Page 7 of Broken Shadows

He continues, unaware of my glare boring into the side of his head. “You refuse to open yourself to me and release your magic. I was going to wait to do this, but it seems The Order requires us to hurry things along.”

CHAPTER THREE

Lorcan

That's it.Iwill notsit here with my cock in my hand and wait for shit to solve itself.

My shadows shimmer as they coat the surface of every tattoo on my body, their writhing movements akin to my own unstable state.

Dull tapping occupies the silence as I unconsciously jiggle the toe of my boot. Growling, I set my half-finished coffee and scone on the kitchen island. “Ezra.”

My brother casually strolls into the kitchen, his eyes bright with curiosity, then sits on the velvet-plum upholstered stool closest to me. “Yes, Lorry?”

“Don’t call me that,” I warn through gritted teeth.

Ezra smirks. “Noted.”

Godsdammit. Air spills past my lips in a sigh. I should not have said anything. The pads of my fingers glide through my hair as I shove a hand through it. “Do you know where The Order would take Evie?”

“Hmmm,” Ezra contemplates, folding his arms over his wide chest and taps a tattooed finger against his lips. “If it were me, I'd bring her somewhere that has the most solid fortitudes.” I open my mouth to reply, but he lifts his hand in the air. “Patience,” he sing-songs. “They have a headquarters. It's not too far away from the witch’s hometown.”

“Ashmore.”

“That's the one. Anyway, that is definitely where I would keep your girl if I were them.”

I say nothing as I stomp towards the stove; the hood casting a skewed rectangular shadow in the space between the marble countertops and the island. Blackness swallows my boot and creeps up my leg as I enter the shadow. My brother lunges over the island, then grabs my wrist.

“Wait! I’m coming with you,” he says, just like a needy puppy following at my fucking heels.

Closing my eyes, the glimmer from the silver chandelier shines through my lids with a burning glow. I focus on tracing my little witch’s face in my mind. My lungs inflate, then depress with my slow breath.

My lids flutter open, and I shove Ezra away from me, his claws digging into my wrist. I glare at the demon blood dripping onto the ground, the thick drops pooling into a puddle.

My upper lip pulls back. “This is how a truce works?”

Ezra winks.

Fucking. Winks.

“Well, it does for demon brothers. We were born to split flesh and shed blood.” He releases me, then elbows me in the ribs.

“For fuck's sake,” I growl. “Fine. You can come with me, but the moment you get in my way, I’ll gut you.”

Ezra's eyes widen to saucers and his body trembles dramatically. “Oh no, don't hurt me, Mr. King of Demons. I promise I'll be good.” His chest shakes as ruckus laughter fills the kitchen.

“Piss off, asshole,” I spit as the shadows wrap around me, clinging to my torso as I walk through them.

There's something peaceful about the In-Between—the purgatory between the Human and Shadow Realm. After several minutes of navigating the shadows with Ezra, his lips mercifully remaining shut, I part the onyx void and slip from the darkness.

Squinting my eyes, I glare at the sky, the murky Shadow Realm sun nearing its highest point. A sea of asphalt stretches before me, a gargantuan structure casting an angular shadow over me as I walk closer.

Ezra’s footsteps pad beside me and we halt before The Order’s headquarters, an immense cross shaped shadow falling over the pair of us like a wraith. My brother’s pale green eyes dart from the building to me. I shake my head and walk forward, blinking away bits of floating ash as my boots sink into the browning, brittle lawn of one of the most obnoxiously ostentatious churches I have ever laid eyes on, the rough grass scraping against the soles of my shoes.

Two impressive towers stand like formidable soldiers on either side of a central spire, piercing the gray sky, reaching higher than the central one boasting an enormous silver cross in a disgusting display of wealth. My gaze lingers on the intricate gables of the pitched slate roofs expanding from every angle of the church, excluding the grand entrance. Large wings expanding beneath them to the left and right.

Four more smaller intricately carved spires surround the base of the contrasting gray stones, hoisting the symbol of faith above everything for miles. I lift a hand to my brow, shielding my vision from the sun’s cornhusk glow reflecting off stained glass windows lined with tracery.

“I haven’t seen buttresses like this in eons,” I mention. Tilting my chin to the vertically oriented structure, I step closer to an elegantly carved sign installed on the shitty grass. I chuckle darkly and drag my claws along the weathered wood, several deep scratches marring the words Christ’s Blood Church. I’ll never get over the way religions obsess over their ‘lord and savior’s blood.

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