HELLION: THE DEAD HEX: (Hellion, Book 2)

by Jenna Lyn Wright

  We have to stand against Trivia.

  And we have to win.

  “I wasn’t planning on running,” Kara says. “Were any of you?”

  The answer from each of us is a resounding no. Except for Runner, who, to the surprise of no one, mumbles a weak I dunno, maybe. Even Kara smirks at that one, but I watch her face fall as she looks past me, and I turn around to find the Haunted, one after another, throwing themselves at the invisible barrier that the graveyard dirt has created.

  They bounce off of it, but rather than back off, their attack becomes more vicious. They snarl and snap, sacrificing what’s left of their bodies for the chance to tear us apart.

  Bex points toward the house and barks, “You four. Go. Kara and I can handle this.”

  Delaney and Mad hesitate, and I can tell that the last thing they want to do is leave their sisters to fight the oncoming army alone. “Go,” Bex orders. “If something goes wrong, you’ll know.”

  I’m not sure what she means, but Mad and Delaney seem to understand. They take off, and Runner and I have no choice but to follow.

  We race up the stairs of the rotted old porch, the boards loose and squeaking under our boots, and reach the front door. Delaney and Mad brace themselves, arms extended and fingertips spitting sparks, ready to use magic to force our way through the entrance.

  That’s when the door swings open of its own accord.

  It’s nearly pitch black inside, the dim light failing to penetrate even a few inches beyond the threshold of the doorway. Anyone or anything could be waiting for us in there and we’d have no way of knowing.

  “I don’t like the looks of that,” Runner mutters, and for once, I have to agree. Never walk into the enemy’s chambers. Especially when they invite you.

  “Mad, you go first. I’ve got our back,” Delaney says, circling around us. Out on the lawn, the cries of the Haunted grow louder, and I glance back to find Bex and Kara already using their magic to shore up the invisible barrier. “We don’t have much time,” Delaney says. “Go.”

  And against all my instincts, we do.

  13

  YOU'D BETTER RUN

  The moment the last of us crosses the threshold to Trivia’s home, the door slams shut behind us.

  Runner opens his mouth to speak and I cut him off before he has the chance. “Don’t say it might’ve just been the wind.”

  “I work through my nerves with humor, Gray,” he says, jittery. “You know this.”

  Delaney yanks on the doorknob but to the surprise of absolutely no one, it remains shut fast. Locked. Mad lifts her hands, mumbling a low chant, and the knob begins to glow orange as if it’s heating up from the inside. “Now try it,” she says. Delaney does, and our predicament remains the same.

  We’re trapped.

  Trivia must be confident that she can overpower us. She’s all but asking for a fight. “So we go up,” I say, pointing my blade at the stairs just across from the door. I lost the diamond dagger out in the clearing, but the one I’ve had since I started killing for Lilah feels good in my hand, and I’m itching to use it.

  “Why aren’t there any of her army in here?” Runner says, squinting into the living room off to our left. The twilight outside barely penetrates through the grime-coated windows, but I can make out threadbare rugs and ratty furniture. Wallpaper peels away and water stains mar the ceiling.

  “She doesn’t need them,” Mad says. “Think of them as a fence meant to keep people out. Should someone happen to get in, well…” Mad trails off as she steps cautiously toward the stairs. “Trivia takes care of them herself.”

  Delaney’s fingertips spark as her anger flares. “Not this time.” Her sweet-as-pie voice takes on an icy edge as she says, “I’ll go first,” and tries to push past Mad.

  “No,” I say, grabbing her wrist. She spins, her eyes flashing with that eerie glow, and for a second I’m sure that I’m about to be magically annihilated. Note to self: do your best not to anger witches in the future. But for now, she’s going to have to deal with it.

  “You can’t go up there all fired up and ready to burn her down. If Trivia is as dangerous as you say…”

  “She is,” Mad interjects. “And Delaney knows that.”

  “Then you also know that you have to stay cool. Ruthless. Don’t get reckless now, not when you’re so close. I know what I’m talking about. Please,” I say, gently letting go of her.

  I’d nearly been undone by my anger at Lilah. When I’d confronted her at her estate, wildly firing bullets that she batted away like the nuisance they were to her, I’d been impetuous. I’d been stupid. And she’d gotten me back on my heels and nearly gotten me killed. Again.

  The glow in Delaney’s eyes flickers. She tries to hang onto it, but it sputters and dies as what we’re saying registers through the haze of pain and fury she carries with her. She takes a deep breath, rolling her head to relieve the tension in her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m better. I can do this.”

  I nod. “Then lead the way.”

  The stairs are narrow and rickety and with each step the wood groans and creaks, all but announcing our presence to the witch waiting for us two stories up. As we creep toward the landing, I ask, “What did Bex mean when she said you’ll know if something goes wrong with her and Kara outside?”

  “When you join the Daughters of the Dead, there’s a ceremony,” Delaney answers. “You become bonded.”

  “We can sense when one of our sisters is in trouble, or in danger, or in pain,” Mad adds. “It’s helpful, but also…”

  “Invasive,” Runner says. “I mean, to be what, psychically connected like that? Wouldn’t it screw with your internal…” he waves his arm to indicate his entire body, “compass or whatever? How would you know which emotions were yours, and which were someone else’s?”

  “You can tell,” Delaney says, “though sometimes it gets complicated.”

  “When we lost Anya, it was very difficult,” Mad says, her voice going soft with sadness.

  Delaney reaches the landing, and we follow up behind her. She’s struggling, but I realize she’s stronger than I gave her credit for when she manages to box up her pain just enough to let a small smirk through and say, “And it’s hell when one of us stubs a toe.”

  Mad smiles and puts a comforting hand on Delaney’s shoulder. “Almost there, okay?”

  “Okay,” Delaney says. “One more flight.”

  A moan filters down from upstairs, low and hollow, and it freezes the marrow in my bones.

  “Have your weapons ready,” Mad says to me and Runner. “I don’t know how much good they’ll do. We’ve only come at her with magic before. Still, they can’t hurt.”

  We take the next flight quickly, trying to be as light on our feet as possible, though I know it doesn’t matter. Trivia knows we breached the line of her property. She knows we’re inside. She knows we’re coming for her.

  At the top of the stairs, there is a single door, and a weak blue glow seeps out from the crack between its bottom and the floor. The wood is coated with dust, and cobwebs made by long-dead spiders hang in every crevice and crack in the rotting wood.

  “Delaney, you go low. I’ll go high. And you two,” Mad says, glancing back and me and Runner, “you’re defense. Back us up if things go wrong, and only if you see a clear, easy shot do you go in and take it.”

  “Nothing about this is going to be easy,” Runner murmurs as he tries to get a better grip on his blade, but when you’re as unfamiliar with weapons as he is there’s never a right way to hold it. It feels wrong until you’re comfortable enough with it that it feels right.

  I raise my dagger.

  Nod to Delaney and Mad.

  They lift their hands, their fingertips and eyes going neon blue right along with the doorknob.

  The door rattles in its hinges, the wood threatening to splinter when…

  It flies open with a terrible crack and we thunder up the stairs, racing inside, hands and we
apons at the ready.

  We spread out in a line, shoulder-to-shoulder, ready for whatever comes.

  What we find is a nearly-empty room.

  An altar set with black candles, their flames burning white.

  A rocking chair.

  And a ghost.

  Anya.

  She is so faint as to nearly be translucent, and she floats six inches off of the floor. Her bare feet point toward the hardwood, and her dress is dark with dirt and blood. Her arms float near her sides, and her head is tipped back at a painful angle.

  Delaney begins to shake, but she does not move forward toward the apparition.

  “How are you here?” Mad breathes.

  “Punishment,” Anya replies, and her voice is weak and thready. “This is my punishment… for helping you.”

  “No…” Delaney moans. “Anya… I’m so sorry…” The glow fades from Mad’s fingertips and she holds Delaney because without that support I don’t think Delaney could stand.

  “Where is Trivia?” My voice sounds harsh even to me, but this is bad. Very bad. It feels like a trap. Or a diversion. If Trivia’s not here…

  “She’s at the unmarked graves,” Anya whispers, her figure going even dimmer.

  “It’s too fast,” Delaney yelps. “Why are you fading so fast?”

  “Because of my betrayal,” Anya says. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

  I step between Delaney and Anya, severing the view they have of each other. There’s no time for their questions, as cold as that seems. The only way we help Anya is if we do what we came here to do, and fast.

  “Where are the torches?” I ask.

  “In her chambers,” Anya responds.

  “We followed the glow here!” I growl, my frustration is threatening to overwhelm me. “If they’re not here, then where?”

  “Below,” Anya says. “Her magic is strongest when she’s under the earth, so that is where she practices.”

  I spin and begin to herd everyone toward the door. “We have to go. Now.”

  Anya is just a collection of wisps and tendrils behind us. Delaney reaches for her but lets herself be dragged toward the door all the same. “I will save you from this, Anya.”

  Her words echo the sentiment I spoke at David’s grave, and the instinct to move grows stronger. I won’t break my promise to David, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure Delaney doesn’t break hers to Anya, either.

  Once we’re on the small landing outside the attic I reach back and pull the door shut, cutting off Anya’s faint glow.

  Delaney’s breath hisses out from between her clenched teeth. “I’m going to the unmarked graves.”

  “You can’t,” Runner says, anxiety lacing his words. “She said Trivia can’t be beaten if we don’t take out the torches.”

  “Then you’d better run,” Delaney says, “because I’m not waiting another second to get to her.” And without another word, she spins on her heels and races down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Mad looks back at me, torn.

  “Go with her,” I say. “Or she’s going to get herself killed. We’ll find the torches. We’ll take care of them.”

  Mad nods and runs after her sister.

  “How are we going to douse the torches without magic?” Runner says.

  I wish I had an answer for him.

  14

  HOUNDS OF HELL

  I’d like to get out of Trivia’s house as soon as possible. The few seconds it took us to get to the first floor were uneventful, but this place has an aura about it, a coldness, and it seeps into your bones and leaves you longing to escape its dark interior.

  “You see anything?” I call to Runner, who, like me, is searching for a door that leads into the basement.

  “Not yet,” he answers, and he sounds strangely out of breath. His heavy footsteps thump and echo as he moves from room to room.

  I walk by the stairs for the third time, running my hands along the dusty wood looking for a crack or a handle, and startle when my fingertips brush over a small latch. I fumble and twist the small metal tab, and a door that had previously been invisible in the shadows swings open.

  Blackness yawns before me. The kind of blackness that it would be ludicrous to enter willingly. And yet, it looks like Runner and I are up for another dimly-lit adventure into the unknown.

  “Runner!”

  “Yeah,” he says, and I spin around, startled to find him right behind me. “I don’t feel so well.” I peer at him and am surprised to find that he does, in fact, look oddly pale.

  “Can ghosts get sick?” I ask.

  “Seems silly, right? I mean, I don’t think so. But I’ve only been dead a few years longer than you have. I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about most of the time,” he answers. He lifts his arm and wipes the side of his sweaty face with his sleeve. Again, odd. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a ghost perspire.

  “Stay here, then,” I say. “I’ll find the torches.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. We go together.”

  “I’m a killer, Runner. I know how to take care of myself.”

  “Nobody’s doubting that, Gray. I don’t want to stay in this house alone,” he says, and gestures for me to lead the way.

  Fumbling along the wall, I find a light switch and flip it up. Bare bulbs strung along the ceiling below us flare to life, throwing the concrete floor and old stone slabs of the wall into stark relief. Each step down the stairs creaks and groans with our weight, and rather than try to hide it I simply descend as fast as possible. The element of surprise has long gone.

  The basement is plain and littered with belongings covered with sheets. The bulbs above throw small pools of light at various intervals, but it’s not enough to show us our surroundings. We’re at the mercy of whatever could be lurking in the shadows.

  “It has to be this way.”

  I turn to find Runner pointing toward the back wall of the basement. An open arched doorway is carved into the solid stone, and a tunnel extends back from it at a slight downward angle, leading back so far that I can’t see its end. I pull my blade out, he does the same, and we creep toward the unknown.

  “Can you go faster?” he asks.

  His voice is raspy now, and has taken on an urgent tone. I glance back to find that his hands are trembling slightly.

  “I just think the sooner we get out of here, the better.”

  I nod and pick up my pace. I’m not sure it’s the we we should be worrying about. It’s the him.

  The air around us grows colder as we get further underground, and my skin begins to crawl with the sensation that we’re going to be trapped down here. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but my mind fills with images of entombment, being buried alive, screaming for someone to dig me up from a grave I’ve been falsely buried in.

  A faint greenish glow becomes visible ahead. It flickers and dances like a flame.

  “Whatever’s down here, we’re almost there. You ready?” I murmur.

  Runner grunts, and I’ll take it as a yes.

  We breach the line that demarcates the tunnel from Trivia’s chambers, and I instantly regret it.

  A wave of grief over David’s death crashes into me like a wrecking ball, and I curl into myself, dropping onto my hands and knees. I let go of my dagger, but it doesn’t matter to me. Nothing matters to me. It’s magic, some sort of spell Trivia must’ve conjured to turn trespassers to her chambers inside out and leave them wishing themselves dead. I find that there’s only the tiniest spark left inside of me that wants to continue on, and it’s fading fast.

  Tears flood my eyes, and I blink wildly to try and clear my vision. “Runner,” I gasp out.

  He doesn’t answer, nor does he help me to my feet. With Herculean effort, I manage to raise my head to find him slowly walking toward the altar at the far end of the room. It is massive and ornately decorated with memento mori. Skulls and bones litter the ground, poking up out of the dirt. Black candl
es with white flames decorate every surface in the room.

  The green glow comes from two black torches that flank the altar, and beneath each of them is what must be a hound from Hell. The dogs are black, so black as to be smudges, soaking up all the light that should reflect off their coats and making you feel like you’re looking into twin black holes. Their eyes glow red, and when they open their jaws to growl and snap, their fangs ooze black drool.

  There are thick chains around their necks, which is the only thing keeping them from ripping our heads off at the moment. Their claws scrape up the dirt as they pull and struggle against the metal, their barks echoing off the chamber’s walls.

  “Runner, the vial,” I manage to wheeze as I gather every ounce of strength and pull myself to my feet. I pull my own vial from the inside of my coat, the one that Nico gave me, and stumble toward him. Runner still isn’t acknowledging me. He’s simply moving forward as if in some sort of trance.

  I grab his coat and spin him around. His eyes don’t focus on me, and his skin is no longer just pale, but ashen. The silver in his eyes has dimmed as if cataracts have grown over his irises, and his jaw is slack. “Runner. Runner!” I cry, but my pleas fall on deaf ears.

  I shake him. He does not respond.

  I slap him. His head jerks to the side as he takes the blow.

  Whatever spell Trivia has put on this place, it’s poisoning him in a different way and I have no idea how to break through to him.

  I drag him back the way we came, digging into his jacket as we go. Finding the vial Nico gave him, I pull it out and shove Runner back into the tunnel, hoping that severing his contact with the chamber will help his catatonia.

  A cracking has me spinning around, and I’m horrified to find that the bolts holding the dog’s chains to the stone wall are coming loose. There’s no way the hounds are going to let me get close enough to poison them. They’ll tear me to pieces.

  Frantic, I look around the chamber for something, anything to use to deliver the tranquilizer.

  There’s nothing, not even a bowl of water to dump the vials into. Another wave of sadness washes over me and I stumble backward, hitting the far wall and sliding down to curl up into a ball. Something round and hard pokes into my back, and I turn to find a bone sticking up out of the ground.