Page 19 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
“Why, though? Why carry a talisman to hide your magic? Why pretend not to know who’s possessing your home? Why lie to the person investigating your entire life…?”
They lifted their brows, watching Colin skeptically. “I murdered my husband,” they said, leaning into each syllable. “I had no idea if you were a snake oil salesman, an undercover cop, or the real fuckin’ deal. You showed up at my door, a clean-cut white guy carrying a briefcase, and I’m supposed to pour my fuck-ups at your feet? No, that’s not how I operate.”
“Was sleeping with me a test?” Colin dared.
“No, sleeping with you was selfish,” Bishop snapped. Their flush deepened and they tossed back the rest of their drink.
Colin flopped backward onto the wood floor and heaved an exhausted sigh. He stared at the tippy ceiling, warm and pleasantly numb and too drunk to be angry or heartsick or any of the things he’d felt for the past few days.
“Well, you’re an excellent lover,” he blurted, accidentally, and blinked at the white paint. “And I certainly wouldn’t call youselfish.”
Laughter hiccupped in Bishop’s throat. “I’m not sorry for lying to you.”
“I’m not sorry for fucking you,” Colin said.
Another laugh brightened the dark, chilly house. “Good.”
“I think I know what to do.”
Bishop pushed their toe into the sole of Colin’s foot. “Yeah?”
Colin rested his cheek on the floor and stared at the staircase. A wolf peered through the banister’s bars. Animal eyes glowed, tall ears twitched, but human hands gripped the stairs, long fingers and bent knuckles and trimmed nails. They looked at each other for a long time, or no time at all. Either way, when Colin blinked, Lincoln—Marchosias—was gone.
Chapter seven
“Abox,”Bishopdeadpanned,staring at Colin from the driver’s seat in their truck. Their breath fogged the air trapped inside the cab and their lithe body was wrapped in a thick quilt. “You’re joking, right?”
Colin furrowed his brow. He smoothed his thumb along the rusted hinge and traced the Hebrew etched into the lid.
“A Dybbuk box,” he said, and shot Bishop a tired glare. Last night, he’d fallen asleep on the floor with his back to the fireplace and woke with a blanket draped over him and a sweatshirt bundled under his cheek, nursing an inconvenient headache. Bishop’s kindness hours ago did nothing to quell the annoyance Colin felt right then. He narrowed his eyes. “An empty Dybbuk box, obviously,” he clarified. “Which we’ll use to contain Marchosias.”
“Oh, right. So, we’re trapping Marchosias, a Marquis of Hell, who is definitelynota Dybbuk, inside a Dybbuk box.” They arched an eyebrow. “Great,” they piped. “Awesome. Perfect. Sounds like a foolproof plan.”
“Youhiredme, remember?”
Bishop flared their nostrils and pulled the quilt tighter around their shoulders. “How, then? How do we stuff a demon into a box when it’s attached to someone’s spirit?”
“Integrated,” Colin said, thoughtfully.
“What?”
“Integrated, not attached. An attachment is a non-oppressive bond formed with a deity. Integration is willful possession—submission, more or less.”
They inhaled deeply and flapped their lips on an exhale. “So, Marchosias and Lincoln share a soul…?”
“Not quite. In life, they shared a body. In death, they share…” He paused, staring at the porch over snow clumped on the windshield. WhatdidLincoln and Marchosias share? The body they’d used was gone. All the two of them had left was a tangled, messy soul and an old house. He clenched his jaw, teeth gritted hard. “Well, you’re right,” he said, huffing. “We can’t use the Dybbuk box, because Lincoln isn’t a damn…” He dropped the empty box into his lap and raked both hands through his hair. “…demon.”
Bishop clucked their tongue. “No, he isn’t,” they whispered. “Lincoln bled like the rest of us whether he liked it or not.”
I fill their bones like marrow. Their blood is my blood.
Colin blinked through the bourbon-soaked-fog still clouding his thoughts. He recalled Lincoln's snarling snout growling each word. How the wolf-man had lunged through the mirror and seized his throat. Colin touched the collar-shaped scab ringing his neck, further in healing thanks to Bishop’s spelled salve, and sighed through his nose. He remembered sifting through Bishop’s memories, feeling what they felt, seeing what they’d seen.
“I have an uncomfortable question to ask you," Colin said.
“Of course you do. Shoot, I guess.”
“There was a wine glass on the nightstand the night you killed Lincoln.”
