Blood Consort (Thanatos Coven #2)

Chapter One

Harlow

Ghosts On His Shoulders

I stare at the chocolate chunk cookie in my hand, already second-guessing myself.

Not because I’m on any diet or have some worrisome food allergy.

I barely even have time for this detour, since my new boss insisted on keeping me late, and I can no longer remember what I was thinking.

Except that, I’ve had a craving for something sweet, like a good cookie.

It was on the way. I remind myself of this and the fact that the odd hour meant the line was short, and try to brush it off. I have somewhere to be, and I’d rather have my cookie eaten by the time I get there.

My gaze drops down to the double chocolate concoction as I step up to the door, preparing to take my first bite and shoulder my way outside.

“Happy birthday to me,” I mutter to myself, which is stupid.

It’s not even my birthday anymore—that was two weeks earlier.

But then, it’s not as if I did anything to celebrate hitting the big three-zero, either.

Arguably, the only thing I’ve ever done for myself is run. As soon as I was free from that disgusting place where my parents put me when I should have been enjoying the best, last years of my childhood, and where I was trapped until I turned twenty-three, I ran. I have been running ever since.

The gods know there isn’t a single soul searching for me. Or they would know if they were real.

I go for my second bite of rich, chocolate decadence, and my shoulder slams into someone.

The cafe is only a few paces behind me, but there’s room enough on the sidewalk at this evening hour that I don’t understand how or why we collided.

I willfully ignore that I am lost in my own reflection and stumble aside as I whip my head around on reflex.

“Sor—”

Half a step past me and scowling severely is a man close to my age, probably.

I would guess him to be Caucasian from his skin tone and his wild, messy, dirty blond hair.

He has high, or sharp, cheekbones that almost make his face look sunken in, but it would work for him if not for the mean glint in his eyes.

And I know from the still-throbbing ache in my shoulder that his body is strong. Overall, this man is menacing.

I think I would have had that impression even if I weren’t me. But I am, and since the institution where I spent the majority of my puberty failed to cure me, I still see them.

The ghosts of the dead cling to the man who glares at me.

The breath rushes from my lungs. I’ve learned to avoid the obvious traps, like cemeteries, churches, and any medical facility possible. It’s helped me learn to act like I’m normal, but at the same time, avoiding my curse means I get startled more easily when it slaps me in the face.

The menacing man has no clue, of course, what I’m actually looking at. “Watch where you’re going.” He rakes his eyes over my form. “And cover up.”

One of the ghosts, a man who looks as though he lived to be twice my age, leans half away from the back shoulder he’s been clinging to.

In doing so, I see that his throat was ripped out, and blood eternally stains the echoes of his final attire.

His mouth opens and a rasping sound—clearly not from his own throat—reaches my mind.

“Run,” I hear, the word drawn out and gurgled.

Fear crawls down my spine. I hold tighter to my cookie, despite having lost my appetite for it.

“Sorry,” I say again. I would like to snap back at the insulting comment the menacing man, who might be a murderer, made about my clothing choice because I know I’m dressed respectfully, but I don’t dare.

He has three dead people clinging to him, for crying out loud.

There could be a handful of reasons for that. Probably. I don’t plan to stick around and learn them.

I turn my back to the menacing man, despite the way doing so sets my every nerve on fire, and pick up my pace.

I think I hear him make another sound, like a scoff, but I press onward and round the nearest corner.

From there, I hurry across the one-lane street before risking a glance over my shoulder.

Only then do I breathe a sigh of relief and allow myself to unclench.

He’s gone.

My phone beeps from inside my purse, indicating a text message. The sound reminds me, again, that I still have somewhere to be. Considering how many people I don’t know in the little town of Sangre, the message is almost surely from the man I’m supposed to be meeting.

I stop and rest my back against the wall, needing to gather myself. With a frown, I fold the flimsy pastry paper as much around my partially eaten cookie as I can and shove the whole thing into my purse. Maybe I’ll want it later or for breakfast. Right now, I need to be composed.

I’m meeting a man I’ve only spoken to online, by myself, at night.

At my apartment. Maybe they were right. Maybe I am crazy.

I try to console myself with the knowledge that I’m meeting him for help, and not for some dating thing, but the facts are what they are.

And after my encounter with the menacing man, it feels dumb.

A terrible thought flickers through my mind, and I find myself tensing again. I really should have asked for a picture, but I’d been afraid he’d insist on one in return and use it to run a background check. Now, though ... what if Mateo, the man I’m supposed to meet, is the menacing man?

No. No way. That guy didn’t look like a Mateo. Right?

I blow out a sigh and dig out my phone. What do I know?

I don’t even have a proper high school diploma, just a post-asylum GED.

You know your life is fucked when you prefer to let people think you were in rehab during your high school years.

It’s probably for the best that I don’t tend to build relationships. That would require knowing how.

As I suspected, the text is from Mateo. At this rate, he’ll be at my place before me. I really need to get going. So I tell myself that if I see the menacing man lurking anywhere near my apartment, I’ll just bolt, and I shove off the wall.