“A hellhound.”
My stomach drops, and I pull my hand away. Just another servant of Erybrus.
“He’s harmless,” Bram says between breaths.
Harmless is the last word I would use to describe a hellhound. I lave my tongue over my lips and gently lift a finger to the animal’s throat. His heartbeat greets me, steady as my own. I sink against the sweat-dampness of his fur. There is nothing more comforting than the heartbeat of a hound.
“Will someone tell me whatthe hellis going on?”
Ransom stands near the altar, hair mussed, clothes torn and stained. His eyes are shot through with red. True terror echoes in the hollows of his face. It is the kind that breeds deep in the bones and makes the mind think impossible thoughts.
I open my mouth to come up with something, but it is Bram who fills the space.
“They’re called Haunts.”
Ransom crosses the aisle, boots clacking on the floor. “Those things out there, you mean? The shrouded dead things?”
Bram nods, shoving himself away from the wall. “Haunts are what remains of souls who haven’t moved on for hundreds of years, never pushed forward into whichever path lays beyond. True death or the eternal life of Ithrandril. They are devoured by Erybrus.”
“Bloody hell.” Ransom’s face goes pale. He drags a hand down his cheekbones, widening his red-shot eyes. “Who the devil are you anyway? Thorn, we can’t just go trusting—”
“Quiet, Black,” Bram snaps.
Ransom’s mouth gapes like a fish, his face screwing up while he tries to place this dead man before us.
My gaze flicks between them, these two men of Rixton, warped byfathers who never loved them right. Where Ransom is all hard lines, white teeth, and smooth-shaven skin, Bram is a contrast. His brows are heavy and thick, and dark spools of hair tease the edges of his stubbled jaw.
Bram bends down beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder. It is strange to feel him—reallyfeelhim—like a solid, living being. When I glance up, his eyes are forest pools reflecting all the green and gold.
“Can you stand?” he asks. “I think it best if you come away from the door.”
I nod and slowly get to my feet, leaning on his arm for support. He leads me to one of the few pews left standing. I take a deep breath when Rascal settles down beside me, turning in circles and laying his head in my lap. The monsters—the Haunts—slam their wet fingers against the stone outside, but the church holds steadfast against the darkness.
I place a hand on Rascal. “What do they want with us?”
Bram shrugs, leaning against the side of the opposite pew. “Your soul.”
The way he says it is so casual, so simple, it nearly takes my breath away. Is this what he has been living? This life hiding away, here in this church? Are those the things he hid from the day in my bedroom?
I look around the church and see no signs of anything extraordinary. Just a tumble down of stones, leaves filtering in through cracks in the roof, broken tiles, and shattered glass.
“No, that can’t… This is madness. This is all—” Ransom starts pacing again, running fingers through his blond hair.
Bram and I share a look, and he crosses his arms.
“I’ve been here for nearly ten years, Black. Trust me when I say it’s very real.”
Ransom stops, stares at Bram. “Ten years…” Recognition dawns on his face when he pieces together my deceit. “You’re Bram Avery. Fuck, you’re supposed to be dead.”
A wry smile curves Bram’s lips. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“But you’re… How are you here?” Ransom’s voice is as thin as smoke.
“Because I still have a decision to make. But I’ve found a third option, and Adelaide is here to help me with it.” He angles his eyes to me, like he’s testing to ensure he is still a part of my plan.
My shoulders tense.
Ransom flicks his gaze to me and crosses his arms, a cocky snarl on his lips. “So, this your plan all along? To sneak in and save every dead person from Rixton?”
