Chapter 6
YELLOW-EYED BISHOP
Graham
The casino doors clicked shut behind me, muting the roar of laughter and clinking glasses. Boston hit me in the face—wet pavement, exhaust from a passing cab, the sharp bite of the almost-winter air cutting through the whiskey still on my breath.
You know how they say that when you see something you can’t have it makes you want it more?
Those sons of bitches were right. I wanted her more now than ever.
I wanted her laugh, her stubbornness, the way she still held up her chin even though I’d gutted her.
I hated myself knowing I hurt her, knowing I was the reason she hurt herself and picked up a spell she’d sworn off.
But there was still that voice in me—the same one that told me to get out before she ended up destroyed. You’ll only ruin her, Locke. My mantra for the past decade. What if staying hurt more than leaving… for both of us?
I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, the key fob biting into my palm, and stared at the Shelby under a flickering light in the parking garage. Maggie was waiting inside for me. The bullshit I put her through was in the past. It didn’t matter now. What mattered was that I was here—now.
Tonight, at least, I wasn’t running.
I didn’t feel great about leaving the Shelby in a back alley—even for a few minutes—in Downtown Boston, but I was pretty sure Maggie didn’t want to be paraded through the ballroom after that fucking comment Hunter made about weak ankles. Prick.
She didn’t see me walk in. Just sat there, gorgeous as ever with that damn gold hair draped over one shoulder, thumbs flying over her phone like I wasn’t two feet away from losing my goddamn mind over her.
“You ready?”
“Yeah… just texting with Katie. Did you know she set Derek up with some e-girl she met tonight?” She stood, took a step, and nearly folded. “Ow—ow—ow, ow, ow!”
My gut clenched. That wasn’t the kind of “ow” you walked off.
“I’ve got you.” I scooped her up, her scent—strawberries and vanilla—slipping under my skin like it was muscle memory.
But when she looked at me, there was something off. Pain behind her eyes, maybe regret. Whatever it was, it hit me like a deep bruise that didn’t have the guts to show up yet. I knew I’d damn well have to fix it.
“They are his weakness,” I said.
“Hmm?”
“E-girls. Derek’s had a thing for them as long as I’ve known him. I give him shit about it every chance I get.” I adjusted her in my arms and started to the alley.
“Oh, you’re such a good friend.” She patted me on the head, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“Come on—like you don’t do it with Katie,” I shot back. “I remember how hard you razzed her about her ghost fetish.”
“You mean my uncle?” She flailed a little. “You know, that would’ve been a great time to break that no-contact bullshit you pulled on me.”
I didn’t say anything. She was right.
And the silence between us said it louder than I ever could.
“When did you find the mirror, anyway?”
I let out a breath. “Nebraska. Scared the shit out of me. I zoned out on a long, straight stretch and—boom—he materialized in the passenger seat. He’s lucky I didn’t blow his ghostly little brains out.”
We made it to the car, and I set her down.
“God, I’m freezing.” She clutched her arms around her body.
“You’re naked. In Boston. In almost-winter.” I shrugged off my suit coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “What’d you expect?”
“A heater.” Her eyes flicked to the Shelby. “You get a new car?”
“I couldn’t show up to the Oscars of Porn in the ol’ F-250, now could I?”
She smirked.
“It was a gift. Get in.”
She did as told, and I shut the passenger door just after that long length of leg slid inside.
Circling around to the trunk and grabbed the flannel blanket I kept inside.
“You’ll only need this until the car gets warmed up,” I said, sliding into my seat and handing it to her. “You’ll be naked again before we get to Lynn.”
I fired up the Shelby and let its heartbeat settle into a low, uneven pulse before easing out of the alley.
“So… what’s with the ghoul?” Maggie folded her arms over her chest and nodded toward the shifter knob—Imhotep’s screaming face frozen mid-sandstorm. “I thought you didn’t believe in them.”
“It’s not a ghoul.” I scoffed. “Don’t you recognize Imhotep when you see him?”
She leaned closer, squinting. “You mean like from The Mummy?”
I nodded once, dead serious.
“When you said you liked the movie,” she said, fighting a smile, “I didn’t think you meant you were obsessed.”
I sighed and leaned back, one arm slung over the wheel, the other unbuttoning my cuff. The sleeve slid up slow. “Didn’t you notice the chair?” I tapped the ink on my elbow.
“Y-yeah…” She squinted, confusion pulling between her brows. “I just thought it was a drunken mistake.”
“You don’t recognize it?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Oh, come on—it’s the chair. The one that took Beni out!”
Maggie just stared at me, brows twitching, lips pressed together like she was seconds from losing it.
“You’re gonna laugh, aren't you?”
“No, no. Honest.” She laid a hand on my forearm, and the heat of her touch flicked on that part of me that wanted to claim every inch of her.
“I think it’s cute that you loved a movie so much you got a tattoo of a prop that no one even recognizes.”
“Excuse me? There are entire Reddit threads devoted to the chair that took Beni out. People remember it. You know what—pull out your phone. Right now.”
She blinked at me like I’d lost my goddamn mind but dug into her bag anyway. “O-okay?”
“Google ‘the chair that took Beni out.’” I watched the buildings slide past while she typed. When the video popped up, I pointed. “That one. Watch it.”
My lips moved with Brendan Fraser’s line about spring cleaning. Couldn’t help it.
Maggie shook her head, a smirk tugging at her mouth.
“Tell me that’s not iconic,” I demanded.
“I—”
I jabbed a finger at her, playful but dead serious. “You tell me, Maggie Maxwell… Don’t you break my heart.”
She stared, searching my eyes, her mouth twitching like she was holding back a laugh.
“This chair. This scene. It’s why I wanted to become a cop when I was seventeen.”
“What?”
“The way he took out a bad dude with a simple chair—yeah, that did it for me. At seventeen, I was already a big guy, so I figured I could one-arm a wicker chair at some thief stealing from the old lady down the street. So go ahead, tell me it’s not iconic and my entire career is a lie.
I’ll have to change it to some other prop that no one even cared about—like Jack’s jar of dirt. ”
“But see… that actually is icon—”
I saw red and cut her off with a glare sharp enough to peel paint. My voice dropped into a growl. “Don’t you dare make me say your full legal name.”
She raised her hands in surrender. “Okay—okay. It’s iconic.” Her smile knocked my hackles back down.
“Thank you.” I rolled my shoulders and shifted in my seat.
Maggie tucked her phone back in her clutch, snickering. “You know, I miss this. Our crazy. The way we bring out each other’s weird.”
I felt her staring at me, but I kept my eyes on the road, because if I looked at her, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Yeah.” My voice went quiet. “Me too.”
Maggie
The silence pressed in, and I wasn’t about to sit here and start spiraling over what could’ve been. I’d done that enough already.
I reached for what had worked in the past.
Box it up and focus.
I took out the pocket mirror and flipped it open. Green smoke hissed out, impatient. A breath later, Uncle Silas was sitting in the back seat—looking way too alive for someone who was supposed to be dead.
“Good heavens, it’s about time! When you said you were unsure about seeing her, I didn’t think that meant you’d make me suffer as well. Have some common decency, dear boy.”
“Fantastic, the pain in my ass is back,” Graham said, deadpan.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Uncle Silas reached forward and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Magdalene, you’re safe.” His hand was ice.
I nodded.
He eased back into the seat, a long breath leaving him.
“Good. Good indeed.”
Highway 1 stretched ahead, slick and black under the streetlights. The neon pawn shops and pizza joint signs buzzed faintly in the cold as the orange glow of Boston shrank in the Shelby’s mirror.
I shifted Graham’s suit coat off my shoulders. He was right. I wouldn’t need the blanket much longer with this heater.
“I must ask, though, what are you wearing—or rather, what aren't you wearing?” Uncle Silas asked. “And why are we in Boston?”
“Max had an award show.”
“Award? With you dressed like that? Must have been the Oscars of Porn if your dress was any clue.”
“Actually, yes,” I said a bit too quickly. “The Obsidian Curtain Awards. I was supposed to accept an award with Katie tonight.”
“Supposed to? Why ever didn’t you?”
“I fell and twisted my ankle pretty bad.” It throbbed as if to remind me.
“Are you alright, my dear?”
“Yes. But someone…” I shot a glare toward Graham. “Won’t let me get off without going to the ER tonight.”
“Max, you can’t fucking walk.”
“I do agree with the lad, my dear,” Uncle Silas said, folding his hands primly. “Best not put it off. Wouldn’t want you solving this case with a bum ankle.”
Headlights swept over us, washing the interior in a pale light before the darkness settled again.
“What do you mean, solving this case?” I turned in my seat. “That’s his job.” I thumbed over my shoulder at Graham. “I’m done with serial killers.”
“That may be, but they clearly aren’t done with you.”
I let out a sigh and sank into my seat; the leather stuck to my thighs, reminding me I’d never fully be able to relax.
As the road wound north, the air sharpened—salt and heat bled through the vents, mixing with the warmth of engine oil.
I glanced over. Graham’s grip on the wheel tightened.
The intoxicating low throb of the motor and his intense focus helped blur out the thought that I was, once again, a target of some sicko’s deranged idea of a good time.