The man twists in our grip. His strength is coming back. There’s a wet slick on the back of his head. Splinters in his hair.
That’s where the broken chair comes from.
“Doorway,” Cass warns. “Take a left, bud.”
I angle out the door.
Apollo’s head is on Rube’s chest. His blond hair shifts with every sob wracking his lean body. He’s hugging Rube with his elbows, hands fisted in Rube’s shirt.
The guy we’re dragging begins fighting us. Cass’s grin turns into a grimace. My arms are starting to burn from the weight, from keeping his ankles clasped when he tries to kick his legs.
He keeps bucking off the floor, forcing us to take his full weight instead of letting us drag him over the tiles. He sends a loathing glare at me over his shoulder, mouth twisted with frustration and fury.
And then I get what’s wrong with his eye.
It happened a few times to Rube, and would always freak me out.
His contact has slipped. Like an eclipse, the dark lens creates a crescent from the lighter iris below.
I almost drop his legs.
But then I think he recognizes me too. And his face loses all color.
I don’t blame him.
He knows what happened to my parents. Fuck, maybe he was even the one who found them.
Were they still in those chairs? No, wait…the chairs must have burned in the fire.
I honestly wish I could have stayed to see their faces.
See how they struggled to get free.
How their skin began blistering from the heat.
Fire cleanses.
It was the only thing that made sense. I was doing them a fucking favor. And, if it didn’t work, then at least they’d already know what Hell felt like before they got there.
I walk faster.
The sirens are so much closer now.
“Hey, easy,” Cass calls out.
So I rip the man’s wrists out of his grip.
There’s no time.
“Zach, wait!”
The man immediately flips onto his back and grabs a passing rail before I can haul him down the stairs.
We stop.
Stare at each other.
My Ghost’s chest rises and falls, the action speeding up the longer I glare at him.
Trinity’s stepfather.
Keith fucking Malone.
But he looks different now. Too different to account for age.
Plastic surgery then.
He really didn’t want anyone figuring out he’d faked his own death.
Like Gabriel.
Like Trin—
Pain slices through me. My jaw clenches so hard the enamel on my teeth squeaks.
Cass stomps on Keith’s hand. The man curls toward the pain, letting out a wordless yell.
I yank him down the stairs.
He tries to sit up, but his head still hits several of the stairs on the way down. Each time, he leaves a splotch of blood on the wood.
I angle him down the short landing, and then we go down the next flight.
Cass hurries after, stomping on his hands every time Keith manages to grab hold of something. He must already have several broken fingers—they jiggle around too loosely as we make our way downstairs.
Police lights paint the living room walls blue and red. Outside, car doors slam.
I grimace up at Cass. “Grab his fucking arms.”
He does so immediately, deftly avoiding Keith’s teeth when the man tries to bite him.
We hurry through the patio doors, Keith fighting us every step of the way. But Cass and I, we’re filled with the Holy Spirit.
It gives us strength.
It guides our feet.
Keith gasps in pain when we drop him into the grave. It’s only about five feet deep—I guess whoever was digging it didn’t do all that well in school. But his body is cast in shadow when he rolls onto his side and coughs.
“Hurry,” Cass says, a shovel already in his hands.
When the first spade of dirt hits Keith’s face, he scrambles up and tries to claw his way out of the grave.
Cass slams his shovel against the back of Keith’s head.
But not hard.
Just enough to send him toppling over. He lies there at the bottom, dazed, as we frantically pile more dirt over him.
I hear voices coming from inside. But no one’s headed out back yet.
I guess there’s enough to deal with inside.
We throw heaps of dirt around Keith’s legs and torso, trying to weigh him down as much as possible. Keith comes to when dirt starts hitting his head again. He twists, spitting and cursing when a shovel of dirt hits his face. He pushes his hand down, face contorting as he tries to pull himself out of the dirt.
But maybe he’s concussed, because he can’t seem to drag himself free.
And then he screams for help.
I jump into the grave and stomp on his head. He goes still, and then starts shaking. I stay there, my foot on the top of his head, as Cass fills in more dirt.
Just before I climb out to help Cass, I crouch down and brush away dirt from his one eye. It trembles, but it doesn’t open.
“See you in Hell, Keith Malone.”
We shovel in as much dirt as we dare, toss the spades into the hole on top of him and then dart around the side of the house. We wash our hands and shake loose dirt off our clothes, and then enter through the front door.
As we step inside the living room, I see a pair of cops step out onto the patio.
A hand fumbles against my leg. Cass laces his fingers through mine. I look down, then up at his face.
He’s staring after the cops, shoulders stiff, jaw bunched.
“If he’s still alive…” Cass murmurs. Tears brim in his icy-blue eyes, turning them shiny as fucking marbles.
“Then we’ll find him again.” I squeeze his hand fuck hard. “And we’ll dig him another fucking grave.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Trinity
I’m blindfolded. Gagged. My hands bound behind my back. My bare feet scrape over an icy concrete floor as I shuffle around in utter darkness trying to figure out where the hell I am.
Panic ratchets up my heart rate to that of a hummingbird’s.
I’m not alone in this dark.
I’ll never find my way out.
Something follows me. I hear it crawling over the floor behind me.
Nails scratch on the concrete. Skin drags.
My foot slams into a mattress.
Before I can find my balance, I topple forward.
The bedding is wet and warm.
Someone bled here.
You, Trinity. That’s your blood.
I push away the voice as I struggle frantically to stand. The thing crawling after me starts panting. Desperate as I am.
Finally I get to my feet. I surge forward, running as fast as I can.
Straight into someone standing in the dark. Strong arms catch me before I can fall. They drag me close, and hold me tight.
It should have been comforting, but I know who these arms belong to, and I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
My scream gets stuck in my throat. It’s barely a wheeze. Fingers tangle in my hair and drag my head back. My blindfold is ripped off.
There’s a click.
Light blooms, sickly yellow, from the bulb dangling above us.
I’m in the basement of 2142 Maude Street, but it’s larger now. The floor is covered with dirty, blood-stained mattresses.
And there’s a small, curled up body on each. Their shadows shift and dance as the light bulb swings left and right.