Page 34 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
Shock flashed across Marchosias’s crinkled muzzle. His eyes darted back and forth, taking in Colin Hart, who had surrendered to the High Court, who had been filled with divinity, and said, “Brother,” like a curse, “How I have searched for you.”
A sleek, heavy handle pressed against Colin’s palm. He gripped the smooth leather, knew the weight of another hand resting atop his, and thrust the weapon forward. A blade forged from starlight punched through the demon’s stomach—Michael’s sword, a celestial reckoning—and time warped. Somewhere nearby, Bishop said his name, and somewhere distant, somewhere gone, Isabelle called to him. Marchosias surged, still speared on Michael’s sword, and snatched Colin’s face. The demon’s oversized hand and extra knuckles gripped his jaw, fingers curving over his cheeks and digging into his temples.
“You will be hunted, Colin Hart,” Marchosias spat.
Colin twisted the sword. Bone cracked and bent. A chorus of different voices lashed his lips. “You are guilty, Marchosias. Come and face your judgement.”
Cosmic rope, shining white and silver, twined around Marchosias’s throat, cuffed his ankles and wrists, and bound his wings. He thrashed against the makeshift cage. Ghoulish howls shook beams and baseboards, but despite his resistance, the Marquis of Hell was finally apprehended. Marchosias belched smoke and ash, glowing cinders rained from his snarling jaws, and he snapped his teeth at Colin before his body was pulled beneath the concrete. He clawed at the ground, leaving black welts across the floor in front of Colin’s shoes, then he disappeared. The sound of him faded, and the smoke cleared, and Colin Hart felt his knees begin to buckle.
“Colin!”
Light ebbed at the corner of his vision. He turned toward Bishop, but before he could say a word—are you all right, are you hurt, come here, Bishop—consciousness snapped in half, leaving him swimming through blackness as he fell.
Chapter twelve
Whatthehellareyou doing here?
It’s been five hours. Also, there’s whole ass corpse in your basement—sick shit, man. What’s wrong with him?
He passed out—hey, wait!
Give it a rest, brujo. Okay, holy man, time to wake up—
Colin jolted awake. A pungent, acrid smell filled his nostrils and he jerked backward, fumbling to catch himself on his palms. He blinked. Gunnhild sat on her haunches between his legs, cleaning her face with her paws. He was thoughtless for a long moment. Empty except for the woozy feeling tipping around inside his skull.
Tehlor Nilsen tied a ribbon around a pouch of ammonia, mint, and lavender. “Welcome back,” she said, and nudged her chin toward Lincoln’s slouching corpse. “Who’s that?”
“Give him a second,” Bishop said. They crawled toward him and paused at his shins, tilting their head to assess his face, shoulders, chest, waist, face again. “You okay?”
My face. He mindlessly reached for the throbbing in his cheek and flinched. His fingertips came away sticky-red.
“My face,” he said, repeating the first coherent thought that’d manifested. “I’m… I’m fine, I think. I just…” He swam through mind-fog, clipping the edge of recent memories—strength, Marchosias, angel-speak, sinking inside himself, Isabelle’s voice, Bishop calling his name, illicit power—and scratched Gunnhild between her ears with his unbloodied index finger. “It’s quiet,” he said, finally, and sighed, shifting his attention to Tehlor. “I didn’t know people still used smelling salts.”
“And I didn’t know priests played Weekend at Bernie’s with legitimate dead bodies,” she said, barking out a laugh. Her rosy lips split into a grin. “Scratch that. Isuspected; I just didn’t actually believe it. Did you handle whatever mess was shackin’ up in here?”
“I believe so,” Colin said.
Bishop inched closer. “We need to clean that,” they said, gesturing to his mangled cheek. They glanced at Tehlor over their shoulder. “How’d you even get inside…?”
She arched a tapered brow and didn’t answer.
“What time is it?” Colin asked.
“Late,” Bishop said.
Tehlor snorted. “Almost four in the morning. Technically, early. Should I check on you two in another five hours? Make sure you’re not passed out on the floor? Starting fights with baby deities? Falling prey to savvy ghosts?”
Colin hardly had the energy to frown.
Bishop rolled their eyes. “How ‘bout I call you if we need you,” they said, sarcastically, and offered a thin smile. “But right now, I should fix his fuckin’ face, okay?”
“Damn, okay,” Tehlor said, scoffing. She extended her hand for Gunnhild and stood. Her upturned eyes transferred from Bishop to Colin. She winked. Of course, she did. “Good luck—bet that’ll leave a badass scar.”
“Wonderful,” he murmured.
Tehlor offered a two-fingered wave. Her heeled boots clopped the staircase, footsteps hammering the floor as she crossed the house. The front door opened, closed.
Crisp, easy silence settled around them. Colin listened for held breath. Waited for energy to spike, temperature to drop, a voice to whisper from the shadow, but nothing moved. The house rested, finally. Gentled and relented and slackened. Colin stared at Bishop, at their buzzed head and strong nose, at their worried eyes and parted lips. Before he could lean forward and kiss them, they took his chin between their fingers and turned his head, leaning in to look at his wound.
