She makes a low hum noise in the back of her throat. “Missed you? I wouldn’t go that far?—”
Bowen glances back at us over his shoulder. “Jesus, where are you—there you are! Hurry up, now, children. A little bit of urgency never killed anyone.”
Diantha
My apartment’sheating went out twelve hours ago, and I haven’t stopped shivering since. And if there’s one thing that’s not going to help several hours of marrow-deep chill, it’s walking a mile in frigid January weather.
By the time we make it to the Manor, I’ve lost concentration on Bowen’s lecture about the use of mythical creatures in 15th century tapestries and am focused entirely on not doubling over and succumbing to the elements.
Luckily, Orfeo has picked up the slack, asking questions and gently probing Bowen into another one of his rants.
Orfeo, whose only protection against the cold is a bomber jacket. Orfeo, in his perfectly tailored designer jeans and paint-splattered sweater. Orfeo, with his earring and his lopsided smile and square jaw that tenses every time I look his way.
Orfeo, and his damned vampire-ass self.
After days of avoiding him—only physically, since it seems the Italian vampire has latched on to my brain like a parasite—last night I gave in to my own worst impulses.
My tomes were only going to get me so far. I found a single passage in a book titledCVSTOMS OF YE DAMNÉDabout Mediterranean vampires and their differences from Nordicvampires, baobhan-siths, and strigoi, which was nothing I hadn’t experienced firsthand. I mean, he’d made me pasta with garlic. I hadn’t even asked him to cook for me!
In another tome titledMYTHICAL HOLES, I found only slightly more information on portals—how they’re created by tears in the fibers that join our living world with the beyond. Tears can be created by high concentrations of supernatural beings, who occupy a place in both worlds, or a high concentration of magical objects, which pull heavily from the beyond’s energy.
I think back to what that guy said in the library, about the haunted bones. It makes sense now: they most likely created the portal.
I need more information about his world. Aboutmy mom’sworld. Ideally about portals, about Echidna, about demons (half-demons?), and one million other things I can barely keep track of.
But I now know, at least, where I can start.
Hades House, as far as I can tell, is a supernatural hangout. Filled with creatures and beings who have the exact information I need. If I was too afraid of Orfeo to talk to him again, and if I couldn’t physically go to Hades House and find out more information, why not decouple there?
If I could picture the beautiful half-demon and the wooden front door and even conjure up Orfeo’s voice, was it so crazy to think I could land right in the middle of Hades House?
So, I did it.
I completed my nightly ritual of locking the windows and doors. I purified the air with rose incense. I lit a candle, and I let my senses roam, reaching and stretching my mind toward Hades House, retracing the path from my apartment to Devil’s Row. I replayed the night I decoupled under the portico, over and over. I let the memory of Orfeo’s voice—deep and smooth—fill my mind. The way he said my name. The way he had warned me. The way he’d said,You’re special.
It took a lot of energy, but somehow I’d pulled it off.
As my limbs grew heavy and numb, my skin became slick and cold. For a moment, the world went dark around me. Then, my spirit snapped to, in the middle of a dark, humid room under a flickering disco ball. Smoke hung heavy in the air along with the smell of cleaning chemicals and spilled booze.
Leo, the gorgeous half-demon, sat laughing like a middle-school bully as Orfeo dove over the bar.
Their supernatural energy pressed on me from every angle. The world warbled, their words distant and muffled like I was listening from beneath the surface of a pool.
I struggled to get my bearings, little more than an unfurled ball of energy, surging left and right as I panicked. A wave of my energy blew out a light behind the bar before ricocheting back against the mirrored shelves of liquor bottles, sending one crashing to the floor.
None of that mattered, because I’d heard what Orfeo said as he lifted the squirrelly, curly-haired kid off his feet.
His words blaze through my memory.
I don’t kill anyone.
Am I an idiot to trust a vampire?
Better question: am I an idiot to trust my mom’s apparition?
Orfeo isn’t my only option, but he’s my best option. And if he’s a flop, I’ll try Evie—though, shamefully, I have doubts about her abilities.
Or, if Orfeo is to be believed, maybe I have some powerful shit kicking around inside me too.
