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Rachel gave me a soft smile and nodded.
I nodded back.
Somehow, a fierce friendship had sprung between us. We’d barely spoken, yet our bond felt stronger than any of my old high-school girlfriends. I supposed a common goal and utmost determination not to let this island and its monsters beat us forged feelings that went above mere like and straight to sisterhood.
Breaking our stare, Rachel pushed Peter’s damp hair off his forehead. “Okay, Pete. We’re all yours. Where are we going?”
He blinked at her touch, then swooned as if she’d robbed the last dregs of his energy. His chin flopped onto his chest; his knees buckled again.
“Ah, crap.” Rachel and I clung to him, stopping him from collapsing. “Let’s put him down for a bit,” Rachel said. “I’ll see if I can find some water and cloth. If we wrap his hands and feet, he might be able to—”
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Peter slurred and stood on shaky legs. “We need to hurry. We’ve spent too much time in here already.” Arching his chin at the closest pew, he muttered, “Set me there and then raid that chest.” He pointed at a weathered-wooden chest with brass fixings. It was large enough to hide a folded-up body, and I honestly didn’t have the stomach to see what was inside.
Peter gave me an understanding grimace. “It’s full of tools. Vials. Siphons. Goblets…that kinda thing. Victor doesn’t keep the Blade of Beauty down here, but he does keep other knives.”
“You planning on stabbing a Master now?” Rachel rolled her eyes as we both stumbled with Peter between us. We deposited him on the pew he’d requested.
My spine protested as we set him down and backed up.
“If it comes down to it. Yes.” Peter nodded and placed his ruined hands upright on his lap. “Now, hurry. Take whatever weapon you find. I want to be out of here in sixty seconds.”
“Gotcha.” The Chinese guy strode forward and reached for the chest.
I expected it to be locked.
It wasn’t.
Flipping it up, he stumbled back and raked a hand through glossy black hair. “Man, this just keeps getting worse.”
Peter stood and hobbled toward him. He didn’t get far before he fell face first against the altar and clung to it. The image of him touching that rust-stained stone threatened to make me sick.
“Ignore the canopic jars, Caishen,” Peter muttered.
“The what jars?” Rachel spun around from where she rummaged through open shelving where black-wax candles and huge gemstones glittered.
If those gems were real, the size of the sapphire alone would be enough to buy a house in expensive London suburbs.
Needing to do something, I headed toward the large intricately carved cupboard to the left. The design looked like entwined souls imploring the heavens to save them, all while shadowy things tried to pull them down.
“The Egyptians used to use them,” Peter groaned. “To hold organs in the mummification process.”
Caishen ripped his hands away. “Cào ni ma.”
Peter actually chuckled, as if anything was amusing at this point. “I had a friend from Canton. Doesn’t that mean ‘fuck my mother’?”
Caishen shot him a smirk. “Not your mother, obviously. His mother. Fucking Vile Vic’s.”
“Ah. Well yes, she’s partly to blame for birthing him.” Peter pressed his forehead against the altar. He breathed heavily; all signs of mirth gone. “I promise there’s nothing inside the jars anymore. Just grab the knives and—”
“Was there something in them before?” Rachel asked. “Are you telling me they cut out our organs as well as drink our blood, Pete?”
Peter didn’t reply.
Instead, his gaze shot to me as I yanked open the cupboard. “Ily, don’t—!”
Too late.
Oh God, what—
