Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
The rumble of motorcycles echoed in the cold night air. The waxing gibbous moon was a deep orange, lighting the dark streets.
Tomorrow, the harvest moon would be full.
Tomorrow, it would be my twentieth birthday.
The day of Samhain. The anniversary of the fae war.
The day my mother died.
And the time I brought Warwick back to life.
Tucking into Ash’s back to block the cold, I pulled my hands into my sleeves, pushing the anxiety I always felt when the day of my birth was near. Something nipped inside, scratching at my intuition, warning me. I had no clue what, but I felt something was imminent—peril looming over me.
Warwick signaled in front of us to turn. The wounded captive was tied, gagged, and slightly sedated behind him. Warwick wanted Vincent with him, not trusting the man or the situation we were riding into.
Earlier, Warwick and Ash had placed the note in a location. Circling around later, they found a response waiting. We were to meet at the Fiumei Road Graveyard. Midnight.
Bandaged and with a shot of morphine, Vincent didn’t put up a single fight when we tied him to Warwick’s bike.
I tried to ignore the deep feeling in my bones he was close to death, battling and fighting against the line, trying to stop it from taking him.
Like a skipping record, it scratched at the back of my neck, stirring up something in me.
Something unsettling.
Warwick slowed, pulling up to the graveyard, the only light coming from the dull bike headlights and the moon. Ash parked next to him, the guys getting the hostage off the bike as I yanked the gun from my waistband, unlatching the safety.
Nerves scaled up my esophagus, and my eyes danced around the open space, the creepy headstones casting shadows that seemed to move. On high alert, I trained my senses to take in every little thing, my gun up and ready to protect us.
“Sense anything?” Warwick’s link stood next to me while he was still busy getting Vincent off the bike and standing on his feet.
“No.” But it was a lie. I could feel energy crawl over me like bugs, but that wasn’t what he was asking about. He meant living people.
I felt the dead.
Reminding me of the Bone Church, currents tapped at my skin, their curiosity mounting, raising the hair on my arms, affecting my equilibrium.
Ghosts swarmed and circled around. Steadying myself, I tried to block it, my teeth grinding together, fighting back the nausea.
They sucked at my energy, brushing past me.
“Back off!” I commanded, my body blistering with authority. It took a couple more times for them to retreat .
A neigh of a horse jerked my head toward it, my finger tight on the trigger. Silhouettes of six horses trotted across the graveyard, five of them carrying men, pointing guns at us, the sixth horse for their leader.
Ash and Warwick yanked out their weapons, creating a standoff.
“This can go really easy. Him for the bag.” Warwick gnashed his teeth.
“Let him go,” one demanded.
“You drop the bag first,” Warwick said back, tension already skating through the night, riling the spirits with more energy.
Fuck, why did they have to pick a cemetery?
“Show me,” I replied. “I want to see everything is still in it.”
The one who spoke before slid off his mount, holstering his gun and tugging something from his arm, holding it up. The headlights from the motorcycles lit up the gray canvas bag. He opened it up, showing me the inside. I could make out a black leather-covered notebook inside.
My dad’s journal.
“We don’t give a shit about some diary full of cryptic nonsense. But if you want it back, we think there should be a reward for it.”
“One of your men isn’t enough?” I scoffed, motioning to a dazed Vincent, who was so drugged out, he stumbled around on his feet.
“Money is always first in the creed of thieves.” The man, who had taken lead, pulled something out of his pocket, making both Ash and Warwick step forward, ready to discharge.
A flame ignited the darkness. I flinched, and lead dropped into my stomach. The man held a burning torch near the bag. A spark. One flame and everything my father wrote would be in embers. The last bit I had of him would be gone.
He touched the flame to the bag. “Better decide if it’s worth it now.”
“No!” I jolted, rage surging through me. Bile coated my stomach, fear surging my adrenaline, sending shock waves out into the atmosphere like a boom. Electricity zapped in the air, crackling and hissing. The healed earth over the graves fractured and splintered, the ground rumbling.
The horses bucked, whinnying and thrashing, feeling the spirits probably as much as I did.
“What the fuck?” I heard a Hound yell, but everything felt far away as more spirits rushed for me, while my focus was on the one about to scorch my last bit of hope into cinders.
“Get them.” The order spilled from me without a thought, surging over the spirits.
They reacted to my order. Some rushed for the man starting to burn my pack while dozens of others moved to the other men, scratching and clawing at their bodies, frightening the hell out of the horses.
The men let out terrified screams, batting at their arms and legs, feeling the assault but not able to see what it was.
“What the fuck? What is on me? Get it off!” The alternate leader yelled, the bag dropping from his grip, the torch hitting the damp grass with a hiss as it sputtered out.
He clamored for his horse, getting on, his heels kicking into the animal.
It galloped off, tearing across the dirt.
The other men followed, racing back through the graveyard, their screams and howls trailing after them.
The horse they brought for Vincent took off with its buddies, neighing and flicking its head.
I wanted to see the men burn.
“Kovacs.” I heard Warwick say my name, but my attention was still following the group through the cemetery.
“Brexley.” His shadow muttered deeply in my ear, my name feeling like the richest whiskey pouring over me.
Arms wrapped around me, drawing me into his body though he wasn’t there.
“Breathe, sotet démonom.” He snapped me out of my trance, breaking the connection with the ghosts.
My lungs heaved for oxygen, my bones trembling with fatigue.
I bent over my legs, sucking in gulps of air.
What the hell just happened?
My muscles twitched and tingled with adrenaline, recognizing a crash would be hitting me soon. Crickets buzzed in the air, echoing the silence around us.
“Brex?” Ash said my name quiet and low.
Slowly, I straightened, peering at them.
“What the fuck was that?” Ash stared at me with awe. Warwick was emotionless but for tightness in his shoulders and neck.
My mouth wouldn’t move, my body shaking.
“Whatever that was . . . it came from you.” Ash shook his head. “I felt it.”
A horse neighing in the night snapped our heads to the sound.
“We have to move.” Warwick shoved Vincent to the ground. The prisoner groaned, not trying to get up. Warwick strode over to the backpack, grabbing it, then made his way to me, slipping it on my shoulders, his knuckles brushing my cheek. “You all right?” he asked privately.
Nodding, I felt a sudden ease, like my energy was restoring. Wait. I blinked, my eyes darting up to his smirk, realizing that was exactly what he was doing. Intentionally.
Sharing energy wasn’t something new, but this felt different. Easy. Instinctual. So many other times, we stumbled into it or awkwardly used it against each other. This was like breathing air. The innate response to protect ourselves as well as each other. The link no longer saw a difference.
“Hey, guys?” Ash whistled. “Let’s go.”
“Better?” Warwick rumbled.
“Yes.” My breath hitched at the intensity and intimacy of the moment. Then it was gone. Warwick stomped over to his motorcycle, climbing on. Ash hopped on his.
“We’re gonna leave him here?” I motioned to Vincent on the ground.
“Not our problem anymore.” Warwick shrugged as the engine roared to life. “Get on, princess.” He jerked his chin to the space behind him. “They find him, or they don’t. Either way, I don’t give a fuck.”
My arms and thighs clasped Warwick as we tore off into the night, the bag with my father’s journal tucked safely between us.
Turning back to the graveyard. I could no longer see or feel the ghosts, like I depleted their energy this time . . . used it as my own.
And created my own army.
“Drágám!” Uncle Andris’s arms wrapped around me, pulling me into a hug. “I’ve been so worried about you.” Andris was there the moment we came down into the base, probably watching our entry on the cameras.
“I’m okay, nagybacsi.” I hugged him back, again surprised Scorpion hadn’t reached out in our link.
Andris released me, his dark eyes taking me in. “Now that I have you back, I sit with dread daily, fearing I will lose you again.”
“I’m stronger than I look.” I grinned at him.
Warwick snorted behind me, his fingers absently touching his side, where I stabbed him.
“I don’t doubt that.” Andris rubbed my arm. “Did you find it?”
“Yes.” I clenched the book against my chest.
Andris reached out for it, and oddly, I stepped back, tucking it in tighter.
“I won’t take it from you, my dear.”
“I know. I just want to look at it first.” I eased my shoulders down. “Before everyone.”
“I understand.” He nodded. “I’d like to see you as soon as you are ready. I might be able to understand things you do not.”
“Of course.” I wanted to be alone for a moment with my father’s journal. To at least flip through the pages, see what his last words were before it was taken away from me to analyze and debate. To them, it was possible evidence; to me, it was my dad’s soul.