Page 23 of Hot Ghoul Summer

“Nn-nn.” I stay still, bladder killing me now that I’m awake. “I’m going to get a UTI thanks to you. Not that you care.”

I shouldn’t have said anything. Shouldn’t have poked the big, scary, skull-faced bear with a killing stick. Stiff arms shoot under my thighs and back, and I scream and flail, adrenaline flying back through me as my eyes flare open.

Toby’s body is like iron against mine, every muscle rigid, his jaw stiff and eyes unblinking as I rain blows on him. He doesn’t flinch, just carries me out of the room—and drops me to my feet in the bathroom across the hall. His fingers stay stiff around my arms. For a second, it feels like he’s steadying me—but he’s a beast, isn’t he? I remember the sight of a dark figure wreathed in flames, the sound of metal and men cursing as the car flew through the air.

Whatever he’s doing for me isn’t for me. It’s for him.

“Use the bathroom. The shower, too.”

He doesn’t let go.

Sickness sweeps me. “Are you going to stay here while I do?”

His fingers fly off—but then his hands hover around my elbows as I sway. “No! I mean... No? I wasn’t going to? Are you too weak to manage on your own? Here, sit on the edge of the tub, and I’ll get that breakfast tray—”

“No. No, I can use the bathroom on my own.”

“But you’re right, You’ll get sick if you don’t eat, drink, or eliminate waste. The basics.” Those cold features are still pale, but suddenly full of pleading. “Look... If you don’t believe me after what I show you, then you can leave. I give you my word.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“Well... It’s all I’ve got.” His eyebrows suddenly scrunch together. “Wait... I saved you this morning! Those thugs were from Theo Cross—”

“You said his name was Nicky.” I suddenly rise and shove him backwards, out the door. I slam it shut, unzip, and sink to the toilet in utter relief.

Toby’s voice is timid from beyond the door. “Nicky Cross was the boss. He’s dead now. His brother, Theo, is in charge. Your ex-stepfather told Theo to come here to get you. He said you murdered Nicky Cross.”

“He what?” I screech from my seat, knowing this is a lie. It’s all a lie. It has to be.

But... Like, a little part of me is suddenly wondering what’s a lie and what’s true. You would think that the lie would be that a man is some supernatural being not supposed to exist. If that’s not so far-fetched, then is my scummy ex-stepfather lying to get me here, then lying again to save his neck so unbelievable?

I slowly rise and start to step out of my clothes, eyes on the doorknob. I don’t bother to lock it. I’ve seen that he can move through anything he wants.

Helplessness wars with fighting spirit. He can do what he wants. How am I going to outsmart him or outfight him?

“He said you killed Nicky Cross. Then he told Theo where to find you. Theo sent men to this address. The house is cloaked, but you left the property when you made it to the road. I barely got here in time.”

My hands shake as they turn on the shower. The bathroom is beautiful, with gold taps and elegant marble swirls in the tub, but I can’t enjoy it. If he’s telling the truth, I ran for help—and ran into the arms of four men in an SUV who were only too willing to pull me inside. Did they say anything? Did they look like criminals?

That’s a dumb question. When Toby isn’t being the creature from everyone’s nightmares, he looks normal enough.

“There are towels in the closet. You want fresh clothes in there, or should I leave ‘em in your room?” Toby calls through the door.

“Are they the clothes of your last victim? Are they always my size?” I shout back. They say serial killers have a type. I wonder how many other “Mollys” there were before me.

Why do I poke the undead bear? Because I’m stupid, that’s why. Sometimes the fighting spirit wins when it shouldn’t.

But he hasn’t actually... hurt me. Even his little trick of popping me through the window didn’t leave me with a single cut or bruise.

“They’re for you. The closet in your room is full of things in your size. I’ll... I’ll leave a bathrobe on the doorknob. Yeah, that’s it.”

I risk a peep out through the filmy white shower curtain. He’s gone.

My hand presses the wall of the shower, propping myself up as water courses down my back at the perfect temperature and with the exact pressure I want. The really expensive shampoo and body wash I only get from my mom at Christmastime is resting on the built-in ledge, along with the body brush and loofah I wanted to order last week—but didn’t.

Like someone’s been getting this place ready for me for weeks.

Great. Death is a stalker.

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