Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Emery
The House of Ink & Iron seems different at night. Spookier. Maybe it’s the garish red lights in the window or the glittery black skull ornaments dangling from the tree in front of the shop. The town has gone full creepy-Christmas mode but somehow Declan’s tattoo shop looks sinister tonight.
For the third time, I unbutton my heavy winter coat to run my hands over my flowy black velvet dress with the high cream lace collar.
Declan’s already seen me in it—the first day I arrived in Crowsbridge Hollow.
But it’s the cutest thing I brought with me and about as close to a costume as I could manage with the contents of my suitcase.
At least my thick black tights are fleece-lined. I won’t freeze my butt off.
I pull the door open and the bell jingles. The front room is empty, but voices murmur from somewhere down the hall.
The shop smells different at night. Less antiseptic, more soapy with a hint of warmth underneath. The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the red glow from the windows to wash the walls and flash art in shadows.
I pause just inside the door, letting it close behind me.
This is ridiculous. I’ve filmed in abandoned buildings with worse lighting than this. I’ve stood alone in graveyards and crawl spaces without blinking.
Still, the sensation of being watched slithers over me. I peer out the front window but can’t make out much with the red glare distorting the view.
My boots whisper across the polished floor as I head toward Declan’s workspace, catching my reflection in the glass of a display case.
Dark coat over my dress. Pale collar. Even paler face.
Hair loose and a bit windblown around my shoulders.
Jeez, my reflection looks like a malnourished ghostly Victorian child.
I pull a tube of lip gloss out of my pocket and dab it on.
Lucy’s bright, easy laugh echoes down the hall followed by Declan’s voice, lower and edged with amusement.
I round the corner and stop. He’s leaning against the counter with a thick stack of white paper in his hand. I should pull out my phone. Take some behind-the-scenes footage of the preparation that goes on in a small town before their biggest spooky spectacle.
Instead, I stare at Declan. Plain black, Henley that stretches over his chest enough to scatter my thoughts and scramble my brain. Black jeans. Heavy black boots. Clean-shaven, hair tamed into place.
Declan drags his thumb down one page. “Mr. Baxter leaned hard into the dramatics this year, huh?”
Lucy grins and flicks her gaze to the papers in her own hand. “Baxter’s missing out on a career writing horror novels.”
“No kidding.” He flips a page. “Even though I know damn well there’s never been an asylum in the town, this is so detailed I’m starting to question my own knowledge of the Hollow.”
“Good.” Lucy giggle-snorts. “Make sure you sell it to the tourists, so they don’t want to stick around after the show.”
“Got that right,” Declan mutters.
Is that how they think of me? A pesky tourist who’s worn out her welcome?
No. Lucy might, but Declan doesn’t. Right?
I clear my throat and lightly knock on the doorframe.
“Look who it is,” Lucy says. “Our mysterious, curious crow.” Her tone’s flat. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or annoyed I’m intruding.
“Not that mysterious but definitely curious,” I joke.
Declan’s gaze roams over me, a slow, appreciative smile spreading over his face. Our eyes meet and I swear a jolt of electricity rocks me down to my toes. “Give us a minute, Lucy,” he says without taking his eyes off me.
“Cute dress,” she says as she brushes past me.
“Thanks.”
She closes the door behind her and Declan steps closer. I meet him halfway.
He rests his hands on my hips. “You were wearing that the day we met.”
Heat floods my cheeks. He remembers my dress? “I, uh, it’s the only thing I had that felt costume-y for tonight.”
“I like it.” His brows pinch together. “You said you were going to wear pants, though. Will you be warm enough tonight?”
I rub my hands over my thighs. “My tights are lined with fleece. They’re pretty warm.”
As his gaze follows the path of my hands, he bites his bottom lip. “I’ll do my best not to stare at your legs all night.”
“Oh, so you’re a leg man too?”
He snorts and shakes his head. “I told you, I’m an Emery man. All of your parts are lovely, but I like the whole package.” He circles his hand in front of my face.
I reach out and grab his wrist, tugging hard—not that I could move him even if I used every ounce of my strength. “Prove it.”
Laughing, he picks me up and smashes his lips against mine. The sheaf of papers in his hand rustles at my back as he presses me against the door. I lean in, kissing him just as hard.
A warm and probably foolish delight spreads through my chest. It’s dangerous to get too attached to this man.
But I keep kissing him anyway.
Knuckles rap on the door. “It’s time, Declan!” Lucy shouts.
He sighs and slowly lowers me until my feet touch the floor. “I’m never excited about doing this, but even more so this year.” He lifts my arm, pushing my sleeve up to inspect the green mark.
“No glowing or shimmering,” I report. “It’s been surprisingly quiet this afternoon.”
His frown deepens. “Interesting.”
“Good interesting, or bad interesting?”
“I’m not sure.” He shifts his gaze to the door, but his thoughts seem farther away. “You’ll be with me. Surrounded by people tonight. He wouldn’t dare,” Declan mutters.
“He? Oh, the Rider. Gotcha.”
“You’re still wearing your pendant?”
I tap my fingers over the iron key nestled against my chest under the high-necked dress. “Yup.”
“Okay.” He hands me the papers and opens the door.
I glance at the first page. It seems to be a script. Notes scribbled in the margins, lines highlighted. “Is this…for the Slayride?”
“Yes.” He groans and shrugs. “I have the basics down. Baxter will have to be satisfied with that.”
“What if they replace you with someone who follows the script?” I wave it in front of him.
“Fine by me.” He takes my hand and leads me into the front room of the shop.
“Oh, good. You’re both still dressed.” Lucy blows out an exaggerated sigh of relief and flicks her gaze to the ceiling. “Praise Lillith.”
I slap my hand over my mouth and smother the laughter threatening to break free.
Declan side-eyes me. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Settle down, Big D. You know my special brand of humor can’t be contained.”
“I’m aware,” he groans.
Lucy grins and grabs her coat from behind the front desk. She shrugs into the oversize puffy jacket and zips it to her chin. “Let’s ride!”
Declan grabs a black wool coat from a rack by the door and shrugs it on, then pulls a wool golfing-style cap on his head.
“Very dapper, Mr. Sterling,” I say in a low tone.
The corners of his mouth twitch. “Thank you.”
“Oh, Lordy,” Lucy mutters and rolls her eyes, then swings the door open and gestures grandly toward the street. “After you, fearless leader.”
Declan mutters something under his breath and steps out first, tugging his coat closed against the cold.
I follow, the night air biting at my cheeks immediately.
The street’s brighter than it was earlier—string lights overhead, storefronts glowing, people bundled up and drifting toward the town square in loose clusters.
Lucy locks the shop and turns toward us. “Okay,” she says, falling into step beside Declan. “Have you decided how you’re opening?”
He blows out an irritated breath. “I’m not opening with Welcome, foolish mortals. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“Rude,” Lucy scoffs. “That line is a classic.”
I smile to myself and tuck my hands into the pockets of my coat, listening.
Lucy swipes the script out of Declan’s hands and flips through it. “This is goofy. You need to set the proper mood.”
“I plan to. How about—” He clears his throat and drops his voice a few notches. “Crowsbridge Hollow may seem quiet at night, but the Hollow Hill asylum has never slept.”
Lucy wrinkles her nose. “Eh. Nailed the creepy voice but it doesn’t make sense. How does an asylum sleep?”
I snort, then cough to cover my laughter.
“See, Emery knows.” Lucy jabs a finger in my direction. “She writes compelling scripts for a living.”
“Uh, I don’t write scripts,” I correct, trying not to sound like I’m scolding her. “I write investigative stories based on facts I’ve uncovered.”
Lucy waves a hand. “Details. You tell scary truths. Similar skill set.”
“Yes, but I don’t dramatize,” I insist.
“I’ve watched tons of your videos.” Lucy snorts. “You absolutely dramatize. You just call it context.”
I roll my eyes but bite my tongue. There’s no point arguing with Lucy.
Declan holds up his hands like a ref worried we’re about to tackle each other. “Facts make more of an impact when you don’t overwork them. But like Emery said, nothing I’m saying tonight is factual.”
“I have faith in you, Big D. You’ll figure it out.” Lucy makes an exaggerated motion of twisting her wrist to check her watch. “Within the next thirty minutes.”
“Thanks,” he grumbles.
“Can I see it?” I ask, holding my hand out for the script.
Declan passes it to me with a sly grin but no comment. I step under one of the streetlights to scan the first page.
“Hmmm…this has potential, but you need to grab them from the beginning. Especially since it’s chilly and everyone will be shivering.”
“And your suggestion is…” Lucy asks.