Reseph tugged on a T-shirt and stepped out into the cold, grateful for the icy breeze. For once, it wasn’t the sexy play that had gotten him sweaty. It was the talk of Jillian’s nightmares. He hadn’t been exactly… forthcoming. Yes, she’d whimpered in her sleep, cried out at times, and she tossed and turned like she was a kernel of corn in a popcorn popper.
But so did he.
This morning, what had driven him from bed had been nightmares that played like movies every time he closed his eyes.
He’d seen monsters… horrific creatures of all sizes and shapes. The worst ones had been the beasts who, at first, looked human, but who then morphed into things that fell upon actual humans and… did things to them. There’d also been plagues, so many people suffering.
The worst part of all was that in the nightmares, Reseph sensed that he was supposed to enjoy the horrors. The blood. The death.
Maybe he shouldn’t have spent so much time researching the shit that had gone down over the last year. He’d watched news reports, read up on official statements released by governments worldwide, seen pictures so disturbing he’d grown nauseous.
It had all been so familiar.
He needed to know why. He needed answers, answers the Internet couldn’t provide.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he made sure Jillian was still in the house and started down her driveway. He trudged to the main road and made a left, heading up the mountain in the direction he assumed the Bjornsens had lived. He wasn’t sure how long he walked, but he knew when he found the right driveway.
Even if the grim, sinister vibration hadn’t grabbed him, the sight of the tire-chewed driveway would have. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, there had been a lot of traffic turning onto the crude gravel drive.
Cautiously, he followed the tire tracks, his eyes and ears alerted to danger. The drive twisted for a good half a mile. As he rounded an uphill bend, he spotted a rusted-out trailer house ringed by police tape. There were no cars save the ancient Jeep wagon parked in front of the detached garage.
The sense of evil became more concentrated as he ducked under the police tape, and with it, his pulse kicked into high gear. Again, the familiarity was tapping at the inside of his skull. His hand trembled as he reached for the door handle.
The unlocked door swung open, and the stench of death slammed into him. The rank odor of blood and bowels was also accompanied by an odd smokiness, like a combination of sulphur and brimstone.
Brimstone? How would he know what brimstone smelled like? Hell, how did he know what death smelled like?
Fuck. This couldn’t be good.
Reseph stepped inside, careful to avoid messing up any of the police evidence marks, tags, and photos that had been pinned all over the place. Dried blood created gruesome art on the walls and furniture, and pools of still- damp blood sat like muddy gel on the linoleum floor and orange shag carpet.
His boots crunched on broken glass in the kitchen, remnants of shattered dishes and a window. Crouching, he studied the claw marks that raked the cabinets. They were deep, some completely piercing the flimsy particleboard. Bloody footprints littered the place… some human, and some… not.
He hovered his palm over one of the
This was definitely not a cougar, and if the cops suspected a bear, they were morons. At least they’d been smart enough to call in experts.
The thought came out of nowhere, a stab in the brain that rocked him on his heels. He couldn’t be responsible. He’d been frozen in the snow.
A breath shuddered out of him. He was so sick of doubting himself. Almost idly, he dragged his finger through a scatter of salt from a broken shaker. Some demon-proof-your-house advice website had claimed that certain supernatural creatures couldn’t cross a line of salt. Sounded stupid to him, but hell, anything was worth a try if it would keep Jillian safe.
The sound of an engine had him leaving behind ideas about stealing road salt trucks. He leaped to his feet and scanned for a back door. It wouldn’t be cool for the cops to catch him here. Especially if the cop was Stacey, who already wanted to string him up by his balls. Shit.
Ducking low, he eased to the kitchen window to peek out, and his heart stopped. It wasn’t the police. It was Jillian on a snowmobile.
Double shit. He’d almost rather Stacey found him. Dressed in black ski pants, snow boots, and a green parka, she climbed off the machine, eyeing his footprints as she walked toward the door, where he met her.
And she. Was. Pissed.
Expression set in fury, she clenched her gloved hands at her sides. “What the hell are you doing? This is a crime scene. Why didn’t you tell me you were taking off? That was an ass move—” She broke off, her gaze glued to the scene behind him. The fire that had been snapping in her eyes snuffed out, and her skin lost so much color he prepared to catch her if she passed out.
Before he could step out and close the door, she bulldozed her way past him.
“Jillian,” he said, taking her arm, “you shouldn’t see this.”
“Oh, but it’s okay for you to see it?” She jerked out of his grip. “I’m not a child.”
“You’re the one who pointed out that it’s a crime scene.”
She glared. At least she wasn’t carrying a frying pan.
The moment she stepped into the kitchen and saw the claw marks in the cabinets, she went even paler.
“I don’t know much about police procedure,” Reseph said, “but it seems odd to tape pictures of the victims and the evidence at the scene.”
She swallowed sickly a few times. “I don’t think it’s standard procedure for normal crime scenes. A while ago, Stacey mentioned that when paranormal specialists are called in, they require the police to leave pictures of the victims and evidence since the specialists don’t work closely with law enforcement.”
Swallowing harder, she peered at one of the pictures, and Reseph held his breath. Of all the photos, that was the most graphic, revealing a pattern of claw marks on a woman’s torso.
The photo was of just her torso, since her legs, arms, and head were missing.
Jillian slapped her hand over her mouth and ran for the door. He chased after her, found her around the side of the house next to the woodpile, trying desperately not to throw up.
Helplessness was a lump in his gut, so he did the only thing he could. He rubbed her back, small, gentle circles over her coat. “I’m sorry. Did you know these people well?”
She shook her head. “They’ve only been here for a few months. Honestly, they were jerks. He shot one of my goats for wandering onto their property, and his wife didn’t care at all. But I didn’t wish… this on them.” She shivered. “That was no wild animal, Reseph. We both know that.”
His heart nearly stopped, and even in this cold, his palms began to sweat. “Do you know what it was?”
“Yes.” Her green eyes came up to cling to his. With shaking hands, she unzipped her coat and lifted her sweatshirt.
On her belly were scars. Scars scratched into her skin in the exact same pattern as the claw marks on the dead woman.
Ten
“What happened?” Reseph’s voice was low, deadly, and this time, Jillian knew she wasn’t going to get away with deflecting or telling him she didn’t want to talk about it.
“I’ll tell you everything.” She looked around and shivered. “But I want to go home first. This place is giving me the creeps.”
