He was lost.
Two days of fleeing north through the midlands, trying to find his way along deserted roads, trying to avoid any sign of humans. He’d crossed over on the ferry—a nightmare of jostling waves, crowded people, and far-off explosions—and had abandoned the group as soon as they hit land. He knew crowds were dangerous. Crowds attracted monsters. Crowds meant he couldn’t run.
And he had been running for days.
Partly to stay alive, partly to stay away from the bloody memory that haunted him. First, to Glasgow, trying to escape. But all flights had been grounded. No one was going anywhere. So, he’d come here.
He was soaked to the bone and freezing, the sky above relentless in its quest to make him as miserable as possible. At least he hadn’t run across any more monsters. What were they calling them? Howls. He’d heard it on the radio. Seen it on the television, all channels playing the same clip over and over, as though hijacked: a woman in black with blond hair, turning a man chained to a chair into a nightmarish monster.
Howls. For the noise they made when they attacked.
Shorthand for how hollow they’d become in the process of conversion.
Magic had done this. Had done all of this. And yet he knew in the back of his mind that he would need magic to survive.
He crouched by the entrance of the abandoned hostel. He was far from the beaten path, next to Loch Lomond and surrounded by trees. It felt safe. Nothing should feel safe. He hadn’t slept a goddamned night since...since... He shook his head and fought back the tears. He couldn’t think about her. Not anymore. He couldn’t change it, either.
He just wished he could get the sound of screams and bleating from his ears.
He stared out at the rain, at the darkening night. Then at the shattered windows of the hostel. He’d been standing there for the last twenty minutes, too afraid to go in, too cold to move on. It was too easy to remember the screams in the houses and flats he’d passed along the way, the blood-splattered windows, the burning doors, the thick smoke that hung heavy over everything, clogging his lungs and filling the streets with hungry phantoms. He didn’t want to be a voice never heard from again. He didn’t want to be a number in the list of casualties claimed by all this madness.
He looked back out at the gravel path that had led him here. Maybe it would be safer out there...
“Are you coming in or not?”
He nearly pissed himself.
The question came from a girl about his age. Maybe sixteen. But even though she was young, she looked...old. Shoulders back, chin high. Eyes that had definitely seen shit. She held a lacrosse stick in one hand, a butcher knife in the other. Her hair was long and in locs, black and pink, just like the pink T-shirt and tight black jeans. Stylish, in a way. Save for the rips on her clothes that were clearly not part of the original design. Not if the splotches of blood were any indication.
“Who are you?” Aidan asked. He took a step backward. She looked like some crazy-cool zombie-killer chick who could rip his head off without blinking. Whereas he... He looked at his muddy jeans, his soggy clothes. The chunk of wood he’d been using as a weapon.
He looked like he should have been eaten ages ago.
“Kianna,” she said. She eyed him up and down. Again, he was struck by her mannerisms. She played it cool. Collected. Like she’d been prepared for this all along. And there was a darkness in her eyes that told him preparation hadn’t been kind.
“Aidan.”
“You one of them?” she asked.
No use asking what she meant. “No.”
“Use magic?”
“No.”
“Good.” She opened the door wider.
“Do you?” he asked. What if she was a Howl? One of the more humanoid ones? Someone who could steal his breath or his heat or drain his blood like a vampire? If she was a necromancer, he couldn’t imagine her just sitting here, waiting for victims. Then again, he couldn’t imagine a Howl waiting in the middle of nowhere, either. Unless she was keeping her victims locked away in the hostel...
“No,” she replied. “Magic got us into this mess.”
He bit his lip. Looked out at the rain. He hadn’t come up here for no reason.
“I was going to attune,” he said. “I heard there’s a place up here that will do it.”
“There was,” she replied. “Are you coming in or not? You’re not exactly helping keep the warm air in.”
“What do you mean, was?”
She groaned and looked at the ceiling. “They’re dead. Just like pretty much everyone else in this world. Thanks to magic.”
“How do you know?” It wasn’t a very brave response; inside, he felt his hope deflate, his words falling flat.
“Because I was there,” she said. “Saw the place for myself. I’ve been seeking out survivors. Go figure that you’d be the first.”
He looked past her, into the darkened hostel. Maybe his hostel-prison idea was correct. Maybe she was worse than a necromancer or Howl. Maybe she was some psycho killer.
He’d seen the movies.
“Look,” she said, impatience clear in her voice. “If I was a Howl I’d have killed you already. And if I was a necromancer I’d have turned you into a monster. Clearly, you’re too stupid to be either, so are you coming in or not?”
He hated to admit it, but she had a point. Not about him being stupid. But the rest.
He nodded and stepped inside. She locked all three dead bolts behind him.
She guided him deeper into the hostel. Past the foyer filled with forgotten backpacks and the reception desk littered with paper and a lounge filled with sofas and a fireplace long-since gone cold. He shivered. Now that they were inside and rain wasn’t pouring over him, he was reminded how damn cold he was.
“We’ll get you changed,” she said. “Afraid I don’t trust having a fire going, but there are dry clothes left over in some of the guest rooms.” She looked him up and down, and her face cracked into a wicked grin. “I think a few toddlers stayed here last. They should have left clothes that will fit you.”
Despite everything—despite the blood and the tears and the ache in his body—he actually chuckled. “You’re a bitch.”
She shrugged. “I’m a survivor. They go hand in hand.”
In the back, in the kitchen, was a makeshift cot and a few bags, their contents splayed out over the floor. Clothes. A few bits of food. Mostly, the space was taken up with weapons.
“You know, this is a hostel,” he said. “Which means there are actual rooms with actual beds.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Kianna said, plopping down on the cot. “Though I had noticed they’re all upstairs, and that—last I checked—I hadn’t grown wings to fly in case I was attacked. A kitchen is the perfect place to hide out. Plenty of weapons on hand, very few obstacles in the way, and—” she pointed to the barricaded back door “—an easy escape route if I need it.”
That’s when he noticed the crates along the wall by the entrance he’d stepped through. Another little barricade. It was no wonder she’d lived as long as she had. She was smart. Smarter than he was.
Not that he’d admit that.
“Go,” she said, pointing to the hallway. “There are towels and the like upstairs. And clothes. And before you even think of making some quip about me joining you to warm you up, just know I’ve already killed three men this week. Two by cutting off their balls.”
“I’m gay,” Aidan said. Of all things to worry about or admit right now, that seemed to be the least of them.
“And I’m not interested in any case. Go. Change.”
He didn’t move, though. He stood there for a moment, watching her organize her weapons, feeling the weight of everything settle on his shoulders. He wasn’t going to get attuned. Which meant he couldn’t fight back. Which meant he couldn’t get home. Which meant he would die here, unable to avenge his mom or go back and tell his dad he loved him. He’d die here, and no one would know.
“What?” Kianna asked. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Please tell me you aren’t about to start crying.”
He sniffed, realized he had been about to start crying. He pulled himself together. Or tried to. “I’m just wondering what we do next.”
“We? Who says this is a we thing? I’m just giving you a dry place for the night.” She paused, let her words sink in. “I work better alone.”
“You said you were looking for survivors.”
“Ones who can fight,” she corrected him.
“I can fight.”
She cackled. “How?” She nodded to the stake in his hands. “Planning on stabbing some vampires with that thing? Doesn’t quite work like the stories, love. You’re not a fighter—you’re a liability.”
His heart pounded. Not out of fear, but desperation. He couldn’t let her turn him away. He knew she didn’t need him. But he knew he wouldn’t last without her help.
Clearly, she knew it, too.
“I’m heading toward Inverness in the morning,” she said. “I’ve heard they’re mobilizing there. Putting some sort of resistance together. You can come with, but you’re not my responsibility. You die, you die. I ain’t risking myself to save your sorry arse. If you make it there, we part ways. Got it?”
He nodded slowly. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said. “Not yet.”
He wasn’t exactly heartened when he turned and walked up the dark staircase to the bedrooms. But at least he had a plan. At least he had a companion.
He had a chance.
“Oh, Aidan,” came a voice. Feminine, but older. Familiar. It chilled him, speared his heart in place. “You never had a chance.”
He turned.
There, pouring from the shadows, was a woman molded from nightmare. He knew her in an instant. Just as he knew in that moment that he was dreaming. And that he wasn’t waking up.
“Every step you’ve taken,” she said, gliding forward. She touched his cheek with a hand that glowed like St. Elmo’s Fire. “Every choice you’ve made. All of it has been by my design. All of it to bring you closer to me.”
She leaned in, breathing against his ear. He wanted her to smell terrible, like graveyards or dead things. Instead, the Dark Lady smelled of incense, frankincense. Holy. Pure.
“You could never escape me,” she said. “Not when I am the game board on which you play. You are mine, dear Hunter. Even now.”
She kissed his cheek. Fire flooded his vision. The world burning, innocents screaming. His mother and father, once more at his side. Alive. Whole.
“I will give you everything,” she promised, a burning whisper in his ear. “As soon as you have found the shard. You will aid me, and in return, I will bring back your family.”
“Why do you need it? I thought it was for Tomás.”
“Tomás is mine. As you are mine.”
“I’m not yours,” he hissed. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t push her away. Couldn’t stab her in the chest or burn her to cinders. He realized then that it wasn’t because she was forcing him to stillness.
He didn’t want to do any of those things.
He felt her smile against his cheek.
“You already promised yourself to me. Your words have bound you, body and soul. But keep the spark, my dear. I am afraid you are going to need it.”
Then she pressed her hand into his chest, curled her fingers around his heart.
His nightmare burned in a choir of ecstasy.