I choke on a chuckle. The most ruthless pack Jacob, Marian, and Jamie know, and they’ve been squatting in a holy ruin.
The shingles and windows are the only part of it that’s had any upkeep. There’s no paint on the wood siding, and weeds crowd the bottom half. The steeple is in sad shape, slightly crooked under the soft spread of clouds, and underneath it stand two large, white doors.
I lean forward to peer at the many additions that have obviously been added to the main structure. And beyond that, surrounding the Bane’s holy ruin, are thin strips of fields, which break way to dark and shadowed woods.
Whistling low, I jeer, “I had no idea I was in the presence of such a faith-driven group.”
Wice slowly turns in the passenger seat. His sinister grin is shudder-worthy. He nods toward my cheeks. “I’d think you’d keep your mouth closed after the first whack.” He cocks his head to the side. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I have many wishes. Death isn’t one of them.” I cock my head to the side and match his posture. “Want to grant a different wish?”
I don’t know what cue Wice used. In fact, I’m not sure he moved at all. Perhaps it was mindspeech, but one second, I was fearlessly holding Wice’s gaze, and the next, a fist connected with my bruised cheek. I hiss as stars speckle my vision. A nauseating wave of a foul pit odor comes directly after the punch.
The car jolts as we hit pothole after pothole turning into the church’s lawn. Once parked, Wice reaches and touches the bruise on my cheek. Fighting against every instinct in me, I try not to flinch away while reminding myself to watch my tongue – and my actions. I have no back up here, no one else on my side. If I want my plan to work, I need to play along with whatever they throw my direction.
“I’ve been waiting a long time to bring you to our pack’s home,” he whispers as the others open the car doors and exit the vehicle. “A long time.”
“That makes one of us.” I hiss when he pushes his index finger against the bruise.
Wice chuckles, and a shifter opens his door while another reaches in and yanks me from the cab. My bare feet settle into the cold grass, and the freezing wind licks at my exposed arms.
They shove me toward the church. Jagged, tiny sticks dig into the softest parts of my feet, and I grind my teeth to keep from hissing.
The waiting shifters part, making a path for me to pass through. Every single one of them is branded with my father’s curse, the diamond shapes stamped on their necks. Their stares of hatred crawl up my spine, and I wonder if they remember all their pals they sent after me who never returned. Thankfully, wanting their curse broken outweighs their need to avenge their dead buddies. At least, for now.
I march toward the doors with my chin high and my spine straight. The pendant in my pocket is a warm reminder that without me, they’ll remain as they are.
The church’s double doors open wide, and the sound of their hinges squeaking grates against my eardrums. I step through, surprised to find the inside is far more appealing than the crumbling exterior of the church turned compound. Warmth seeps back into my muscles, and I rub my sides to chase away the remaining chill while taking in my surroundings.
Mercenaries’ home, indeed.
Cool marble-looking floors soothe the aches in my feet. Above our heads, the church’s original beams have been restored, exposing the roof’s sharp angles. The entrance corridor heads to what was once the sanctuary, and to the immediate left and right of me are hallways snaking their way through the additions. The hallways are adorned with beautiful paintings and rich baubles resting on modern end tables that pepper its stretching expanse.
The smell isn’t pleasant, though – iron and gym socks and a mix of perfumes that when combined only add to the odor and the wrongness of the place.
The church’s atmosphere is of pain and agony, sorrows and regret. I can feel the energy like the spirits who normally whisper in my ear. They’ve been absent since the coven’s house, and their silence is felt deep in my soul, echoing thoughts of abandonment.
Perhaps they know this is a place no one should go. Not even a lost soul. The thought isn’t comforting, but how am I supposed to get out of here without them? How am I supposed to stick to the plan if they’re gone?
We skip past the two halls and head straight. From the corner of my eye, I note a stairwell plunging to what can only be a basement. It can’t be a very big basement unless they modified the original. I wonder what’s down there, but when I stare too long, a shifter pushes my shoulder.
The church opens into the full glory of the sanctuary. I gulp as I look around at the waiting shifters then up to the rafters stretching across an even higher ceiling. Bright lights highlight the wood’s old grain, and where large glass pane windows used to exist, regular windows take their places. The stars twinkle at the top where sufficient light doesn’t reach. The clouds appear to have parted the moment I walked in, and as I stride with my escorts across the enormous room, I plead to the stars to send word to the Divine. I plead for someone to get me out of this alive.
It’s a silly request. Stars aren’t living beings. Stars can’t send messages. But still, some part of me is desperate enough to try.
As I send that plea, the clouds swallow the stars once more, and I force myself to return to the matter at hand.
Tasteful vintage couches and chairs are interspersed throughout. Red rugs create cozy spaces, and lamps provide a false sense of intimacy. The pews that should have occupied this space are nowhere to be found. There is no cross dangling at the front of the vestibule. Instead, there’s a large chair that appears to be somewhat of a throne. The upholstery is red velvet, and the wood is painted black with gold intricate designs that swirl and dip and curl.
We stop in the middle of the room, but Wice continues on from the group to this bulky chair. One by one, he takes each step, shrugging out of his coat while murmurs spread across the room like the wind itself. A look is all he does to silence them, and his people obey. He drapes the coat over the high-backed seat, and in a proper and well-mannered way, he sits.
“Where is my aunt?” I ask, peering at each of the faces around me.
Elbows on his knees, chin in hand, he surveys me. “Aaron?” he calls without looking at the man in question. “Please subdue the skinwalker.” Aaron grabs both of my upper arms, and I glare at Wice. He calls for another shifter, and a woman detaches herself from the crowd. “Take what’s in her pocket and bring it to me.”
I jerk against Aaron’s grip. “That wasn’t part of the deal!”
“I do believe the only deal you made was to beg me to keep your friends alive,” Wice mocks. Smug, he leans back and slouches in his chair.
The woman, a striking brunette with pixie features, roughly jabs her fist into my pocket and yanks out the pendant. She dangles it between us, frowning at the wolf. “This is it?” she whispers to Aaron. I can feel his shrug against my shoulder blades.
“It’s mine,” I growl to her.
The woman raises her shapely brown eyebrows and surveys me from head to toe with cold, blue eyes. “Not anymore.” She turns, strides to Wice, and places the pendant in his waiting hand. He grins at the necklace in his palm then brings it to his ear.
Two blinks – that’s all the time it takes. Two, and his grin fades. I hold my breath. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.