Page 203 of Love at First Fright

Down his throat. Into his mouth, his nose, his eye sockets. Black smoke pouring into him, filling him, consuming him from within. His body convulsed. Jerked. His remaining eye bulged in its socket.

Then he went still.

The darkness withdrew. Harrison’s body crumpled to the stone.

Evelyn screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

“Oh fuck.” The words left me in a whimper. “Oh fuck, I’m dead. And Mum’s never going to know. Emily won’t—Lily won’t—”

Father Ashworth dropped to his knees. The cross clattered from his hands. His lips moved faster now, desperate prayers tumbling over each other.

The shadow turned.

Towards Brad.

Brad fired. Blue light flashed again and again, his finger locked on the trigger. “Stay back! Stay the fuck back!”

The darkness glided forward.

Brad grabbed my arm. Yanked me off the ground. Shoved me forward—directly into the path of the approaching void.

“Take him! Take him instead!”

“NO!” Bat shrieked.

We tumbled down together, Brad and me, his utility belt snagging something. The buckle gave way. Tools scattered across the stone—salt pouches, the SpecterTrack monitor, spare batteries.

Something else too, landing near my face.

Long. Thin. Off-white, yellowed with age.

A finger bone.

Margery Darke’s fucking finger bone.

The one I’d ordered him to put back.

“You absolute—”

Brad’s body rocketed upward.

The force lifted him clean off his feet. His skull cracked against the basement ceiling with a sickening thud.

The PolterPulse flew from his grip. It hit the far wall, plastic casing splitting open. Blue sparks erupted from the shattered components. The weapon clattered to the floor, smoke curling from its broken circuits.

Then Brad dropped.

The darkness descended with him.

It poured into his mouth. His nose. His ears. Black smoke forcing itself inside while his body convulsed on the stone. His back arched. His fingers clawed at nothing.

His eyes went wide. Terrified. Then empty.

The void withdrew. Brad’s body collapsed beside Harrison’s.

Guess his rugby muscles didn’t save him in the end. A laugh bubbled up my throat. High and cracked and completely unhinged.

I was next. Obviously I was next. Thirty-four years old and I’d die in a haunted basement holding a dead witch’s finger and my last thought would be about Brad’s stupid fucking thighs.