Page 75 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

I hope.

A sound surrounds us, like a collective exhale. Slowly, they blink out of existence in a wisp of light, one by one, until our path is clear.

I ease Luke into the passenger side of the van. He stares at me with half-lidded eyes as I lean over to buckle him in.

“You don’t need to do that,” he grunts.

“Don’t be too flattered. I do it for all my favorite takeout.”

Throwing out senseless jokes is the only way I can cling to a scrap of sanity in what is a completely insane situation. And that doesn’t even cover the kiss. If I really let myself think about that right now, we’ll never make it out.

I strip my crew neck sweatshirt off, pressing it to his wound. He hisses in pain.

“Hold that there,” I instruct him, hurrying to the driver’s side. “You’ve lost too much blood. We need to try and staunch it.”

He nods, eyes squeezed shut. I buckle my own seat belt and plug the key into the ignition with shaking hands. The swirling clouds above tell me I can’t wait until morning to drive us out of here. Beliar might be gone for the next one hundred years, but I don’t want to test Luke’s theory that he solely controls the archers. Panic can’t win again.

I shift the van into drive, but my fingers are glued to the gearshift. My chest tightens—

Luke’s warm, bloodstained hand covers mine.

“You can do this,” he reassures softly. Then his eyes flutter shut and his grip goes slack.

I drive into the dark.

Twenty-four

The house before me is small—more of a cabin, really. A tiny porch leads to a front door that hasn’t been painted in maybe ever. The house itself is a weathered rust color, like it’s becoming one with its dusty surroundings. The window to the right of the door is aglow despite the curtains blocking my view. A light is on. Someone’s home.

The drive here was harrowing at best. Krystal, Poppi, and the third woman, whose name I discovered is Yasmine, fell asleep in the back. They’re getting worse, skin feverish and sallow. Whatever Beliar poisoned them with is sticking in their system.

And then there’s Luke. Despite waking on and off throughout the first hour, he spent the last completely passed out. At one point, I pressed my fingers to his wrist just to assure myself he wasn’t dead. Once I got comfortable enough leaving only one white-knuckled grip on the wheel, I kept them there, letting his faint pulse be a constant reminder he was alive.

But I don’t know how much longer he can hold on.

I walk up the rickety porch steps and knock on the door. Long seconds pass. I knock again.

The floor creaks. It’s nearly imperceptible, but in the eerie desert stillness, my ears have no problem catching it. Someone’s on the other side of the door.

“I need help.” Desperation and draining adrenaline from spending the past two hours tensed behind the wheel make my voice raw. “Please. I was told to come to you.”

“Who told you?”

The voice is grating, as if the person on the other side of the door has spent the entirety of their existence chain-smoking. “Luke D’Angelo. He’s with me. He’s hurt, but he said—”

The door flies open and I nearly stumble off the porch at the looming presence behind it.

“Where is he?”

The single light bulb hanging above my head fully illuminates the woman who steps out. Her face is a motley mess of scars, as if someone doused her in acid. The pink skin travels down the length of her neck, disappearing under her floor-length nightgown. She lacks lashes and brows, and her eyes are so dark that the pupils blend in with the irises. Only a thin ring of white circles them. She looks both inhuman and achingly mortal as a clawed hand clutches at her chest, right over her heart.

“Are you Moira?” I ask, finally finding words.

She blinks at me, the motion insect-like. “I am.”

Luke told me we can trust her, and though he’s already lied to me plenty, I have no other options. I lead her to the van and open his door, revealing his unconscious, bloody form. In the back seat, Krystal, Poppi, and Yasmine cower, still in the same semi-lucid state they’ve been slipping in and out of.

“Please help us,” I plead.