Page 59 of Corrupt Shadows

Fuck. He just wanted confirmation that I was stalking Evie. He must know Rosa and her are friends. He’s been stalking my witch too.

I watch him book a second appointment and leave. I follow him outside, watching him through different mirrors. My brother is behind this. I just fucking know it.

TWENTY-FIVE

Lorcan

I follow Solomor into Ashmore, Evie’s hometown, my stomach knotting as he grows closer to the truth and, by default, my brother. I look around at the scattered Halloween decorations and small houses with hanging baskets of flowers outside each gate.

Everything here is picture perfect, with one obvious exception. The remnants of Evie’s childhood home are a glaring contrast to the cookie-cutter houses throughout the neighborhood. Even in the Shadow Realm, it is easy to see that it never belonged on this street.

Evie was the only one to survive the attack. The demons don’t know she survived, and I would like to keep it that way. Solomor continues sniffing around, but he should realize that his actions have consequences. I am not above severing his spinal column and bludgeoning him to death with it. It would go a long way to relieve the stress I have acquired from his godsdamn interference.

The house groans with the breeze sweeping down the lane, as if it is one storm away from collapsing. A few flecks of gray paint chip off and float to places unknown on the wind. Humans must be able to sense the strange energy wafting from the ground of the property. I’ve observed countless people skirt the edge of the sidewalk or cross the street. They don’t know what is wrong with the property, but I sense the magic coating this place. The noxious aura created by an event so hideous marks the grounds forever.

I watch Solomor casually walk down the street through a combination of the different mirrors of the parked cars lining the road. I stop next to a pickup truck.

Solomor’s meat suit—Stephanie—flounces down the cobblestone path to the front door of the abandoned coven house. Stephanie’s lilac dress sways side to side under her sunny-yellow windbreaker. The balls on this demon, breaking and entering in broad daylight.

Solomor carefully glances around to make sure his movements will go unnoticed, then cracks open the door and slips inside. The remnants of cracked and brittle police tape dangle next to the entrance, the original fluorescent yellow faded to a dull mustard. The front windows are covered with plywood and crossed with several two by fours. I straighten my hunched shoulders, standing to my full height, and follow him into the shell of a house.

Her coven was executed here, then the place was lit on fire to cover the evidence. The charred hardwood planks crunch beneath my black combat boots. Scorch marks creep up the parts of the wall still standing. The skeleton of the framework stands sentinel, its shadows ghosting sections of the original floor plan.

The farther I wander into the house, the more disgusted I become. In the center of the now-open floor plan, the stench of dampened flames, like an old bonfire smothered by brackish water, is heaviest. This must have been the origin of the fire. An icy awareness skitters down my spine as a familiar signature haunts my memories. I grumble obscenities through clenched teeth and shove the nuisance away from my mind.

I glance around, noting the crumbled remains of a fireplace. The hearthstone holds firm between the rotting wooden planks of the floor. In many cultures, it was common to place a bit of metal beneath the hearthstone, to imbue the house with protection. I guess in this case, the coven didn’t bother, or their charms and enchantments simply weren’t enough to battle the evil that craved their deaths.

This room appears to be the largest and was likely used for coven gatherings.

The Order is responsible for their murders. The slaughter occurred right where I stand. I don’t take pleasure in their tortured souls brushing against mine for invading the site of the massacre. The magical influence concentrated here pulses around me. Evil so vile it contaminates everything it touches coats my skin. The unnatural urge to tear myself apart to remove its mark consumes me until I briskly stride beyond its small reach.

The house creeks, wind whistling through the exposed cracks in the plaster-coated walls.

Shingles from the burned-out roof lie in a heap below the largest gash in the ceiling, the washed-out blue of the sky visible in places.

To the far right, on the first level, the top three steps of a staircase hang from the floor above. I walk over and peer at its underside. I easily poke a finger through a weak spot in the stair, and the charred remains dust my finger with charcoal.

My stomach lurches, and vomit rises in the back of my throat when Solomor brushes past me. His demonic imprint disgusts me. I spot another mirror similar to the one now at Evie’s apartment, except smaller and permanently attached to the wall. A substantial crack with large indent in the top-left corner mars its surface. Splinters spread like a spiderweb toward the frame of the mirror.

I walk to it and take in my fractured reflection. Several versions of myself peer back unnervingly as I survey my image. My pistachio-colored eyes glare back at me, unimpressed. I don’t enjoy mirrors the way humans do. I get no satisfaction from watching myself. I take one step closer and thrust my hands in my pockets.

My gaze tracks Solomor with indifference as he investigates the devastated home. His footsteps disturb follicles of dust. They float through the weak light, brave enough to enter the ruined space. But it’s the walls that snag my attention and keep it.

A thick layer of soot obscures faint shapes lightly drawn onto the walls. I growl and stab my fingers through my hair. Someone has drawn hundreds of replicas of the Fallenmoore Coven’s tattoos. The tattoo’s likeness covers every wall left standing, like ravings of an unstable mind. These sketches weren’t here the last time I was.

Solomor has his back toward me, but his meat suit’s shoulders tense through the highlighter-yellow windbreaker hugging the woman’s shoulders. He leans closer, placing both of her hands on the drywall, and fixates on one rose in particular. Solomor brushes at the flower hidden beneath soot with his sleeved forearm, then steps back.

My hackles rise as the demon turns on their heel and strides out through the back door, no longer visible in the mirror. I pursue him, sensing his presence speed-walk around the perimeter of the house and back to the sidewalk. I jog to the same truck as earlier, then bend at the waist and grip my knees to peer in the mirror.

In the Shadow Realm, a demon shrieks, and a deeper-voiced one cackles. I ignore them as I continue watching Solomor. The demons are restless with Samhain approaching, as well as a full moon. I’ve had to send Eshabia to no less than ten orgies in the past month when things turned more bloodthirsty than pleasurable. I don’t really give a fuck if they kill themselves off. But as the king of demons, I have the responsibility to delegate the cleanup of the foolhearted demons. I do not have the patience for more petty annoyances.

Movement in the Human Realm draws my attention back to the small driver-side mirror. This late into the afternoon, humans are arriving home from work. Cars pass by on the street with regularity, and the odd mother with a stroller hurries down the sidewalk. From my point of view, the edge of the abandoned Fallenmoore property and Solomor’s profile are visible. I get so close to the mirror that my eyes nearly cross. Stocking him would be a lot fucking easier if he wouldn’t meander so far away the truck.

Annoyance flares inside my chest. I have a great deal of more important things to be doing than watching this asshole, like playing with my little killer. I sigh deeply, furrowing my brows. My obsession with her far surpasses anything I’ve ever felt.

A man approaches Solomor and smiles with thin lips, seeming friendly enough. Solomor turns on the charm, playing the bashful woman just out for a stroll. The man radiates self-importance. He’s dressed in all black, except for the brilliant white collar tucked neatly beneath his black dress shirt, solidifying his entitled air. The finer details of his person taint the image. Grease clings to the roots of his dirty-blond hair, reflecting the dying rays of sunlight. I wrinkle my nose. Why is it the norm for the majority of humans to neglect their hygiene? The man sticks out his hand, and Solomor’s meat suit clasps her delicate fingers around it. They break apart, and Solomor immediately wipes off his meat suit’s hand discreetly on her dress.

“Hello there,” the man says. “I’ve never seen you around before.”

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