“Why do either? Why not live in peace?”
“No choice.” Breanna shrugged away the horror of her life. “When we touch a person, we can tell if death is nearby. The death of a spirit draws our banshee self forward. We can’t not witness their passing.”
“Why bring me here?” Morgan suddenly felt sickened at the realization. “You saw my death.”
But the big question loomed in her mind—would Breanna watch her die, or go against everything she was raised to do and try to save her?
Breanna met her gaze directly. “If we can kill the last of the huntsmen, the infection will leave you. I brought you here to slow down the spread. We can track her in the veil. The living don’t visit this place until it’s their time. We can see maybe a week or two into the future, but we can’t predict how they’ll die. When they visit here, they’re still full of color and life, but the closer they are to death, the more they become a shadow of themselves.”
“So how do we find this ghost so I can kill her?” Morgan glanced down again, noting that only half of her color remained, as if the injury in her arm was feeding off her life force.
Time was running out.
Chapter Twenty
“You have to be careful when you find her. The dead have more power here.” Breanna nodded toward Morgan’s body. “Ghosts here can feed from the living. If they gain enough power, they can breach the veil and cause havoc on earth.”
“Shit.” Morgan couldn’t believe that Breanna would risk so much to help save her. “Okay, so don’t get caught.”
“No truer words have been spoken.” Breanna rubbed her brow as she surveyed the world around them. “It’s complicated, but while a huntsman is on a job, they’re granted full power, meaning they can move between worlds without a problem. If she pulls you to earth, the infection will spread faster, and leave you even weaker.”
“No pressure.” Morgan glanced around the area, half expecting this huntsman to jump out of the shadows. “So how do I find her?”
“We.” Breanna frowned at her. “You won’t be able to handle her alone, not here.”
Though Morgan hated to admit it, Breanna was right. She closed her hands into fists, then called her blades. The metal swirled down her hands, forming in her palms. She flipped one of the blades over, then offered the hilt to Breanna. Even though the blades chose her, she had a feeling that Breanna could handle whatever backlash they would dish out. “Thank you.”
Breanna released a breath, then smiled, accepting the weapon. “My sword must remain here to keep the portal open. If I’m unable to make it back before sunrise, you just have to touch the pommel for it to take you home.”
Morgan shook her head, everything inside her rebelling at the thought of leaving Breanna behind. “Not happening. We go together.”
“You don’t understand. Being in the veil has slowed the infection, which means the huntsman will now need to physically kill you before sunrise if she wants to complete her mission. She knew the moment you set foot in her world. All you have to do is evade her and survive until sunrise and you’ll have won. You’ll be free.
“But your time here is limited. This place isn’t meant for a human to survive long in their physical form. The infection is mitigating most of the side effects, kind of like an inoculation, but at sunrise it will be gone, bled from your system. If the ghosts find you, they will feed from you. They will kill you.”
Breanna came to a stop in front of her. “No matter what happens, as soon as the sun rises, you need to touch that sword. They can’t hurt me. I won’t be trapped here like you. If you fail, all this would have been for nothing.”
Though Morgan nodded reluctantly, she had no intention of abandoning Breanna.
Breanna stared at her suspiciously for a few seconds longer, as if she read her thoughts, before she finally blew out a breath. “The choice is yours for how you’d like to proceed. We can either wait for her to come to us or we go find this woman.”
Morgan shrugged, the answer obvious. “I didn’t become a hunter to sit on my ass. We only have an hour before sunrise. I say we go find her.”
“While on the hunt, she’ll be full power, and will look more human than anyone else you see on the streets.” Breanna began walking down the alley. “Try not to interact with the others. The less attention you draw to yourself, the better.”
They exited the alley and moved down the streets. The place was packed, and she was startled to realize every one of them was dead. Most of the people moved around her like they didn’t see her, just unconsciously swerving to avoid her. The veil moved exactly in sync with the human world, but without a scrap of life. The world was in shades of gray—the sky, the buildings, the vehicles—everything.
As they made their way down the block, she couldn’t help but stare. Out of the hundreds of people on the street, zipping along in their cars, only three people had any color. They stood out starkly from the rest, their bodies and faces more vivid. “They’re—”
“Dying.” Breanna didn’t bother to give them more than a passing glance.
Morgan couldn’t help looking closer, and began to notice a pattern. “They’re being followed by the ghosts.”
Without thought, she glanced behind her, unable to get over the sudden suspicion that she was being followed as well. Only everything appeared normal, no one paying her the least bit of attention.
“Some of them might be family members, guardian angels trying to help them.”
When Breanna didn’t say anything more, Morgan swallowed hard. “Some?”
Breanna glanced back at her. “The others are slowly syphoning the life from them, feeding from them.”
“Killing them.” She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them defenseless. She must have stopped, because Breanna grabbed her arm and hauled her along.
The banshee’s hand was surprisingly warm against her skin, and the blackness spreading through her veins seemed to retreat, trying to escape. The bitter cold around her sharpened, frost biting at her fingertips, and as soon as Breanna released her, the black surged back, and her body warmed sluggishly.
Breanna wasn’t a cure for death, she only repelled it for a while…the same with the veil.
A temporary reprieve only.
“Not killing them,” Breanna continued. “They die from their choices or an accident or whatever. It all happens on earth. Nothing here can affect that outcome. They will die with or without the ghosts. But if you interfere, if they discover that you’re not like the others…”
Breanna altered course, edging closer to one of the people still full of life. She swung out her arm, her hand passing clear through the guy. He shivered, but didn’t even pause on his way. She then reached out, her hand landing warmly on Morgan’s shoulder. “Remember, the infection is keeping them from seeing you as something different. At sunrise, you lose your immunity. They will swarm and drain you.”
Morgan swallowed hard, finally understanding. “Got it. I’ll turn into a freakin’ juice box at sunrise.”
Breanna snorted, but didn’t dispute it. Then she halted abruptly. “Do you feel it?”
Morgan shook her head, then paused and held out her hands, automatically moving to follow the trail. “The air…it’s like we walked into a pocket of warmth.”
“That’s power. That’s your huntsman.” Breanna strode confidently into the streets, and Morgan hurriedly followed, the warm stream of air buffeting her.
A glint caught Morgan’s eyes, a brightness in the gloom, and she reacted by grabbing the sheath strapped to Breanna’s back and heaving them backwards, using her weight to pull her down. They crashed to the concrete in a tangle of arms and legs.
“What—”
The blade of a katana slashed through the air right where Breanna had been standing. Morgan rolled, getting out from under the banshee just as a vicious growl echoed down the streets.
A familiar growl.
“Ascher?”
The big hellhound stal
ked toward them, his claws clicking on the cement, the cracks in his black hide resembling rivers of molten lava. She knew it was him even before she saw the swirling black tattoo on his shoulder that marked him as hers. His blood red eyes glowed in the gloomy world, his gaze locked onto the small woman holding the large katana.
While the huntsman was distracted, Morgan grabbed her ankle and pulled. The girl grunted and swung her katana, but Ascher snarled and launched himself between them, latching onto the hunter’s arm. His teeth sank deep, shredding muscles down to the bone. The girl screamed in pain, the katana hit the street, and the huntsman groped for something on her person.
Morgan shot to her feet just as the woman pulled back her arm to stab Ascher. She latched onto the huntsman’s wrist, dropped back on her ass, and shoved her boot into the woman’s armpit, hauling back as hard as she could.
Caught in the woman’s grip was a small katar, a weapon used for stabbing in close quarters.
The woman’s arm popped out of the joint, and another scream escaped her clenched teeth. Despite being barely a hundred pounds, the woman continued to buck and squirm, refusing to admit defeat.
“Killing me will not spare you. Your time has run out.” The woman laughed almost hysterically.
Only to be cut off abruptly when Breanna stood over her and slammed the black blade into the hunter’s chest. The girl arched, her scream echoing down the streets. Black sludge began to seep out of the hunter, her color draining away, and Morgan hastily released her grip.
Ascher followed suit, quickly backing away from the girl, and they watched while she slowly disintegrated into sludge. The scent of spoiled eggs saturated the air.
“Morgan.” Breanna reached down, hauled her to her feet, and gave her a shove. “You need to go.”
It was only then that Morgan noticed the veil had turned bitterly cold, puffs of her breaths visible in the air. When she glanced up, it was to see the golden rays of the sun spilling into the city.
Breanna plucked the black blade out of the goo, then slapped it into her palm, and gave Morgan a shove. “Go, take your hellhound and get out of here. I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”
“Keep it.” Morgan shoved the blade back. “You can return it to me when we meet again.”
Breanna hesitated, then grabbed it gratefully. “Go.” She whirled away, stooping to snatch up the fallen katana before facing the gathering crowd.
They weren’t interested in the body on the ground, and they barely paid any attention to Breanna or even Ascher. No, their hungry gazes were cemented on her.
Shit.
Ascher snapped at one of the ghosts that got too close, and she lashed out with her blade at another.
“Go!” Then Breanna was in motion, slashing with the katana. But it wasn’t a black blade and didn’t have much of an impact. The ghosts would fall back, but the wound healed within minutes and they surged forward once again.
Ascher whirled and grabbed her wrist in his mouth, dragging her away. Morgan didn’t want to leave—it felt wrong to abandon the battle—but she knew she was more of a hindrance than a help.
They couldn’t hurt Breanna, not permanently, but if Morgan wanted to live, she needed to get the hell out of there.
Ascher bit down harder in warning, and she reluctantly gave into his demand, turned tail, and ran.
She followed closely on his heels, most of the ghosts leery of the hellhound, leaping to get out of the way, and she narrowed her eyes on him. “I thought I told you I could handle this.”
She refused to admit out loud how glad she was to see him.
Ascher glanced at her over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes on her. She glanced away, following his sooty footprints to avoid his reproachful look, and muttered, “I would’ve handled it. She was the last hunter.”
More and more of the ghosts seemed to be aware of her presence, and she realized that she was leaving a trail just as the huntsman had. Ascher did his best to avoid the specters, backtracking, crossing their paths over and over to keep them confused, traveling through buildings to avoid the growing horde following them.
Morgan ducked through a window, waiting for the last of the ghosts to leave. They were like a zombie horde in search of their next feed. Every second they waited, they attracted more attention.
If they didn’t leave soon, they’d be trapped.
“Morgan.”
She jolted at the familiar voice and whirled. “Neil?”
The irrational hope that he would still be alive crashed bitterly. If anything, he looked worse as a ghost than he did as a human. His spectral form was so pale she could see clear through him.
“You don’t belong here. You need to go.” His eyes flickered around the room in a paranoid way that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
“Why are you still here? What’s wrong?”
He shifted on his feet nervously, or he would have if his feet weren’t just a cloud of smoke. “My business isn’t finished yet.”
Realization slammed into her when he ducked his head. “You’ve been watching out for me.”
Her very own guardian, if somewhat bumbling, angel.
“I need to make amends.” When Morgan stood and opened her mouth to protest, Neil raised his hand. “Please allow me to make amends.”
Ascher trotted toward her, leaning heavily against her, and she shivered at his warmth, only then aware that she’d been shivering uncontrollably.
“Do you trust me?” Neil held out his hand, then winced at his choice of words. He blew out a heavy breath, his arm lowering, wavering, then he thrust back his shoulders and held his arm steady. “I know you don’t have a reason to trust me after I betrayed you, but—”
“I trust you.” As she reached for Neil, Ascher scrambled to stand between them, and she tripped over the big mutt.
Neil scrambled forward to help her, forgetting he was a ghost. But instead of falling through him as she expected, his grip turned real. He used both hands to help her to her feet, and she watched a splash of color spread up his arms, turning him more and more human, until he almost resembled the boy she remembered.
When she swayed, he hastily released her and stepped back, and she became aware of the low rumble of Ascher’s growl.
Neil gave her a tiny smile, looking confident for the first time since she saw him. “I took just enough that they should confuse me for you. Your trail will look old. Go. Leave while you can. I’ll distract the ghosts for as long as possible.”
Morgan shook her head, reaching for him, only to have him dance back out of reach. “They will rip you apart.”
Instead of being afraid, the way he’d spent his entire life, he seemed almost happy at the prospect. “As a hunter, your job is to actually save people, and you’re good at it. I’ve been a coward my whole life. It’s my turn now. My turn to save you. I can do this. I need to do this.”
Without waiting for a response, he walked clear through the wall, then began singing Henry the Eighth I Am at the top of his lungs. Tears sprang into her eyes as she watched him vanish, watched as the ghosts turned away from her and began to give chase.
Ascher gave a soft woof, then nudged her toward the door. When they exited the building, the streets were practically empty, the few ghosts they did see not paying them any attention.
Unfortunately, whatever Neil did left her exhausted. The cold no longer felt cold. The shivering stopped. Instead, every step became heavier. All she wanted to do was sit down and rest.
Just five minutes of sleep.
Ascher kept close, brushing against her every few seconds, forcing her to keep putting one foot in front of the other. They reached the warehouse without interruption. The sword was still in place, the obsidian blade pulsing with power.
Ascher nudged her forward, urging her to go back home, but Morgan stood her ground.
Breanna was nowhere to be found.
She grabbed onto Ascher when he tried to force her toward the sword. “We can’t leave wi
thout the banshee.”
The hellhound gave her a narrow look, then huffed out a heavy breath of pure annoyance, and she held out her hands in surrender. “Five minutes. All I’m asking is we wait five minutes. She’ll be here.”
The beast tried to give her his most intimidating glare, but she refused to back down.
He blinked first.
With a resigned sigh, he lay down and curled around her, doing his best to keep her warm. Morgan crouched, but refused to make herself more comfortable, fighting off the need to sleep.
The second the five minutes ticked passed, Ascher rose to his feet.
Morgan reluctantly followed, her joints so cold they cracked in protest. When they reached the sword, she could feel the call to return, practically feel the warmth begging her to go home.
The sound of something crashing into a trash can had her whirling away. Ascher growled, his black hide cracking, the lines of red lava seeping through as he stood protectively in front of her. When the first ghost entered the area, the hellhound didn’t hesitate, launching forward to tear the creature apart.
Warm metal spiraled down her hand, and she grabbed the remaining blade. Another ghost stumbled into the clearing. Morgan strode forward, her body stiff, her movements jerky.
But instead of charging her, the ghost met her gaze and slowly began to melt down into sludge.
And the black blade similar to the one she held rattled to the ground.
Morgan ran forward, snatched up the knife midstride, then hurried into the alley.
Breanna was using one arm to lean heavily against the wall, her breathing ragged, clearly struggling to find enough energy to keep going. She was drenched in black goo, a number of nicks and cuts peppering her body. Her dress was in tatters—more than normal—and her feet were scraped and bleeding.
Releasing her blades, Morgan grabbed Breanna’s free arm and hauled her upright.
The banshee fought her for a moment until recognition brightened her expression. “Girl, you look like shit.”
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