ve only been on one mission,” Runner says.

  “She sent you to me, Runner. Was that a bad idea?”

  “Not so far,” he says, “but this is different. These are witches.”

  “And what’s so bad about witches?”

  “They’re scary!” Runner yelps, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Feeders and Lunatics are only mildly upsetting because they’re only scary in basically one way. No offense, Luke.”

  “None taken.”

  “They can bite you, or tear you apart, and that’s bad, I know. Fairies and Pixies and Goblins and Ghouls, Spirits like me, we all have our thing. One thing. Witches, though,” he says, and visibly shudders, “they can do everything. There’s no telling what they’ll get up to, how they’ll get up to it, and what the damage will be.”

  “He’s not wrong,” Luke admits. “Witches are wily. They all have their specialties, of course. The necromancers you’re about to meet obviously specialize in working with and through the dead…”

  “Obviously,” I parrot, sarcasm dripping from the word, and Luke glares at me.

  “But they all have a proclivity for magic, and magic is ethereal and intangible and runs through each and every thing in this world. They are powerful, and the thing you most need to understand before we walk in there is that you need to respect that power.”

  “I would like to respect it from the car,” Runner says.

  “Understood, Luke,” I say, grabbing Runner by the elbow of his jacket to keep him from escaping. “Let’s go.”

  Luke inserts the key into the lock, twists, and pushes the door open.

  It’s dim outside, but across the threshold, the inside of the estate is a spectacular kind of dark. Once the light crosses the line from outside to in, it seems to get absorbed and diffused, lending the shadows a thickness and a weight that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The clattering and shrieking from inside has gone silent, and the only thing I hear is a faint crackling.

  Luke disappears inside.

  I move to follow him, but Runner hesitates. “This is a bad idea,” he says quietly.

  “It’s the only idea we have. A bad idea is better than no idea,” I respond.

  “I don’t think that’s how that works,” he says as I yank him inside after me.

  ***

  “You’re not going to find them in there.”

  Luke shakes his head at Runner, who’s wandered into the massive living area off of the foyer we’ve just stepped into. Runner traces his fingertips along the arm of the plush, overstuffed leather sofa that faces a roaring blaze in the fireplace.

  “I could get used to this place,” Runner says.

  “I thought you had a thing against witches,” I counter.

  “I do. I do not have a problem with their furniture.”

  “This way,” Luke says, waving for us, and we follow him through the living area and down a shadowed hallway lined with black and white photographs of empty cemeteries. The sound of the crackling fire fades, only to be replaced with a low humming that gets louder as we move toward the back of the estate.

  “What is that?” I whisper.

  “They’re working,” Luke says over his shoulder, “and we can go down there, but do not draw attention to yourself in any way. And you…”

  “Runner,” he responds dryly.

  “Sure. Don’t touch anything.”

  The hallway ends in an ornately-carved door, gouged lines twisting and snaking along its surface like geometric snakes. I expect Luke to have to do some sort of incantation, or at least produce a key as he did outside, but he simply twists the knob, pulls the door open, and gestures for us to go ahead.

  “Huh,” Runner breathes. “I thought it would be locked.”

  “Nobody aside from us would be stupid enough to come in here when they’re working,” Luke responds.

  My twitchy fingers brushing over the hilt of the dagger sheathed at my thigh, I slowly descend into… I can’t call it a basement. That’s too bland and conjures up images of ratty sofas and old televisions and makeshift rec rooms. This is more like a chamber, or a catacomb.

  Instead of support beams, thick stone pillars rise from the finished cement. Polished black cabinets and apothecary tables with dozens of drawers line the wall behind us. An altar across the room holds burning candles and yellowed bones, and more bones are visible in the walls around us. I’m awed to find that the foundation of the estate is literally created from stone and remains.

  All of this would be jaw-dropping in its own right, but it is nothing compared to what’s happening directly in front of us.

  Four women hold hands, creating a circle. This is where the humming is coming from. They chant as one, their voices low and atonal, and the air around them shimmers and crackles and smells like ozone, the way it smells just before a soaking summer rain. It’s dirtier, though, earthier, as if we’re waiting for that oncoming storm at a freshly dug gravesite.

  They don’t see each other, or us, or the room around them. Their eyes are a cataract-like milky white, and with a jolt, I recognize that as the haze that forms on a corpse’s eyes.

  Runner’s fingers dig into my shoulder, pulling me toward him and shifting my perspective so that I can see what lies in the center of the witch’s circle. What has him so scared.

  A dead man groans on the floor. His fingers twitch and his legs bounce, and a memory surfaces from my days at the asylum. A girl, telling me she… saved her cat. No, she reanimated her dead cat. Her green eyes wide with wonder at the act, and anger that it got her locked away in that terrible place.

  The chant grows louder and faster, but the man still hasn’t fully reanimated. The witch directly in front of him says to the others, “It’s not working.”

  “Don’t stop,” comes a command from the witch that has her back to us. A mass of curly hair obscures her face and she is smaller than the rest. “I can do this.”

  As I watch, the palms of her hands begin to glow. The other witches glance at her with worry, but they hold fast, trusting her. Their chant reaches a fever-pitch, and with a burst of light from the curly-haired witch’s palms the dead man sits up like he’s been shocked back to life and bellows in rage and pain. It’s then that I see that the back of his skull is missing, blown out by a bullet, a crimson crater of bone, blood, and brain.

  Runner stumbles back, but Luke catches him, holding him fast, and shakes his head at my skittish friend. “We wait,” Luke mouths, and Runner looks like he’s about to vomit.

  “Why!” the dead man screams, and his pain echoes, the question repeating and repeating and repeating off of the stone walls.

  The woman directly in front of him crouches down, the white in her eyes fading away to reveal a golden hazel hue. Her voice is low and soft as if she’s calming a spooked animal, when she says, “That’s what you’re going to need to tell us.”

  The man’s milky eyes dart from her to the others, confused and uncomprehending. “Where am I? I have to… close up the shop…” His voice is shredded, both because of the screaming and because of the being dead, I’d imagine.
<
br />   A second woman crouches down, sweeping her long, black, pin-straight hair away from her face. Her eyes narrow as she focuses her attention on him like a laser. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but you’re dead, and the sooner you tell us who did it, the sooner we can find them.”

  A third woman leaves the circle and makes her way to one of the apothecary tables, where she begins to mix various powders together in a small bowl. She is a walking ray of sunshine, petite and blonde. She even whistles while she mixes, and the contrast between her and this dark place is startling.

  “This is where you’ll want to run,” the curly-haired woman says. She kneels and places her hands on his shoulders, holding him down. “But you can’t.”

  “I’m not… I’m not dead,” he stutters.

  “I’m afraid y’are, hun,” the blonde tosses over her shoulder, “but we’re gonna take good care of you while you’re here with us, and then track down the bastard that did it! Sound good?”

  “Ben, get over here,” the angry one with the black hair says, and waves toward a dark corner of the room. “Maybe he’ll believe you.”

  A man emerges from the shadows. The navy blue of his uniform blended nearly perfectly with the darkness in the room, and that’s the excuse I’m giving myself for not seeing him there earlier. That, and it’s hard to keep your eyes peeled for threats when a coven of women is raising someone from the dead right in front of you.

  He strides toward them, spine straight and fists clenched. In the flickering candlelight something about his face looks wrong, and as he gets closer I can make out three terrible, slashing scars that run from his ear, down his jaw and throat, and disappear beneath the collar of his shirt. It’s as if someone… something… dragged their claws across his face. There is a badge on his chest. He’s a cop.

  He stands just outside of their circle and introduces himself to the newly-resurrected. “I’m officer Benjamin Shaw of the Ash City Police Department, and I’m afraid that you were shot tonight as you were locking up your pawn shop. I need you to answer some questions for me.”