Page 14 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
“Way back to what?”
“To God, to faith, to believing in something bigger than myself. That’s what this is, obviously. Cleaning houses, cleaning people.” He resisted the urge to nip Bishop’s finger when they brushed their thumb across his lip. Heat burned low in his abdomen, squeezing tightly, churning and grinding.
“What made you irredeemable, exorcist? Sex out of wedlock?” Bishop teased, theclickat the end ofwedlockpopping in their mouth.
“Something like that,” he said.Nothing like that.“What happened to Lincoln?”
Bishop rolled onto their back and turned their eyes to the ceiling. “Have you ever met someone who was afraid to die?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“I’ll rephrase.” They huffed out a sad laugh. “Have you ever met someone who wanted to be immortal?”
“I’m Catholic,” Colin said, matter-of-factly.
“Right.” They sighed. “Well, Lincoln wasn’t, but he was desperate to find eternity. He wanted to steal power, cheat death, free himself from earthly chains—whatever—and I didn’t take him seriously. I mean, how could I?” They lifted their arms and dropped them beside their head. “But I found him cutting sigils into his thigh. Blood all over the bathroom, candlewax on the bed, wine spilled in the sink, and I knew right then,right then, I’d lost him. What the hell do you say to the person who’s shared a house with you, built a whole goddamn life with you, and still managed to slip away?”
“You say goodbye,” Colin whispered. He remembered being young, searching for purpose and hope, and finding the dead instead. Hunting for angels in empty places, praying to a God who didn’t listen. Making mistakes. Ending a life.
They closed their eyes. “I put a knife in his chest.”
Chills scaled Colin’s arms.
Bishop continued. “Tried to stop whatever spell he’d started and bound him to the house, I guess. Or to me. Maybe I didn’t bind him to anything, I don’t know. But he’s here—Lincoln, Marchosias, whoever he is now—and I don’t… Ican’tget rid of him.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Colin asked.
Bishop turned to look at him. “Does it matter?”
Colin heard the house take a breath. He kissed Bishop on the mouth, caged them against the bed and put his lips to their throat, the underside of their breast, below their bellybutton, and scooped his arms around their thighs. “You said a few hours, right?”
Their breath hitched, body arcing into Colin’s hands. “At least, yeah,” they said.
Lying, again.
Colin didn’t mind.Let him see us, then, he thought, and wrung pleasure from Bishop’s tired, beautiful body.Let him watch.
Chapter six
Morningricochetedthroughthefrosted window, stained gray by a surprise storm. Snow flurries twirled through the air in the driveway, and warblers hunkered down in the naked tree in the yard. Colin glanced at the empty place beside him, touched two fingers to the dent in the pillow, and thought of Bishop’s calf resting on his shoulder. Their bodies connected, rocking together in the witching hours.
He stripped the bedsheets and tossed them in the laundry basket.Don’t get attached.Knuckled at his eyes. Grabbed a fresh set of clothes and walked to the bathroom.
He’d had his fair share of devastating romantic endeavors, but he’d never fallen into bed with a client before. Tipping his jaw, he stared at the half-moon bitemark on his shoulder. Bishop had certainly challenged his rules of engagement. Shattered them, really.
Colin raked his fingers through his mussed hair and scrubbed his palm over the buzzed area around his ears. Before he could reach for his toothbrush, the mirror rattled. He paused, hand hovering over the sink, and searched the reflection for abnormalities. There was nothing.
He hummed and rested his fingers on the glass. The name Bishop had used last night stayed fixed in the front of his mind.Marchosias. Wolf demon. Hell hound. The creature Lincoln had channeled or offered residency to—someone, somethingdeadly and wicked. He mouthed the name to his reflection and watched his eyes split, grow, concave, his face elongate, his teeth sharpen.
Lincoln Stone, whatever he’d become, rested his human fingertips against the backside of the mirror, melding together where Colin’s corporeal form and Lincoln’s ghostly presence met on the glass. Lincoln’s feral face sprouted from the neatly folded collar on his suit shirt. Stoic and handsome, he gazed at Colin, assessing the exorcist with slow flicks of his canine eyes.
“You’re brave,” Lincoln said. Pointed teeth folded over his bottom lip. He didn’t growl or snarl, but when Colin tilted his head, he followed the movement. “Their heart is a beartrap.”
“I haven’t seen their heart,” Colin said. The half-truth slid past his lips like the beginning of a Hail Mary.
“Even priests lie.”
“Are you Lincoln or are you Marchosias?”
