Page 131 of The Dearly Departed

Fear.

I removed my tie from her eyes and tucked it into my suit jacket pocket. She blinked, her eyes staring up at me, wide and mystified, as if I alone had cast a spell upon her.

"Go with him, Princess," I told her.

She hesitated to nod, but she did. And as she took a step backward toward the edge of the gazebo, she admitted in a trembling whisper, "Jekyll, I'm scared."

"I know," I said. "But remember what I told you. It's not forever. I will save you."

This time, I mean it.

She was reluctant to nod, but eventually, she did, then turned in a hurry, severing our connection quickly as she left the gazebo's protective cover.

I watched her take the few steps toward the sidewalk, and as I felt something hard and cold wedge against the base of my skull, I felt not fear, but peace.

Because at the very least, I had found her, the girl who had brought me the sweetest memories, but also my most haunting nightmares. The girl who had somehow turned into the woman I yearned for, the woman who I now knew tasted like …

"Cinnamon," I called out as the solid barrel of a gun notched itself tighter against my skull.

Analise turned around, and I guessed whoever Gerald had asked to retrieve me was hidden enough behind my body because she didn't look at all worried or afraid as she asked, "What?"

"That's what you taste like," I told her. "Cinnamon."

My new favorite flavor.

She found it in herself to smile that wide, happy grin, the one she had when thinking about the boy in her past, and she replied, "Cigarettes and mint."

Then she turned, hurrying along beside Dean to make it to a wedding she didn't want, to marry a man who was going to make her life a living hell until I figured out a way to stop him.

And just as she vanished from sight, something hard and heavy hit the back of my head, and the world went black.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Abraham!”

I’m standing at an altar in a white, white, white church. Arrangements of black roses surround me on all sides. Is this a funeral? A wedding? I’m not sure. I look down at the white carpet and gasp, realizing I’m standing in a puddle of deep red blood, spreading out to flow down the steps toward the aisle.

“Abraham! Oh God, no!”

Where is that screaming coming from?

Whose blood is this?

“Abraham! Please! God, please!”

I look out toward the endless rows and rows and rows of pews, all white in color. So much white. I can’t see the entrance—it’s too far away—but I know I need to go there. I need to get out to find where that screaming is coming from.

I take a step and fall onto my hands and knees, landing in the puddle of blood. It’s deeper than I thought, and I sink in to my elbows.

My head aches, and I reach up to feel the mask.

Why am I wearing this at my own wedding?

Wedding? Am I married?

The pain increases. It pierces through my skull. I move my hand around to the back of my head. Sticky, mushy, bloody brains await my fingertips.

Oh God.