Page 11 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
Bishop snared him in an angry glare. “Because I don’t,” they said, then grabbed the box from the backseat, and slammed the driver’s side door, rattling the rearview mirror.
The passenger visor came loose. Colin startled, sighing through his nose as a polaroid fluttered onto his lap. He pinched it by the white corner and studied the faded image. Bishop, laughing. Eyes creased, shoulders loose, head tipped to accommodate another mouth. Lidded eyes stared back at them, paired with a soft smile, and fingers curled beneath their chin. Knuckle ringed in gold. Lips close.
Colin flipped the photo over, tracing words written in cursive with his fingertip:Our night. Rehearsal dinner.
Colin stopped in the entryway and listened to the door swing shut at his back.
Fear sometimes happened all at once—seeping into his skeleton, rushing fast in his veins—and sometimes it happened slowly. A spear sinking through the soles of his feet, sliding behind his kneecaps, burrowing into his stomach. That slow fear radiated through him, thickening as he glanced from the camera balancing on the base of the banister to the lenses plucked from their stands in the living room and perched on the couch. Recording devices ripped from the walls and arranged in a pyramid in the center of the hallway. Bishop stood in the archway leading to the kitchen, arms folded across their chest, turned away from the living room.
On every camera lens, a hand-painted red eye stared outward, as if placed by a fingertip. Eyes, everywhere. Unblinking and purposeful. A hand-drawn gaze created for a sightless house.
Colin reminded himself to breathe. “Is there anything in the kitchen?”
Bishop tipped their head, glancing over their shoulder. “Yeah, you should probably take a look.”
He walked around the couch and touched the place between Bishop’s shoulder blades, stepping around them. “Interesting…” Each syllable lingered. He crossed the kitchen and circled the table, studying two upturned crystal wine glasses, their narrow necks and spherical bases pointed toward the ceiling, their goblet mouths pressed to the wood, caging two eyes—one pupil shaped like a star, the other shaped like a scythe.
“I hadn’t unpacked those,” Bishop said. They cleared their throat, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. “They were wedding gifts. Handmade in Tuscany, I guess. Came with a fancy cabernet, but we just…” They paused, laughing under their breath. “We drank it straight from the bottle.”
Colin tapped the base of a glass. “Your husband—”
“Ex-husband.”
“Your ex-husband,” Colin rectified, nodding carefully. “What happened?”
The roof pulled like a spine, crowding the old house into a small, significant space. Hardly hollow, blatantly watched, waiting for a confession. Everything felt contained. Taut and tightened, a fist ready to strike. Colin took each wine glass by the stem and flipped them upright.
“We grew apart,” Bishop said. They took long strides across the kitchen and plucked the wine glasses off the table, placing them into the sink. Fished in the bottom cabinets, grabbed a dish towel, sprayed organic cleaner on the table, and scrubbed the paint or blood or ink away. “He wanted things I didn’t; I wanted things he didn’t. In the end, wanting each other wasn’t enough.”
“Will you tell me his name?” Colin asked.
Bishop stilled like a frightened animal. Their knuckles paled around the cedar-scented cleaning spray. “Lincoln,” they said, hardly above a whisper, and cleared the emotion from their throat. “Lincoln Stone.”
The house exhaled, trembling like an unsteady wing.
A door on the second story slammed. Heavy feet hit the staircase. Wind rushed, careening through the house, and gusted against Colin, twirling in the curtains, dying on a gasping, forceful breath. The sound echoed, shaking and shattering, and for a moment, Bishop’s face crumbled. Their chin dimpled and their eyes watered, and Colin saw their heartbreak hemorrhage like a split vein.
“Bishop,” he said, gently, like he would to a bird. “Was that—”
“I can’t,” they said, swatting at their damp cheek and brushing past Colin. A rushed‘shit’echoed in the hall, followed by something clattering on the floor, then stairs creaking under their feet. Seconds later, another door slammed upstairs.
Colin heaved a sigh and turned his gaze to the smooth ceiling. He held his hands out, palms open.
“Quite a show,” he mumbled, shifting his jaw back and forth. “But despite the cameras and Bishop and whatever roots you’ve grown inside them, I’ve been hired to clean, and Iwilltear you out of this house.”
The air turned. Fine hair on the back of Colin’s neck stood on end, and a low, purring growl coasted into the space behind him. He felt the presence manifest. Icy energy. Chaotic, jittery vibrations. Predatory. Prideful. Completely, unerringly lovesick. He glanced at the transparent reflection on the glass slider.
“Hello,” Colin said.
The wolf-headed creature snarled. “Get out, priest.”
“Fortunately, I’m not a priest.”
“You’re not welcome here.”
“Tell that to Bishop,” he whispered, and turned on his heels, mouth open to speak. He exhaled, irritated, when he faced nothing but the absent air and the door leading to the basement, cracked and dark, on the other side of the room.
Chapter five
