Jack huddled on one end of the couch, away from Carla. Boris sat in one of the armchairs, staring straight ahead at their reflections in the blank television screen.
Jack finally began to relax against the arm of the couch, exhaustion biting at him. A chill settled in the room, too fast to be natural. Jack sat up. Boris, too, was suddenly alert, gun in hand.
Carla took a deep breath. “What’s happening?”
“Shh,” said the yellow-eyed man.
Carla turned to Jack, eyes wide, breath hitching.
The yellow-eyed man smiled.
The lights went out.
CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
For a moment,there was only darkness. Jack scrabbled across the couch for Carla’s hand, squeezed it when he found it, ran his thumb over delicate knuckles.
“Brace yourselves,” hummed the yellow-eyed man. “She will seek her weakest victims first.”
“The fuck does that mean?” Boris hissed.
“If she comes for you, lead her to the circle.”
“And then what?”
“Pray she finds what she’s meant to.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jack, going cold all over. “She’s not automatically going to attack Enzo?”
“Shit,” breathed Carla. “She’s going for Ronnie.”
The shiver beneath Jack’s skin had hooks. Tore its way down his spine like it meant to rend flesh from bone. “D-don’t intervene,” he said, voice catching. “Trust me.”
“I can’t just let him die—” But her words faded, replaced by fog as the temperature continued to drop.
Boris appeared at Jack’s side, tense and shivering.
“Let’s move toward the rug,” Jack began, then reconsidered. If Ronnie was there, unconscious, face smashed in, wouldn’t the creature attack him first, regardless of who else was in the room?
But there was no time to ponder. At the top of the stairs, the shadows darkened. A figure appeared—gaunt, lumbering,drifting slowly toward them, tattered dress swaying in a nonexistent breeze.
Dread spiked in Jack’s chest like a stake through the heart.
“Fuck,” Boris snarled. A strange click followed.
Oh, Jack realized. Boris took the safety off the gun.
“Will that work?”
“Anything’s better than a lamp,” Boris said. Jack reluctantly reached into his pocket, retrieved the gun hidden there.
Anything would be better than a gun, he thought, turning his head from the stairs even though every instinct in his body screamed at him not to look away. But if he looked, he’d fall right back into those cavernous eyes. This time, he wasn’t so sure he’d emerge unscathed.
It didn’t matter. His throat throbbed. The memory of arousal passed through him like a ghost, sharp and frigid, and then it was gone, leaving behind an aftertaste of iron.
At Jack’s side, Boris tensed. The gun in his hand clattered to the floor. Carla made a strangled sound and darted across the room.
