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Orion’s thinking about her, too. I can see the pain in my twin’s eyes. It’s impossible to read Brooks, but the scowl on his face is deeper than ever.
Orion turns to Brooks. “We’ve got time to go in and look for her. If you get me into the library, I could hack into their student directory and—”
“No.”
“We wouldn’t let her see us, I promise.” His voice turns pleading. It cracks open my chest and squeezes my heart. “We’d just check up on her, make sure that she’s safe—”
“Sheissafe,” Brooks growls, jerking the wheel hard. The car bounces over the grass verge and around a corner. The university gates shrink and disappear from sight. “She’s safe because we’re nowhere near her. And we’re going to keep it that way.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But why does it have to feel like utter shit?
I stare out the window at the red brick buildings as we leave Harvard University in our dust. The medieval-style towers, the tree-filled grounds, the ivy twisting through ancient stones.
Harvard was Lily’s dream, and I know she would have made it. She was too clever not to.
Especially now that we’re no longer in her life.
Even though it hurts. It hurts every day since the night of senior prom when we drove out of our small hometown of Haddenwood and never looked back. It hurts to remember the last time I saw Lily’s face. Her gold-flecked eyes were wide and terrified, and her soft skin was splattered with blood…
I turn to my brother, and I know he’s thinking about it too. I don’t bother to look at Brooks. He’ll never give away how much she meant to him.
We drive on in stony silence.
Several hours later,we turn into the massive stone gates of the Bridgemont Hotel.
The Mustang’s tires crunch on the grand gravel drive as we emerge onto an avenue of black ash trees, their branches almost bare, the piles of fallen leaves skittering and swelling in the breeze. The building looms in front of us—a towering edifice ofstone rising from the woods like Dracula’s castle, all turrets and balconies and rejuvenated 1920s grandeur.
The images Orion showed me told a different story—of a hotel in desperate need of a cash injection as it slowly crumbled away and was consumed by the mountains. The new owners have done a lot of work to make this place a must-visit destination.
“Fuuuuck,” Brooks breathes as he stares up at the building’s façade. “We’re arriving at Versailles.”
“Or The Overlook,” I mutter.
The Bridgemont Hotel iswild.Orion gave us a lecture about its history as we drove—it was built in the late nineteenth century as a luxury hotel and resort for the rich and famous. The mountains and forest offered skiing, hunting, fishing, and hiking, and the hotel attracted high-end guests with its spa using the thermal waters that run beneath it. Movie stars and railway tycoons used to stay for months at a time, taking part in lavish balls and all kinds of sordid shenanigans.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Instinctively, I look to the tip of the north wing, to the enormous wraparound balcony on the twentieth floor that marks the honeymoon suite—the very suite we’ve come to study. Our childhood home could fit inside that balcony, and we haven’t even seen the room yet.
People like us don’t get to stay in places like this. Which reminds me…
I tap Brooks on the shoulder. “Do we even have the budget to stay here?”
As a kid, I never paid much attention to the logistics of what my parents did. I just knew that their job was to kill monsters, and somehow that put food on the table, not all of it healthy. But now that I’m in the business, I’ve had to learn how it all works, and it’s…interesting.
We talk about “jobs” and “clients” even though the clients don’t know they’ve hired us, and we don’t get paid for our work because that would involve having to reveal the existence of monsters to anyone reporting something odd, and that’s not how we roll.
Instead, hunters are supported by the Vault–a massive fund set up during the Victorian era by an insanely wealthy and eccentric benefactor who made it his life’s mission to rid the world of monsters. Today, the Vault is worth gazillions, but we have no idea who administers it.
Our monthly stipend keeps us fed on roadside diner fare, keeps the Mustang’s hungry tank full of gas, puts flat motel pillows beneath our weary skulls, and gives us all the ammunition and rare occult books we need. But even though Brooks is the one who deals with the finances, I know the budget doesn’t stretch to luxury hotels, even if theyarehaunted.
“Don’t worry.” Brooks pulls into guest parking. “We won’t be here long, and I’m counting on at least one of us being able to charm the concierge into giving us a good deal. It’s not as if the hotel is full—people aren’t that interested in spending their vacation at the site of several grisly, ghostly murders, even if the cops have vacated the premises.”
“Freaks,” Orion mutters as he steps out of the car, running his black fingernails through his wavy hair.
I don’t think he’s cut it since we took to the road two years ago, and it’s now down to his shoulders, which kind of works for him because it gives him a curtain to hide behind.
I smile at my brother. “Hey, if it means a night sleeping on 400-count Egyptian cotton sheets or a bathroom without mysterious stains, then I’m all in—”
