Chapter Twenty-Four
A iden slept soundly, curled under warm sheets with his nose pressed to Shay’s collarbone.
He’d fallen into obscure dreams. Shadows stretching.
Teeth chewing. Water sloshing—over him, under him.
Shay fucking him in a red, red pool. Aiden looking elsewhere—there, up—over his shoulder.
Camila pointing, saying look . Blood dripping from above.
There , he thought. Look up . Kelly saying wake up.
His abuela saying wake up . Cit saying look up .
Laura, shark-mouthed and human-eyed, holding the Two of Cups, saying, Aiden, look at me.
Shay saying look at me, baby, look at me .
Water splashing, his cunt clenching. He woke to Shay nuzzling closer, as if he’d known, as if they’d shared the same dream.
“Mornin’,” Shay murmured.
He cracked his eyes open and tipped his face into a kiss. Lazily at first. Then with purpose. “Morning,” he said, and slipped his palm down the front of Shay’s briefs.
They’d done this before—exited sleep and entered each other, rapidly, insatiably.
Shay bucked into his circled hand and nudged Aiden onto his back, crawling over him.
Kissed his shoulder. Dragged his lips along crescent scars.
Tongued at a hardened nipple. Aiden arched into his mouth and rested his knuckles on the pillow beside his head, searching for fabric to grip.
His fingers slipped through sticky juice.
Ran into chilly, grizzled meat. He turned, blinked, and clamped his teeth around the scream crowding his throat.
“What? What—oh my god ,” Shay said, gathering Aiden into his arms.
Aiden squirmed and thrashed, heaving in panicked breaths.
Shay stood, stumbling backward, holding him like a bride.
They hit the wall, and he adjusted Aiden under each forearm, mumbling frantically— what is that, holy fuck, Jesus, is that.
. . ? Aiden clung to him, eyes pinned to the heart lying prettily on his pillow.
Like, legit, should-be-in-someone’s-fucking-chest heart .
Aiden gagged and slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Do not puke. If you puke, I’ll puke,” Shay wheezed.
“Not to be a dick, but this wasn’t you, right? You didn’t go out for a snack and?—”
“You think I brought home leftovers? C’mon,” he snapped. “I wouldn’t leave an organ in our bed, Aiden. I’ve been asleep next to you all night.”
He held back bile and his half-digested dinner.
Remembered dreaming. Wake up. Look up. Aiden, look at me.
He scanned the room. Carpeted floor, cracked window and rustling curtains, his rosary coiled differently on the nightstand, the metal lock on the bedroom door resting against the frame.
Even in his dream, he’d sensed Laura, standing over their bed, watching them sleep.
“She was here. Like, here here, like, in our room, Shay,” Aiden whispered. He thought of Georgia, Dylan, and Pru, and flailed, pointing wildly at the door. Shay set him down and Aiden kicked at the floor to stay upright, moving too quickly for his sleepy limbs to process.
Shadows darkened the main room. He searched the white bedding for blood.
Nothing . Dylan snored, asleep with a pillow wedged between his thighs.
On the adjacent bed, the sheets shifted, wrapped around Pru.
Georgia made a soft, pleased noise, lying atop the comforter beside her.
Sherlock watched from his hammock, strung inside the oversized animal carrier on the desk.
Okay . Aiden slumped against the wall. Okay, everyone’s okay, everyone’s alive, it’s fine, we’re fine, I’m fine ?—
Fingertips brushed his tailbone and Aiden startled.
“Bedroom,” Shay said, hushed. “Now, please.”
Aiden trailed him into the separate room and eased the door shut, leaning heavily against it. “Okay, so, she broke into our hotel room, watched us sleep, and gifted us someone’s literal, actual heart.”
“I don’t know if gifted is the right word, but we need to get rid of it.
” Shay stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, nose wrinkled, staring intently at the extracted organ.
“She didn’t eat, just. . . removed it, I guess.
Not carefully,” he noted, gesturing at torn veins and dented atriums with a crooked finger.
“I don’t get it. What the hell is she trying to prove?
Is this a. . . a game to her? A way to break us down, make us afraid? For what?”
“Well, I murdered her cult leader, and you ate her friends. Pretty sure you tried to eat her, too.”
“Then why drag this out? Why not kill us while we’re asleep?”
“I don’t. . . I don’t know, but I have an idea about that , I think. Do we have any bleach left?”
“Not much.”
“Enough to clean a sink?”
“Maybe, yeah. Why?”
Aiden kicked over his backpack and grabbed it by the strap, upending loose feathers, crinkled paper, dirty clothes, and the hunting knife bundled in a t-shirt.
He fit his fingers around the handle, gripping tightly, and clenched his jaw.
Awkward, holding that knife again, putting the blade to use for something else.
Across the room, Shay’s throat flexed, and his pupils ran outward, shadowing his eyes for the time it took to blink.
“You kept it,” Shay said, breathless.
“Had your blood on it.” Aiden shoved the knife into the bag and stood, jutting his chin toward the ruined pillow. “Hand it to me.”
Shay hadn’t looked away from the knife. He glared at the unzipped backpack, lip shaking around unspoken words, unanswerable questions, a well-deserved fuck you, maybe.
Aiden steeled his nerves. Yeah, I kept you , he wanted to say.
I kept the only thing I had left of you . He extended his hand, palm open.
“Shay,” he said, like please .
Shay unfolded his arms and tore his eyes away from the knife. He pinched the pillowcase, flipped it inside out, and bundled the heart. A crimson stain darkened the naked pillow. “What’re you?—”
“Same thing you do with drugs when a party gets busted.” He reached across the bed, snatched the cinched pillowcase, and toed at the discarded paper on the floor.
“These are my notes for the ritual. I doubt they’ll give us a damn thing, and I definitely don’t think we can reverse whatever bullshit power-exchange Cit had planned, but you wanted to see them, so.
” Heat filled his nasal cavity. Caused his throat to itch.
“Get rid of that pillow—shove it in your suitcase or something, I don’t know. I’ll take care of this.”
Brutal silence filled the space between them.
Aiden turned away, grabbed his backpack, and darted into the bathroom.
He twisted the lock. Inhaled. Exhaled. Took out the knife and unraveled the pillowcase.
Thoughts raced at him—being hunted, being hurt, hurting Shay, finding Laura—colliding with memories, fears, every-fucking-thing he’d tried to forget.
He curled and uncurled his fingers. Gripped the smooth, heavy handle until his palm ached.
Remembered blood on his knuckles, pooling through Shay’s shirt.
Focus . The heart slapped porcelain. Gross .
Aiden pressed the knife into its center, carved, and sawed.
Arteries shaped like tree-roots split against the blade and he ignored his damp eyelashes.
Good, Cit said, from somewhere close and distant. Just like that, boy. Think your sweetheart can feel it?
“Shut up,” Aiden hissed. Hot tears dripped off his nose. Stale blood bunched under his fingernails. He tore at muscle, peeled away ventricles, and set the knife against stubborn tissue. Red filled the grooves in his palms.
You sure we’re awake, bitch? Thomas said, from somewhere near and gone.
“Enough. You’re dead—you’re fucking dead ,” he whispered, and hit the faucet with the back of his hand. Nausea rolled through him. His gut lurched, and he swallowed hot, briny bile.
Severed pieces and coagulated clots circled the silver drain.
Aiden gathered the larger, meatier chunks and dumped the butchered heart into the toilet.
Memories he didn’t recognize appeared. Cracked ribs and gnashing teeth, soupy gurgles bubbling from an open throat, hands digging, pulling, uprooting.
He flushed with his foot, gulped in another breath, keep it together, don’t be a little bitch, do-fucking-not , and tried to swallow, again and again and?—
Aiden fell to his knees. His stomach pulled toward his spine, emptying painfully. He coughed and gagged. Flushed again. Spat into the clear, whirling water.
“Qué mierda,” he whispered, licked around his mouth, and spat again. “Santa Muerte, puedes oíreme? Necesito tu ayuda. Por favor, por favor.”
Aiden prayed until his phone buzzed on the counter.
That Bitch Ass Psychic: You’re late.
Kelly drank her coffee extra hot. Latte, actually. Soymilk, two pumps of low-fat caramel, three and a half packets of stevia, and a modest —yeah, seriously—honey drizzle. She sat between Shay and Aiden in the backseat of a taxi, sipping her sixteen-dollar not-coffee, and cleared her throat.
“What’ve you got there?” she asked, innocently enough.
“Some book Camila gave me,” Aiden said. He thumbed through Defiéndase Con El Diablo: Magia Negra, squinting at a circular diagram divided down the center.
Above the left half, bold text read: Dominar—Permanent Energy .
Below the right half, italicized: Renunciar—Abandoned Energy . “Thought it might be useful.”
“Black Magic,” she whispered, and tapped the cover, “is only useful for those who believe, little brujo. Last I checked, you didn’t.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Kelly hummed, studying him with a smile.
Shay glanced at the book. “Anything interesting?”