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Creature merely kept smacking with his mouth open.
Malakai reached for the deadbolt again. Paused. Curled his fingers into a fist. Behind him, Creature snickered.
“Ah, fuck it,” he muttered, relenting. He turned the deadbolt, feeling stupid for doing it when so many spells were on the room.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you use locks,” Aspen said from behind him.
He turned to see her standing in the bathroom doorway. A white towel was wrapped around her damp body, and she was using a smaller one to squeeze the excess water out of her hair.
He forced himself to stop gawking and said, “A cop came to the door. Looking for a girl who went missing three days ago.”
“And?” She leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re not usually this rattled about a cop. Or about anything, really.” She flashed him a pretty smile.
The corner of his mouth tipped up, but soon the trace of humor was fading. “Max thinks it was weird. He said the lights on the cop car weren’t reflecting.”
Her copper brows pulled together. “Has he been drinking?”
“He claims he’s sober, but now I’ve got the heebie-jeebies.” He shook his shoulders as a chill crawled up his spine. Walked to the end of the bed—the one closest to the door—and sat down. “I think I was a little hard on him.” He braced his hands behind him on the mattress.
Aspen clucked her tongue. “You?” she teased with a gasp. “No!”
He smirked. “Are you wanting to go to sleep right away?”
“I was thinking of watching a show.” She discarded the hand towel on the bathroom counter behind her.
He reached for his backpack that sat on a chair by the door and took out a bag of sour candies. “Get over here then and share these with me.” He tore the bag open and popped one into his mouth, feeling the sugar dissolve on his tongue—
And grimaced as his taste buds freaked out from the acidity.
Aspen laughed. “Sour?” She crossed the room, a knee peeking through the slit in her bath towel with every stride.
“Very,” he squeezed out.
She shook her head and climbed onto the bed. “You and your sweet tooth.”
50
Hell’s Gate
ANGELTHENE, STATE OF WITHEREDGE
Travis shoved a heaping handful of popcorn into his mouth. It was so salty, he needed water, pronto.
Lace sat beside him on the couch, partially watching the movie on the flatscreen as she sketched in her pad of paper. The side of her hand was blackened with graphite.
She looked over her shoulder. “Is that your phone?”
“Is what my phone?”
“That buzzing.”
He craned his neck, following her line of sight to the kitchen—
And the Hob hiding behind the cereal boxes, his form silhouetted by a mysterious, bluish glow.
Travis set aside the bowl of popcorn. “Morty?” He got to his feet, wiping butter on his sweatpants. “What are you doing?” He walked into the kitchen.
It was late, and all of Hell’s Gate was quiet and dark, aside from the television.
