When I chanced another look over my shoulder back toward the mine, I saw nothing. A mild relief, though there was some appeal to the idea of being able to tangle with whatever that was and ending my case immediately.
The dead don’t care much how fast you solve their murders. They just need vengeance.
But running in half-cocked against a monster you know little about is a good way to throw your life away.
So I turned to the next logical move I could make: figuring out who the hell I was this time.
The clothes he’d worn before being murdered were what you’d expect of someone who worked in a mine. Heavy safety boots that could break down a door as easily as cave in an ass if needed. Well-worn jeans and an ocher and orange plaid shirt, both of which fit tight on account of the man’s build. He had the physique of someone who’d been doing hard labor for decades now and never skipped dessert. Solid, thick muscle with a healthy layer of fat over it.
Not the kind of guy who’d go down without a fight, and certainly not an easy one at that. Which meant whatever had done him in was either terribly strong or clever.
I scanned the surrounding area, most of which was made of hard-packed gravel and loaded with heavy machinery, from bulldozers to excavators. Some caution tape lined parts of the perimeter, indicating the place was now closed. A lone pickup truck sat near a small hovel of a building sporting a faded white cross.
A short look at the vehicle triggered a sharp pang, and a memory followed. Familiar-looking hands gripped an old steering wheel and pushed a cassette into the tape deck. It wasn’t a stretch to realize it belonged to the man whose body I now occupied.
Whenever a spot of luck came my way, it was often bad. So the occasional bout of good fortune wasn’t something I’d question.
I headed toward the diminutive chapel, stopping just before I reached the pair of double doors. They were the color of dark espresso that had begun to fade to something softer. The placelooked as if it had been built nearly a hundred years ago, and on the cheap. Yet it still remained standing. Though I wasn’t so sure about the single window near the front, the frame of which sat visibly askew, sagging now due to time and likely the elements.
It wasn’t uncommon for mines to have a small chapel like this on-site. It’s a tough job, and a dangerous one on top of that. Miners perish every year in some pretty terrible ways.
But those ends usually excluded the intervention of the supernatural.
I pushed through the doors and entered to find the place furnished how you’d expect for an out-of-the-way chapel. Simple carpeting and the usual sturdy pews—all framed by white walls that had been kept cleaner and better maintained than the exterior. A small altar draped in a red cloth stood at the other end from me.
But it was the man with his back turned to me that held my interest.
I moved closer. “Church, that you, pal?”
The figure turned to face me. He had the sort of face that somehow managed to balance softness in features with the right amount of sharp edges and hardness. A look that left you wondering if he was pretty handsome or just handsomely pretty. The guy had the freshly tousled blond locks and icy blue eyes to mirror some of the angelic images in a place like this. If only he didn’t dress like an IT guy—from the tucked-in white shirt to the khakis.
The man embodied the idea of geek chic.
“Vincent.” He inclined his head in a polite welcome. Church usually had more words for me than just that. While not particularly talkative, he usually made some time for the little niceties in conversation. Then again, I’d once asked the man for his name,and he’d looked around the building we were in and told me to call him the same thing.
No one likes a wiseass…
I crossed the distance between us, extending a hand. Church didn’t bother with any foreplay. He gripped my wrist instead, brushing up the sleeve of my shirt, then holding tight to the soft skin of my forearm. Mr.IT held me with the strength of hydraulic machinery as the sensation of burning needles pricked along my skin.
I hissed through it.
He released his hand just as I’d adjusted to the fresh pain. My forearm had reddened as if I had actually been burned, but the thing keeping my attention was the fresh number of all black now on my skin.
The number five stared back at me, as much a warning as a motivator. In theory, it represented the amount of time my soul could remain in this particular body. In reality, it was a countdown for how long I had to find the monster responsible for offing this fella, and then put the kibosh on them.
If I failed, I’d be shuffled off to my next case, and someone would go unavenged.
Enough reasons to stop whatever killed this guy.
“Not a lot of time, Church.” I nodded to the number on my forearm.
He gave me a tight, thin smile. “It will have to be, Vincent.” His voice seemed a bit more strained than the usual light and almost airy whisper. Still as strong and confident, but an undercurrent of rasp just touched it.
I arched a brow. “Everything okay?”
His smile almost widened an imperceptible amount…
Almost.
