Page 15 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
A hand shot through the mirror and seized Colin by the throat. Lincoln pulled his muzzle into a fierce growl. Tightened his grip and fit his thumb beneath Colin’s sloped jaw. “Keep our names out of your mouth.”
“Ah,” Colin wheezed, standing on his tiptoes, palms flattened on the counter to stay steady. “So, we have an integration, then.Daimonizomai.”
“Wehave nothing,” Lincoln snarled.
“You know that isn’t…” He strained against the unforgiving hold on his neck. “Exactly true.”
“Ihave Bishop Martínez,” Lincoln said, leaning until his snout rippled through the mirror. Hot breath gusted Colin’s chin. “I live in them. I fill their bones like marrow. Their blood is my blood. You’ll never clean this house, exorcist.”
Colin gritted his teeth. He reached for the dormant power winding beneath black ink. “Michael, protector, Saint in the Armory, shackle this soul. Take this ruined spirit and cast it into eternal flame,” he choked out, and wrenched away from Lincoln, snatching the wolf-man’s wrist in a firm grip. “Arrest your fallen brother and deliver him back to the darkness—”
“Yes,” Lincoln hissed, and craned toward Colin. “Spread your wings, brother. Fly to me.”
Panic spiked through Colin’s stomach. He tried to dodge, but Lincoln shot his hand out and gripped Colin’s throat again, squeezing hard. This time, heat unfurled. Bit and blistered and boiled. Colin gasped, fumbling on the counter until his hand hit round beads tucked inside his toiletries bag. Pain ratcheted, blooming in patches where Lincoln’s fingers cut grooves into his flesh. Colin fumbled with his rosary and slammed the crucifix against Lincoln’s furry forehead, hardly inching past the mirror’s distorted surface.
“Heavenly Father, hear me, your servant,” Colin croaked.
Floorboards squeaked in the hall.
“Colin? It’s, like, ten-thirty. You up?” Bishop called, voice sweet and curious. Their hand met the doorframe and a gasp tore through the bathroom. “Lincoln!” They crashed into the small space and clawed at Lincoln’s arm. Their pupils elongated, eyes glowing bright and brutal. “Enough!”
The distraction leant Colin a breath. “I adjure thee, demon,” he said, and funneled the energy humming in his runes toward the crucifix.
Lincoln lurched backward. He opened his jaws and a thousand voices poured out, screaming, howling, yelping, before he disappeared, blinking out of existence.
Colin caught himself on the sink. “Jesus,” he seethed. He reached for his throat but hesitated, fingertips quivering above scorched skin. His reflection stared back at him, cheeks blotchy with exertion, neck marred by a hand-shaped burn.
“Fucking… hell,” Bishop whispered, taking Colin by the elbow. “C’mon, I’ll make a salve.”
“Your ex-husband is a menace,” Colin said. He stumbled after Bishop, trailing them through the hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“I’m aware.” Bishop set their hands on his shoulders and leaned him against the table. “Sit.”
“Was that a revenge throttle or has he always been this brutal?”
“He can be a little possessive,” Bishop mumbled. They banged around in the kitchen, collecting palm-sized mason jars filled with herbs, gelatinous substances, and powders. A mortar and pestle clacked on the counter, and they went to work grinding seeds, scraping aloe leaf, and dumping raw honey into the stone bowl.
“I’ll have you know, last night wasn’tmyidea.” Colin aimed each word at the ceiling.
“Ay, Dios mío, don’t taunt him,” they bit out, angling their mouth over their shoulder.
Colin winced, tempting a light touch to his neck. The skin was singed and raw, warped, and reshaped. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on something,anythingelse, but the longer he sat there, the more intense the pain became. “Tell me about your eyes,” he said.
“What about them?”
“They’re quite cat-like when you’re magically charged.”
“Magically charged,” they parroted, sounding out each syllable. “Apparently, my family was born from the Smoking Mirror. Tezcatlipoca, the Aztec God who governs the night sky, routinely wears jaguar skin on his hunts. According to my abuela, we’re blessed by him.”
“Peculiar,” Colin said, and opened his eyes.
Bishop shuffled across the kitchen, cradling the mortar in one hand, and dipped their fingers into the bowl, collecting a glob of freshly churned salve. “Is it?”
“Not you—the circumstances,” he clarified. “I’m rather skilled when it comes to sniffing out power, yet I didn’t sense you. Your house? Yes. Lincoln? Yes. But not you.”
Their cool, sticky fingers met his throat, laying soothing balm onto his wound. Colin winced. Stayed still. Sighed, relieved, when the sting started to subside. They set the mortar down, dug in the front pocket of their blue jeans and pulled out a nickel-sized talisman. “I keep myself cloaked.”
“A little ward,” Colin said, humming softly. “I should’ve known.”
