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“And now, we wait.”

And wait we do. The air becomes hard to breathe with the sage smoke, but I guess I share Sunday’s stubbornness in that respect.

It’s not until he starts clearing his throat that I perk up. A little at first, but then he sits up and rubs a hand across his water-flecked chest.

“You okay?” I shift off the toilet, going to step toward him but he holds a hand up. He’s sweating, hair plastered to his temples, rivulets of moisture running down his face.

I made the bath water hot, but not that hot. He always joked about how I like my baths and showers volcanic, so I made sure to run it cooler for him.

“Ugh, I think I’m gonna puke,” he grimaces, leaning over the side of the tub.

Instantly, my heart starts racing. I can’t get out of the door without being in the direct firing line, so I do the next best thing and plaster myself against the far wall, stick my fingers in my ears and slam my eyes shut. My toes curl in my socks as I envision how it’s going to splatter on the tile and all up my legs. I wait for that to happen, but it doesn’t.

Cautiously, I open one eye to find Sunday over the side of the tub, fingers clenched hard on the edge as he pants through his nausea. I really don’t want to have to clean this up, so I toe the trash can out from beside the toilet and kick it in his direction. It slides easily on the tile, landing beside him.

Just in time, too. He heaves, his throat contracting, gagging hard. Nothing comes up at first, just a thin string of saliva dripping from his bottom lip. The second time, though…

Spirit, save me.

Dark, black smoke swirls almost lazily from his mouth, billowing to the floor before fanning out in a steady stream. Sunday’s head finally flops, his grip going slack on the porcelain.

The smoke curls around my feet and up my body, gliding over the surface of my skin like a vile caress.

I raise my hands, trying to push my magic out of my fingertips. It stutters and sparks like an engine that won’t turn over. Grunting through the effort, I try again, splaying my fingers harder as if that’s going to help at all.

Throwing a panicked glance at Sunday’s unconscious form, I look for the telltale signs he’s breathing—it’s shallow, but his chest still moves.

“Hello, little ferryman,” a disembodied voice says from the pool of shadows.

It doesn’t stay that way, melding into something humanoid and terrifying.

“Hello, terrible thing,” I answer back.

Chapter Forty-Three

Bellamy

Imight be sick myself.

Everything inside me clenches, my bowels turning to water as my brain desperately tries to decode the thing in front of me.

I know paranormal beings exist, I know that. I’ve only ever seen spirits and vampires, maybe a selkie, but the jury is still out on that.

This…this is nightmare fuel. Every story ever told to naughty children to get them to behave, rolled into one being.

Its forehead is broad and flat, plated with gnarled horns curling upward, nearly touching the ceiling. While its shadowed form had the illusion of eyes, this form doesn’t seem to have any, the bone plate extending down to mid-face. There are thin slits that I presume are nostrils, and a too-wide mouth. Its skin is pale and pink—almost human, but not.

“Bellamy. At long last, we meet properly. We’ve been trying to get to you for some time now,” it croons, tilting its head, a creepy ticking noise rattling in the back of its throat.

“How do you know who I am?” I force myself to stand upright and raise my chin, trying to make myself feel bigger even though my knees quake.

The demon laughs. The sharp, unnatural sound bounces off the walls and into my ears, my eyes watering. With jerky movements it unfurls its arms, spreading its long, knobby fingers tipped in black. Smoke coalesces in its palms, roiling until it forms a small scene.

A wet interstate.

A car.

A truck, a ditch.