Page 26 of Hunted in the Shadows
“Fucking finally,” Cliff groaned. “We can wait out the storm.” He trudged forward without waiting to see if we would follow.
“A house?” Sylvia’s detached light grew dimmer by the minute. “What if someone lives there?”
“It’s not a house,” I said. “But there could be squatters, especially in this weather.”
However, ordinary humans were the least of my worries, especially with the scare we’d gotten outside the wreck. I strained my senses, scouring the clearing around the church for signs of something more sinister out here with us. There was no tell-tale stench of decay, no trace of mutilated animals… Of course, the damn storm could have washed away any lingering odors.
Judging by the church’s architecture, the lone building was sixty years old at most, but corrosion had reduced it to a husk. Ivy and lichen crawled over the crooked steeple that jutted accusingly toward the heavens. Peeling white paint exposed cracked gray boards beneath, and the arched windows were stained with grimeand graffiti. Some windows were missing entire panes of glass, leaving them to gape like empty eye sockets as we approached.
I vaulted up the stairs behind Cliff, each step making the old wood shriek. Up close, the neglect of the structure was more pronounced: wild grasses pushed up through the rotting floorboards, and the sign beside the entrance was too faded to read. The door was locked, but it took no more than a firm shove to force it through the warped frame. A thick wave of musty silence welcomed us as we stepped inside.
“Smells like ass in here,” I remarked under my breath, nudging the door shut behind us. Still, a shiver of ease kissed down my spine at the sudden relief from the pelting rain.
Sylvia reduced her fae light once we were safely inside, draining the ethereal blue from the aging building. Dust danced in the beam of my flashlight as I swept the room. We stood in the remains of a lobby. The partition wall was reduced to a skeleton of support beams, revealing a cavernous room lined with dusty pews. The distant drip of water disrupted the otherwise stagnant air that made it feel like the whole place was holding its breath, frozen in a moment of time.
Gravel and glass crunched under our boots as we moved inward. I grunted, nearly tripping over a candle holder in pieces just beyond the threshold to the next room. The likeness of the prophet engraved was in the bronze, weathered beyond recognition. I kicked it aside, trying to temper my expression as I eyed the shadows.
Although my jacket was heavy with a small arsenal of iron and silver, the distinct lack of my favored sawed-off shotgun left me feeling exposed. It was too conspicuous for a sleepy Louisiana town, too large to stow in my bag. Last we’d been to Cypress Hollow, local civilians had welcomed visiting strangers with open arms, but I doubted they’d extend the same hospitality if we came waltzing in brandishing machetes and scoped weapons.My fingers twitched as I dwelled on everything left behind in that patch of swamp.
Cálmate,I told myself. We’d been in far worse pinches before. There was no need to feed the rooting fear in my gut.
I idled by the doorway and reached for my shoulder, brushing Sylvia’s side. Her cropped sweater and leggings felt like they were frozen to her delicate body. My heart lurched at the thought of her limited belongings getting ruined or lost out there in the wreck. I couldn’t shake the pain in her voice when she’d lost track of her snowflake charm.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
She gave my neck a reassuring pet. “You act like it’s my first time being stranded in a terrifying swamp in the dead of night,” she simpered, drawing a chuckle out of me. “I’ll be better after a hot bath, but I’ll pull through for now.No tengo mierda.”
My heart stuttered as it always did when she spoke Spanish—broken as it was. There was something otherworldly and undeniablyhotabout hearing my second language on her perfect lips.
But this particular mispronunciation had me sharing a slow smile with Cliff.
“What?” The purr of Sylvia’s voice rose to a snap when Cliff and I snickered.
“Look, that’s adorable,” Cliff said. The irritation in his voice had softened gradually during our long trek, and he now shot Sylvia a crooked smile. “But you just told him you don’t haveshit. You meantno tengo miedo.”
Sylvia made an indignant noise that tapered into confusion. “How do you know that?” she demanded.
He glanced back over his shoulder, smirking. “What? Ten years with this guy, and you don’t think I picked up a few things?Me has hecho daño.”
I could imagine the expression on Sylvia’s face—the pinch of her lips as she pouted in thought. “Bathroom?”
“That would bebaño,” I said.
“Ugh.” And that was her rolling her eyes.
Her waterlogged wings tickled my neck as they tried to shake themselves dry. She might have attempted flight if it weren’t for the flash of lightning through one of the broken windows. Even I flinched in tandem with her yelp when a bolt illuminated the silhouette of a person outside.
“Just a statue,” I assured after blinking a few times. The image in the billowing grass stayed etched in my mind’s eye—a crumbling woman in flowing robes, arms outstretched as though awaiting an embrace.
We moved away from the shattered windows, inadvertently herded closer to the altar. Tattered bedding, food wrappers, and empty bottles between the pews pointed to squatters, but the makeshift camp looked like it hadn’t been touched in ages.
Sylvia breathed in sharply. “There’s something about this place,” she said in a softer voice.
“What?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
“Like… somethingusedto be here. A bad memory.”
My flashlight beam swept over the crumbling pews. A few of them were shoved about haphazardly, splintered in some places. Upon closer inspection, I found a couple of bullets lodged into one of the backrests.
