“I swear to you, brother,” I said. “If you stay in this room, you give him a new toy. He will wear you like a jacket, and he will make you help him kill her. Then he will use your hands on every person you love. You want that on your conscience? You wanna wake up with her blood under your nails because you thought you needed to play hero?”
Bullet’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The color drained from his face. His fist crushed the neck of the beer bottle he still held. Glass cracked.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Hoax looked between us, then at Grace, still slumped in the chair, shoulders rising and falling in slow, unnatural breaths.
Josh’s throat bobbed. “Let me help. I will do whatever the fuck I have to as long as that thing doesn’t get out…”
“He will not get out,” I said. “Not tonight, not ever.”
“You sure about that?” Ajax muttered.
“No,” I said. “But I will die before I let him past that line. Now get out. Please.”
They heard the crack in that last word. I did too.
Ajax cursed under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Fine,” he said. “But if you die, I’m going to go after that thing myself…”
I pressed my hand on his shoulder. “I don’t doubt it, my friend.”
Bullet stepped forward, clapped a hand on my shoulder, squeezed once hard enough to bruise, then let go.
“You better walk out of here breathin’, Hellsing,” he said. “You hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said.
Hoax gave me one last look and then hooked his arm around Josh’s neck, pulling him toward the door. Josh fought him for two steps, then gave in, shooting Grace a last, helpless glance.
The door shut behind them. The lock turned and their footsteps slowly faded.
The shop went quiet and only Seraphine stayed.
She moved around the circle, checking the salt, reinforcing the chalk. Her face was pale under the white wig. Sweat beaded at her hairline. The white contacts in her eyes made her look inhuman, but there was nothing demonic in her. Only focus.
“I told you to clear the room,” I said.
She looked up at me, brows lifting.
“Grace is my sister,” she said. “By blood and by choice. I am warded. You know that. I am not leaving her or you in here with this thing alone.”
“Wards crack,” I said. “Bael is old. He finds the seams.”
“So am I,” she said. “And I know where to reinforce. I am staying, Peter. You can argue with me or you can use me. I prefer the second.”
My hands curled into fists, then loosened.
“What did you lay on yourself?” I asked.
She tugged the collar of her dress aside and showed me the ink that curled over her collarbone. Not just ink. Raised scars. Old burns. A lattice of protective sigils cut and branded into her skin.
“Layered,” she said. “My mother started the work. I finished it. Circle of binding. Circle of reflection. Anything that pushes at my mind hits the wards first. It will hurt, but it will not break me. I can hold his attention while you work. I can anchor her.”
I hated that she was right.
“All right,” I said. “You stay. You do not cross the salt. You do not touch the water unless I tell you. You feel him slip past yourwards for more than a heartbeat; you let go. You do not martyr yourself. Understood?”
