“Did you see that?” I ask. “Someone’s in that front right bedroom.”
“Let’s go.” Kirin grabs my hand, leading me through the gates. “Whatever happens, stick close.”
We creep along the walkway that leads up the porch steps to an elaborate front door made of heavy oak inlaid with stained glass panels. Pressing a finger to his lips to shush us both, Kirin twists a brass doorknob.
It’s unlocked, the door swinging open on its own, as if in invitation.
Clasping my hand once again, he leads us into an elaborate great room that opens into a huge living and dining room beyond.
Despite what looks like a modern update to open up the space, the interior looks more like a museum than a house where anyone actually lives. All the walls are a pale gray, the window treatments a few shades darker. The furniture is beyond opulent, all dark woods and rich velvets, like something you’d expect to find in a castle in England. Much of it is antique, but nothing is chipped or faded, every piece perfectly restored and displayed.
I glance around, half expecting to see ropes stretched across each area, preventing anyone from getting too close. The energy feels as cold and empty inside as the snowy landscape outside.
A shiver rolls through me, and I rub my arms to chase it away.
There’s no love here. No sense of comfort or safety. Only fear and revulsion. Only pain. Only neglect.
Even the bookshelves feel staged, as if someone went out and bought the most beautiful, expensive editions of all the classics, then tucked them away and made sure no one in the house was ever allowed to read them.
Everything here is just for show.
With a sinking realization in my stomach, I know exactly where we are.
It’s Janelle Kirkpatrick’s house—a projection of it, anyway. The place where Baz spent his adolescence after his real parents went off treasure-hunting overseas and his older brother went to prison.
When he first told me about it, he’d mentioned how Carly’s parents used to fight a lot. But the energy here holds more than just stale arguments and old grudges. There’s something sinister at work here, some dark energy seeping out through every wall. Whether that’s just part of the dream realm, a Dark Arcana trick, or something else, it’s pulsing through the air like poison, so thick I can almost reach out and touch it.
My heart hurts to think of Baz living in a place like this. Carly didn’t deserve it either.
“I’m no empath,” Kirin says quietly, “but this place has some seriously dark mojo.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “It’s the Kirkpatrick house. Baz… He basically grew up here.”
Kirin’s eyes fill with pain and sympathy and the pieces click into place, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
My parents died, and Kirin’s are tragically estranged, but we both grew up knowing we were loved. Wanted. Cherished.
Baz and Carly weren’t so lucky.
“Obviously there’s something here he hasn’t dealt with,” Kirin says, running his fingers along the spotless, flawless dining table. There are eight chairs surrounding it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if no one ever ate a meal in here.
“Let’s just hope we can find him before—”
Creaking on the floorboards upstairs cuts off my words. Kirin and I exchange a quick glance, then we’re both heading toward the staircase at the far edge of the living room.
Just before we reach the first step, we run smack into a wall.
Invisible, but just as solid as any other.
“What the hell?” Kirin tries again, holding his hands out in front of him.
Same results.
“Let me try something.” I press my palms flat against the invisible barrier and close my eyes, trying to get a read.
“Is it the house?” Kirin asks. “Judgment?”
“It’s Baz. Some kind of protective energy, almost like a shielding.” I try to separate the threads of energy, to figure out which emotions are strongest. “I’m not even sure he’s doing it on purpose.”
