Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
“Hell?”
I didn’t respond, because what do you say to someone so enraged and appalled for such a good reason?
“How?” His eyes were wide and scanned the inside of the truck, the world around us, and me with equal amounts of trapped panic. “I don’t like this.”
“That’s understandable, but I need you to chill. Please. I have to think.”
“Think? You’re saying we’ve been murdered and damned, how are you so calm?”
“Because I don’t believe we’ve been damned—or murdered. I suspect we’ve been transported.” I stared out the windshield and searched the dunes for signs of movement, but nothing stirred; not as much as a grain of sand shifted.
“Is this anything like what happened when you went to see the ghoul in East Pluto?” If he clenched his teeth any harder, they’d crumble in his mouth. “The thing you talked about with Ida?”
“That’s what I need to figure out.”
He pulled in a series of deep breaths. The exhalations lasted a few seconds longer than the breaths in, calming him.
A little. As a wolf shifter, Ronan was out of his element in the magical world, never mind the demon world, and when wolves were put in dangerous situations, they tended to slash and ask questions later.
“Betty?”
“Yes?”
“On a scale of one to Floyd, how much danger are we in?”
“I don’t know.” I wiped away a line of sweat that ran from my temple to my jaw. “If Floyd’s ten, what’s eleven?”
“The Org.”
“Then I’d say we’re somewhere between The Org and my grandfather.”
He did the deep-breathing exercise again then set his hands on the steering wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror as if he were getting ready to start the truck and throw it in reverse. As if that was all it would take to get us out of here.
“We have to stay calm, okay?”
“You’re right. Panic gets us nowhere.” He leaned back in the seat and rolled his head around until it crackled.
He was still white-knuckling the steering wheel but trying very hard—and failing—to make it appear he wasn’t.
Brown fur bristled on arms that swelled in size.
Not a full shift, just a noticeable thickening of muscle.
As a rule, shifters did not do well in confined spaces. Airplanes, helicopters, and DiscMart changing rooms were hell for them. Ronan was handling it better than most, but I needed to get us out of here.
I closed my eyes and tried to recall the sensations I’d experienced when I’d either pulled Dominick—or been pulled by him—into the other world. I came up empty. If Ida and Mason hadn’t made a big deal about me disappearing, I wouldn’t have known I was gone.
“Don’t turn around,” he said, in a low, breathless tone. “But there’s someone behind us, and from the looks of them, I don’t think it’s the welcome wagon.”
I did the opposite and immediately spun around in my seat to peer out the back window.
A figure stood off to the right, half hidden in the grainy incline of a dune. He wore a black robe that hid his face and hands. A long, heavy chain had made a snake trail in the sand as he dragged it behind him. He was the only thing moving, the only thing alive in this dead place.
It was the hooded man from the cemetery.
He rolled the chain over blurred hands as he chanted. It reminded me of how a Buddhist might pray with a mala, counting off mantras and prayers on the beads. It didn’t feel malevolent—in fact, the longer I watched, the more peaceful I felt.
“Do you know who that is?”
“Ronan, I don’t even know what that is. But I think I need to go find out.” I reached for the back window.
He put his hand on mine, stopping me. “You just told me not to leave the truck. Are you sure you should do this?”
“No. But also, yes. It doesn’t feel a compulsion or anything, but I think he wants to talk to me.”
“So, it’s a man?” He dropped his hand. “Human?”
“I’m using ‘him’ as a placeholder pronoun.” I stared at the figure, who hadn’t moved.
“The Org sent us here, and we know they’re dangerous. What if it’s a trap? Let’s think this through.”
“I’m not positive this is The Org’s doing.”
“Those chanting witches were right outside our windows, Betty.”
“I know, but it’s a strange coincidence that this man would show up again.”
“Again?”
“He was in the cemetery when I poofed out of existence with the ghoul. I figured he was one of Dominick’s minions.”
“And now you think he’s one of The Org’s underlings?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think he’s working with either one. I think he’s connected to me.”
The chain clinked like music as it moved, and the man’s voice grew louder. It was melodious and deep with a slight buzzing to it, like a Mongolian throat singer backed by the leathery wing flaps of a bat.
The man was unsettling, but I felt more curiosity than anything. Maybe time spent with Sexton and Demon Betty had acclimated me to the presence of demons. Had helped me to critically question rather than rashly fear.
And he was something demon. Maybe not a black hole of evil the way Belial and his ilk were, but he was dark—and powerful. The man/woman/demon repelled the light around him, diverting it in a way that made him appear to be standing in a box of darkness surrounded by a diamond-edged prism of light.
“I’m going out there with you,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied absently, captivated by the music of the chains. “But stay in the truck bed.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me. Please.”
“All right,” he said after a long moment. “Don’t go too far.”
“If there’s any trouble, you’ll be a short, claws-extended leap away.” I hoped the smile I gave him was steadier than it felt.
I shimmied through the back window head and hands first, thunked into the truck bed, and rolled to my feet.
Ronan followed using some advanced yoga elbow and knee bends and a little strategic shifting to get through the sliding window.
He shifted to hybrid the second he was out—obviously wolf but still on two legs—and readied himself in a hunch on the tailgate to pounce on the chain-wielding man if he needed to.
It was surprising that he could shift here. That he could do so, along with the presence of oxygen outside the truck and the lack of imminent danger—hooded figure notwithstanding—made me wonder if this was Hell after all.
Purgatory?
The only thing I was sure of was that it wasn’t Paradise.
I loved the desert, found the dunes magnificently beautiful in an outer-space alien way, but if this was my Paradise, there would’ve been an ocean, a taco stand, and a blender with boozy, fruity drinks nearby.
The only thing the gods would’ve gotten right was Ronan.
He was definitely in my personal Heaven.
“Hello? Who are you?” I held up my hands to show the hooded man that I didn’t have any weapons, which seemed kind of silly with a half-shifted wolf at my side. “I’m Betty.”
The figure lowered his head and raised it. The move was very Sexton-like with its odd creaks and slow-motion jerks.
“May I speak with you?” I gestured to the truck, Ronan, and the dunes. “Is it safe to leave this vehicle?”
The figure began sing-chanting faster. The sounds coming from him were like shouts from a dark, deep hole in the world, and the chains rattled like the tail of a desert snake.
I took it as a no and stayed put.
“We were sent here. Do you know why?”
The chain moved faster, spooling through his invisible grip.
Ronan growled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.
“Will you help us? Please?”
“I don’t like the way he’s moving that chain,” Ronan said under his breath. “And the song he’s singing. It feels purposeful.”
The chain was a blur of movement now, the rattling sound muffled due to the speed at which it moved.
“The last time I saw him he didn’t have the chain. At least, he didn’t show it to me.” I raised my voice and addressed the hooded man. “How do we get out of here?”
The chains abruptly stopped. The ensuing silence was so complete, it felt like my ears were plugged.
The man slowly lifted his head. His cloak covered most of his hair but revealed his face. He was surprisingly handsome, with sculpted cheekbones and eyes like quicksilver. If I were guessing his age, I would’ve aimed for late middle age. The strands of hair I could see were gray.
“You’re human,” I said, “but also not.”
The way his face changed reminded me of the nictating membranes on a cat’s eyes.
Sideways, when you expected up and down movement.
His white skin turned to a flat, ashen gray, lips the shade of charcoal, the skin beneath his eyes matching the color of his lips, which had the effect of making them look sunken in his face.
The irises were burnt orange, like smoldering coals.
I stumbled back, nearly falling on my ass. The transformation was terrifying, but it wasn’t what shocked me.
Ronan shifted a little more, his shoulders widening, nose elongating into a snout, bladed claws erupting from the tips of his fingers.
I registered all of this but barely gave it any attention. I was too focused on the hooded man’s face. His familiar face.
Looking at him was like looking into a mirror—specifically, my bathroom mirror, the first time Demon Betty had put in an appearance. I’d been horrified by my visage then, and seeing it now, here, told me that had been an understandable first response.
“Y-You’re like me,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.
“We are not the same.” His voice was a bass drum played off-center. Loud, low, and echoing.
“Yes, we are. You look exactly like Demon Betty.” He wouldn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t matter. I was really telling myself. “We’re the same.”
“No. Not yet.” He lifted the chains, and this time, I saw his hands. An ugly scar ran the length of his right arm, from his wrist to his elbow. It was an angry, raw red.
“What are we?” I asked.
He didn’t reply, only stared at me, cinder eyes burning into my soul.
I tried a different approach. “Tell me who you are. Maybe I can help you.”
“There is nothing you can do to help me.” He opened his mouth, revealing a set of shark-like teeth and began chanting and moving the chains again. Slower than before.