“A tad ramshackle” is quite the understatement.
Shan slipped her hand into mine as if she sensed my courage needed bolstering. I gripped tightly as Butch whined. This little dog had saved my bacon more than once . . . and if he sensed trouble, then it was definitely on the way. But then, I had known as much already from Booke’s tangible fear during our phone call; he wasn’t the sort of man who cried wolf. Whatever his personal problems, he’d never shared them before, never asked for help.
The road was barely passable for a normal vehicle, with steep drainage ditches on either side; it would be impossible to pass if another car met us head-on. The possibility of a collision sent a chill through me, burying my less mundane fears. Two pale, freckled hands gripped the steering wheel as the driver peered into the darkness, made more opaque by the brightness of our headlights. The shadows didn’t feel like they came from a normal sunset—no, it was more like we’d passed some barrier that kept the light at bay. Ahead lay a weathered stone bridge, worn from years of exposure to wind and rain; it didn’t look as if anybody maintained it.
Abruptly, the driver stopped the car. “This is as far as I’ll take you. If you peer hard, you can see the cottage from here.”
Yes, there it is.
As he’d said, I glimpsed our destination, nestled amid a thicket of thorns, across the dark arch of the bridge. I didn’t protest. His tone made it clear it would be a waste of breath. So I tipped him and slid out of the vehicle. My belly roiled, an echo of the upset from the train. The house did have a haunted, run-down air, justifying the stories that circulated about the place. Before we’d moved off more than two steps, the driver was already maneuvering the car in a slow five-point turn, being careful not to back into the ditch. I could pretend that was why he hadn’t wanted to come further—he didn’t want to get stuck—but that wasn’t the reason.
Shannon’s face was pale in the half-light, still unpainted from our hurried departure, and her cosmetic-free countenance offered stark contrast to the punky streaks in her black hair. “Shall we?” I asked her.
She squared her shoulders. “This idea seems worse all the time. But yeah, obviously. When have I ever let portents of doom discourage me?”
That time, my smile was real. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“Hey, you went to hell and back for me. The least I can do is check out a little ghost cottage.” In her tone, I heard awareness of what that rescue had cost me.
I didn’t want her to feel guilty, but a dark, uber-creepy road at night wasn’t the place for a heart-to-heart.
My head whirled with potential explanations. Maybe Booke was squatting here. But no. He’d told me once that he was stuck in Stoke; he couldn’t leave to help me even if he wanted to. Well, whatever the solution to this riddle, it lay inside the ivy-wreathed walls of the ghost cottage.
As we had been traveling a while, I set Butch down to do his business. “You can walk if you stay close.”
He responded with an affirmative yap. Since he held the title of world’s smartest Chihuahua, it was unlikely that he would go exploring in a place like this with night rolling in. I noted that Shan still hadn’t relinquished my hand, not that I blamed her. This place was spectacularly spooky. There were no normal night noises. No traffic. No signs of human habitation. Though it might be the time of year, I didn’t even hear birds or insects. It was like stepping into a dead realm, where you were cut off from all other life.
“This reminds me of Kilmer,” Shannon whispered.
Earlier in the week, I’d failed to access my mother’s magick, which meant I wasn’t a witch anymore, so it was no surprise when I couldn’t assess the place with my witch sight. That was the price ambitious witches paid; their power wasn’t compatible with the greedier pull of demon magick. I might be able to summon and bargain with demons, a power I didn’t want. I’d had enough of the creatures in Sheol, where I had learned they weren’t all good or evil, just like human beings. The realization weighed on me, but it didn’t make me want to get to know them better on the chance they were as honorable as Greydusk, the demon who helped me in the nether realm.
I sniffed the air. “I don’t detect the same hint of brimstone and decay, though.”
“I don’t think it’s demonic. It’s just . . . not right.” I could tell by her frustrated expression, that wasn’t what she wanted to say.
But I couldn’t pinpoint the precise word to describe what I was feeling either. It was a creeping sort of dread, like it could suck the life out of you, given sufficient time. If I let myself be dramatic, I’d call this limbo, a place where unmoored souls drifted in mournful silence. I didn’t articulate the idea out loud; there was no point. If the dead surrounded us, they’d make themselves known soon enough. Hell, they might announce themselves on Shan’s radio.
The mist deepened as I crept over the weed-choked stones. My shoes made little sound, just a rasp and scrape when I went from the rutted road to the bridge. I felt none too sure it would bear weight. I could imagine the masonry giving way, tumbling us down into the murky water below. Shan’s hand tightened on mine.
Somehow, we made it across the stonework onto the other side, where it felt colder. We shared a glance. Then Shan and I crossed the remaining distance to the front door. The ghost cottage radiated menace, as if the empty windowpanes were malevolent eyes; there were no lights inside. Cobwebs hung from the eaves, drifting in the chill breeze like the tattered pennants of a long-ago war. Here and there, bits of the outer wall had crumbled away, littering the yard like broken gravestones.
“I’ll lay odds if I turned on my radio, it would light up like the Fourth of July.”
I swallowed hard, unnerved by the prospect. Oh, I accepted the idea that the dead were all around us—and Shan could talk to them using said radio—but I had seldom sensed their presence so strongly. Her grip tightened on my hand as Butch nudged up against my shins, demanding to be picked up. Great, the atmosphere was affecting my dog too.
At least that means you’re not imagining it.
Obligingly, I scooped him up and tucked him into my purse, his safe space. He hid his head, like the bad stuff was about to commence right now. Shan spun in a slow circle, tracking the horizon, but there was only silence, and the thorn thicket, and then the darkness over distant fields dotted with quiet trees. The wind blew through the greenery surrounding us, and it whispered with a host of voices. Soft, sibilant, I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone raised the hair on the nape of my neck.
She stared at me, eyes wide. “Tell me you heard that. I’m too young to go batshit. I bet the asylums in the U.K. aren’t as posh as they could be.”
“I did,” I muttered. “And we’re not standing around to see what else happens. Time to get this party started.”
Six Impossible Things
I tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, as promised. It seemed hard to imagine that Booke actually lived here. The place was a ruin. Though the driver hadn’t said when the owner went back to Ireland, I could tell by the air of neglect that it had been years.
“He said it’s not as bad as it looks, inside.”