“What do you think a gate to Hell will do to the mortal world?” Custo's burnished skin gleamed in the dark. He was all angel now, fighting once again for the people on Earth. “If you can pass through it, what do you think will come out our way?”
Nothing good, that was certain.
So Shadowman answered with a question of his own. “And if it were your Annabella?”
Custo went silent, breathing deeply, thinking of the beautiful ballerina who was his wife. It didn't take long for his mouth to twist.
“It hurts you even to think of it, yet Kathleen is there, right now.”
Custo closed his eyes. “There has to be a reason . . .”
“. . . for her to bear pain and despair unending?” Shadowman's arm ached with the burden of the hammer. The sinews and muscles strained to hold it, but he held fast to his human form. He had a gate to finish. “And you could tolerate this for Annabella while you had the means to save her?”
“Oh, God. I gave you the means. Oh, shit.” Selfrecrimination threaded through Custo's distress. “That makes
me
responsible.”
“Then see it through.”
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
Shadowman turned to regard the gate. At his side, Custo did the same. The potent menace coming off the thing was palpable. Shadow shimmered against the hellthrob of his creation. A gate to Hell, forged by Death.
Shadowman felt the moment Custo came to a decision, his hard resolve overcoming the wilder emotions.
“I begged for a day once, and that's what I'll give you,” Custo said. “Then I swear I'll bring the angels. We will rip it apart, even if you, Kathleen, or . . . or . . . even Annabella are behind it. It is wrong. You fae obviously have trouble telling the difference.”
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
Right? Wrong? Shadowman didn't care. Death, by nature and necessity, was numb to such considerations.
“I don't require your permission, boy.” The pain of his grip on the hammer crawled over his shoulder.
“Mark my words,” Custo said, summoning Shadow to depart. “The angels are coming.”
“Mark mine,” Death returned. “I'll have her back.”
Chapter 2
A rustle in the brush snapped Layla Mathews's attention from the quiet hulk of The Segue Institute's main building to the dense trees on her right.
Wraith.
She held her breath, willing her heartbeat to silence, lowered her camera, and put a hand to the gun ready on the earth in front of her.
Steady . . .
She waited for movement. Strained for the telltale screech that meant trouble.
Keep it calm. . . .
But heard only the
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
of the now chronic tinnitus in her head.
Nothing. Her gulping heartbeat slowed.
Seconds passed. A breeze hit the November trees, and the leaves chattered in the wind.
Still nothing.
Okay. Back to work. She was going to get a photo of Talia Kathleen Thorne if it killed her. A clear shot, in high-res. The follow-up segment to her wraith series wouldn't be complete without it.
Thick trees and tangled thatches of undergrowth concealed Layla's crouch. Adrenaline still flashed through her veins now and then, but her tush and toes had long since gone numb. She hoped the adrenaline would make up for her stiffening body if trouble found her, and she tried not to think about how she was meeting it halfway.
The Segue Institute, located deep in the West Virginia Appalachians, might seem too peaceful for a war zone. But she knew better. The wraith war was one of long silences, broken with sudden, violent terror, but she was going to get the photo she'd come for, frigid wraith-infested mountain or not.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
Layla shook her head. The metallic, rattling sound in her ears had been driving her crazy for a while. Had to be a side effect from the blow to the head she'd taken in Tampa, trying to get some video inside what she thought was an empty wraith nest. The nest was not so empty.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
She focused on her target. Shadows pooled around the renovated turn-of-the-century hotel that now housed Segue, though the ineffectual sun was directly overhead. It kind of reminded her of an Escher drawing of a castle: The veranda stairs plunged into a bent twist of darkness, the darkness giving way to whitewashed, starkly delineated walls, which took a sharp turn into darkness again. It was an upside-down kind of building. Tugged at her mind. Tugged hard.
“You're seeing things, Layla,” she said to herself. The cold wait had to be getting to her. She squeezed her eyes shut to clear her vision. Now, of all times, she needed to stay alert and grounded. No trips to la-la land.
An early, three-hour hike from Middleton, a climb over an unguarded section of Segue's surrounding wall, four hours kneeling in the scraping underbrush, and still no sighting of anyone, specifically Talia or her well-known husband, Adam Thorne.
The Global Insight,
the online journal Layla worked for, had many photos of Mr. Thorne on file, as Thorne Industries maintained a high-profile presence at events and charities. But it had only one of Talia, a blurry screen capture of an Arizona alley fight with a wraith. A faint tilt to her eyes was discernable, as well as the woman's ultrafair coloring, but that was about it. Talia Kathleen Thorne was an enigma, a ghost, and Layla's obsession. She would stay all night if she had to.
She needed one crisp photo to accompany Adam's when she broke her story: These were the people at the heart of the wraith war. Wraiths, the monsters of the modern age, had mutated from normal
Homo sapiens
to some superstrong, fast-healing new breed. Violent and predatory by nature, they attacked their human counterparts, even those they once called friends and family. The spread seemed to have stopped, but the terror continued. All indicators pointed to Segue, yet the government had granted the institute what seemed like unlimited support and power. Was Segue the world's salvation, or the source of the modern plague?
A flicker in the distance had her raising her camera again. Screwing the telephoto lens in place. Focusing.
Someone exited the building and strolled to the high white railing that edged the wide patio.
No. Two someones. One, dark and masculine, had to be Adam Thorne. The other was so pale as to be barely visible against the white of the building.
Yes!
Layla knelt up, waiting for the moment when the profile of the woman would shift, when Talia would face the trees.
Layla needed only a second, and she'd have the shot.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
The noise jangled in her head, but she ignored it.
Any . . . second . . . now . . .
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
She squinted into the viewfinder, as if sharpening her vision would reduce the annoying rattle.
And nearly jumped out of her skin when a branch snapped behind her. She whipped her head around, dropping the camera to the safety of the strap around her neck.
Behind her stood a man and a woman, both with buzzed hair and lots of muscles defining what appeared to be some kind of body-skimming black combat gear. They both had an automatic rifle strapped to their torso. Their steely gazes were set on their quarry: her.
“Uh. Hi.”
Oh, shit
was more accurate. At least they weren't wraiths. She nudged her own gun under the leaves, out of sight. How could she have missed their approach? She was seriously going to have to get her ears checked.
Layla scrambled up from her kneeling position, brushing earth and twigs off her knees. The camera bounced hard on her chest. Time to put her cover story into effect: lost hiker, now found. Pray they'd go for it. She put an innocent and bewildered expression on her face.
“Ma'am,” the female security guard/soldier/scary lady said, “are you aware you're trespassing on private property?”
Yep.
Layla gave what she hoped was a disarming shrug and said, “I'm sorry. I had no idea. I was hiking and got kinda turned around.”
The woman's lids dropped a fraction. “There are no public trails within twenty miles. And this facility is bordered by a wall.”
“IâI don't like to stick to trails. Too confining. I'm more of a free spirit. And the wall just made me curious.” Layla's laugh came out shaky.
Please don't feed me to the wraiths.
“Gets me in trouble sometimes. But point me in the right direction, and I'll be out of here.”
“Afraid we can't, ma'am,” the man said, his tone final.
“I promise I won't come this way again.” Her blood surged, and her bladder cramped. Here was the moment to fight or flee, and she suddenly needed to pee.
Not good.
The man ignored her. “You'll have to come with us.”
“Are you going to call the police?” Actually, calling the police wouldn't be too bad. Law enforcement would be much better than whatever Segue could do with her.
“We're going to need your camera, too.” The man stretched out his hand, ignoring her question.
Damn.
The time stamps on the digital shots would quickly prove she'd been there for hours, not the MO of a lost hiker. To come so close . . .
She held on to the camera and switched to grit. “So I snapped a few shots of the building. It looked cool. Is that a crime?”
“Now,” the man said. “Or I will take it from you.”
Double damn.
No time to pull out the memory card. Layla removed the strap from around her neck and handed over the camera. Wasn't like she could refuse He-man and She-ra. “Will I get the camera back? It was expensive.”
“This way,” the woman said, turning back into the woods as she took up the lead. The man maneuvered to take up the rear.
“Where are you taking me?”
Neither answered.
Crap.
Layla swallowed hard and followed.
Â
Â
Agitation bounced like a bright ball in Layla's stomach as she followed the male soldier through the ground floor of what used to be the Fulton Holiday Hotel and was now The Segue Institute. She hadn't counted on getting inside the castle.
Inside
was a scary place to be, but the soldier didn't know that she knew it, so she kept her expression modulated to suit her cover storyâanxiety mixed with I-want-to-see-the-man-in-charge self-righteousness. And she had in fact requested to see him.
They passed through several sparsely furnished connected rooms. Afternoon sun fell through tall, arched windows. The effect was lovely, elegant. Her imagination flashed with a scene of fancied-up, turn-of-the-century hotel patrons chatting, strolling, taking tea, a ghostly twist of time. She could almost hear violins, the murmur of voices.
When they reached a set of beautiful, paneled doors, she asked for the twentieth time, “Where are you taking me?”
The guard kept his square jaw shut, his ruddy face neutral and composed.
Great. She could see the headline:
JOURNALIST DISAPPEARS IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS
. The last piece with her name on it would be an obituary.
The guard tapped a code into a panel at the door, and she kept an eyeball on the pattern of his fingers. He typed fastâsix digits, the first two a five and a three, the rest obscured by a sudden shift of his body.
He was definitely not buying her story, though she had the sweaty, bedraggled ponytail to prove it. She couldn't help it if she got “lost.” If she “wandered” onto the property of a private research facility. If she “happened” to shoot a photo that would've accompanied an article that revealed Segue for what it was.
She attempted to peek around the door before entering, but the guard none too gently nudged her inside. As expected, he closed the door on her plaintive “But, sir, I . . .” and locked her in.
No luck (or pity) there.
Layla turned and surveyed her prison. The room was large and solely furnished with a long table of some dark, varnished wood, surrounded by sleek office chairs. The table probably cost a mint, but then, Adam Thorne had a mint to spend. The rest of the room was similarly Thorne-fabulous, moldings edging the walls, as well as ornately framing the flat expanses all the way to the high ceiling. The floor was made up of glossy wood squares, diagonally arranged in alternating deep and lighter tones. A ballroom with a conference table. Okeydokey.
She shrugged off her backpack, dropping it onto the floor, swiveled the nearest chair out from the table, and collapsed into it. Chairs were lovely things. The long-dry film of sweat that coated her skin cracked with the movement and she caught a whiff of herself. Wow. But very lost hikerâish.
Now a wait while they decided what to do with her.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
Layla leaned forward, her elbows propped on her knees, and massaged her temples. If this kept up, she was going to have a raging migraine.
She lowered her hands and noticed the pale pink band of skin where her engagement ring used to be. A pang of sharp regret hit her hard. She never should have said yes. Sure, she cared for Ty, but . . . But she couldn't help who she was, and she couldn't change either. Calling it off had been the decent thing to do. She had the engagement ring reminder to show for it, and this one she couldn't take off.
The only thing left was work. Work kept her focused, her mind from wandering, which was becoming a problem. Work was important. She raised her gaze to the ballroom door. She had no patience for waiting. Too long, and she'd begin to
see
things.
On cue, the door clicked and opened. Thank goodness.
Layla was startled to recognize Adam Thorne, the man himself, as he strode in.
She started to rise, but he waved her down, dragged a chair out from the table, and lowered himself into it. He was tall, a little too lean, and had a handsome face lined with stress and worry. Exactly how the man who bioengineered the wraith disease should lookâexcept for the handsome part.
Still playing lost hiker, she sat slowly back into her chair, twitched a smile on her face, and innocently asked, “Can you please tell me where I am? The man who escorted me to this room wouldn't answer any of my questions.”
Thorne lifted a brow. Not buying her story either.
In the spirit of plausible deniability, she forged on. “Though, naturally I am very grateful to have been found. I'd been lost for hours. . . .”
Thorne shook his head slightly, raising a hand. “Ms. Mathews, save your breath.”
Layla closed her mouth, heart stalling. He knew her name, which she hadn't yet given. The jig was officially up.
“What would possess you to wander unescorted on private property you know very well is dedicated to wraith research?”
Layla straightened to cover the sudden tremor that ran over her body and lifted her own sarcastic brow in spite of the rapid pounding in her chest. “You let them out to roam the woods?”