Page 61 of Hallowed Bones

I stand there—at the edge of the parking lot, surrounded by gravel, trees, and the rhythm of my own beating heart pounding in my ears—feeling like he took something with him when he walked away.

And worse … like I want him to do it again.

CHAPTER 22LYALL

Dad says the Gods might send us a priestess one day. I hope they do. I hope she’s pretty and kind and that she’s not afraid of me. Maybe she can even heal Reyes and take away his scars. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I really didn’t. Dad says that girl witches are special—that they’re stronger. Maybe that’s why the Gods are gonna send us one. Maybe she can help me be good again. I promise to take care of her and never let anything bad happen to her …

I hope she comes soon.

—EXCERPT FROM PRIVATE JOURNAL OF LYALL COREY, AGE TEN

As Ipswich disappears behind me, my smile fades, and I refocus my attention on the road. Haven’s scent lingers in the air, stirring my wolf, making him salivate for more of her. I drag in a deep breath, inhaling it one final time before pressing the automatic button to roll down all the windows. The intoxicating mix of herbs and something feminine that I can’t name disappears with the wind.

The wolf shudders, frustrated and hungry. My chest aches with a sharp bite of pain as the animal claws at my insides, demanding more. The discomfort is a reminder that I need to keep my body under my control and not my wolf’s.

My muscles tense as I grip the steering wheel, and a twitch pulses in my jaw as it fights me for dominance. The speedometer races up and over fifty miles per hour, past sixty, and edges toward seventy and then eighty.

Slow down. I need to slow the fuck down. To distract myself from the wolf’s demands, I punch in a familiar phone number, and the Bluetooth rings through the interior of the vehicle. A moment later, it hits voicemail. A low growl erupts from my throat, and I switch numbers.

Reyes picks up on the second ring, and I don’t give him a chance to ask after Haven. “Where is he?” I demand. “He’s not picking up his cell.”

“He left early this morning,” he tells me.

I grind my jaw hard enough to feel the clench in my bones. “I didn’t ask when he left,” I say coldly. “I asked you where he went.”

“How the fuck should I know, Ly? I’m not his keeper.”

I snort. “Please,” I say. “You’re all our keepers. Now, I could stop this car and sniff the asshole out, but that’ll take more time than I’m willing to waste. Save us both the headache and tell me where he is.”

Reyes is quiet for a long moment. “If I had to guess…” he hedges, the words coming out like they’re being pulled from him against his will. I don’t particularly care. Ezra and I need to talk, and if that means tracking the bastard down, then that’s exactly what I plan to do. “He might be at Hangman’s Hill.”

“Thanks.” I shift forward, pausing with my finger over the End Call button when Reyes speaks again.

“Don’t be too rough on him,” Reyes says, voice low like he’s afraid to stir something volatile. “He’s dealing with his shit the only way he knows how.”

I grind my teeth, jaw tight enough to ache. My tongue scrapes along the backs of my teeth as I exhale through my nose—controlled, calculated. Barely.

“Yeah, well, I get his … aversion. I do. But, whether he likes it or not”—my voice is clipped, unyielding—“he can’t keep pretending there’s still a decision to be made.”

It was made the second we saw her, recognized her, found her.

Soft sounds of movement crackle over the car’s speakers. “I think that’s what he’s struggling with,” Reyes admits. “He wants her to have the choice—because none of us did. He wants something different for her.”

I scoff, but it lacks heat. There’s too much truth in Reyes’s words. Too much of a wound still bleeding beneath the surface.

“Different doesn’t mean better,” I mutter. “All of us should know that by now.”

With that, I end the call, and at the next intersection, I slow and jerk the wheel around, spinning a U-turn and speeding back toward town—toward Hangman’s Hill.

Several minutes later, I ease off the gas, eyes narrowing at the black-and-chrome motorcycle glinting like a bad omen in the morning haze. Reyes was right—again. I shake my head. One day, he’ll admit his hunches aren’t just luck. Premonitions come in many forms, not just in his dreams. He is a lot more powerful than he wants to acknowledge, but guilt is a stubborn thing. I doubt he’s forgiven himself for not seeing our fathers’ deaths before they happened.

Some outcomes cannot be changed. Only Fate has the right to intervene.

Crickets sing their dry requiem as I pull the Hummer into a rough patch of flattened gravel at the base of Hangman’s Hill. I cut the engine, roll up the windows, and pocket the keys. Ezra’s motorcycle rests near the gnarled trunk of an old tree, angled toward the road like it might take off without him.

The lot is empty—unsurprising. Even in peak season, Hangman’s Hill—or as it’s more popularly known, Gallows Hill—keeps its visitors scarce. The weight of the bloody history hangs heavy here, discouraging the curious before they ever reach the top. Most stop here and go no farther.

Not Ezra, though.