Page 12 of Vows & Violence
She just smiled with her dead-coal eyes and said,“Buys you time. Five seconds, maybe ten. Depends on how bad they want you.”
Didn’t say whotheywere. Didn’t have to.
There was something about the way she looked at me when she handed it over, like she was already grieving. Like she knew the charm wouldn’t be enough. Like she gave it to me anyway because we were past the point of saving and just hadn’t realized it yet.
I should’ve thrown it away. Should’ve said no, told her I don’t believe in ghosts, or demons, or charms carved from the ribs of forgotten saints. But the truth is, I believe her.
I believe every damn word. Because when Reese blinked at me with sewn lips and that spiral painted across his face, I felt something in my chest pull tight, like a thread being yanked. Not fear. Not quite. Recognition.
Whatever this thing is, it knows me. Knows who I was. Who I tried to stop being.
And if that charm buys me five seconds, I’ll take them. Hell, maybe I’ll need them all.
It’s nearly midnight. Phoenix leans against the doorframe, her breath tight from the pain, but she doesn’t flinch when I say, “I’m going to the cemetery.”
Her head lifts. Eyes are sharp now. “No, you’re not.”
“Someone’s painting those spirals for a reason. They’re doing it tonight at the cemetery. You heard her.”
Phoenix crosses the room in three strides and shoves me back with her good arm. “You’re not going alone.”
I stare down at her. There’s blood on her temple, sweat glistening across her collarbone. She's the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever seen. And I want to shield her from every goddamn piece of this.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“So are you.”
I laugh. It’s bitter and raw. “We’re a mess.”
Phoenix doesn’t answer. Just steps closer. Her fingers find mine. “If this thing kills you,” she says quietly, “I don’t crawl back from that.”
Her voice cracks on the word “that.” Barely. But I catch it.
And I know that whatever this thing is, whatever Vale stirred up, it’s not just hunting her. It’s hunting both of us. Together.
The sky shifts when we reach St. Roch. Not just the clouds, buteverything. The color bleeds out of the night, turning it this deep, oppressive gray that presses in like fog, even though there isn’t any. The air’s thick, humid, and wet like it always is in New Orleans, but there’s somethingwrongwith it tonight. It clings too hard to the skin. Feels like breathing through soaked cotton.
It’s quiet. The kind of silence that’s not empty butlistening. Like the city’s holding its breath. Waiting for something to break.
We crawl over the wrought-iron fence like thieves, the iron cold and slick beneath our hands. We land behind a tomb, boots hitting damp ground with a softthud. The gravestones stretch in front of us like broken teeth, chipped and crooked, leaning in strange directions as if they’re trying to get a better look. Some are cracked down the middle, others sinking slowly into the earth like they’ve given up fighting.
The air tastes like copper and mildew, making my stomach twist.
Phoenix moves ahead of me, crouched low, her silhouette sharp even in the half-light. She scans the rows like a soldier sweeping a war zone. Then she stops.
“Do you feel that?” she whispers.
“Yeah.” I feel it at the base of my spine. In the way my skin crawls without reason. In the way every shadow seems tolean toward us, like they’ve noticed we don’t belong. Like they’re curious. Like they’re hungry.
It’s not just fear, it’s the sense that we’re beingnoticed. That whatever’s on the other side of the veil knows we’re here, and it’s reaching, slowly, like a hand groping through dark water.
“Something’s waiting.”
The further we move into the cemetery, the less the ground feels real beneath my boots. It’s soggy in some places, cracked in others. I keep one hand on my gun, the other brushing the charm Mama Dusk gave me in my jacket pocket.
