Page 20 of Haunted Hearts

The tears begin to slow, and the tension eases from my body. Sniffling, I let go and step back. I can’t look him in the eye now that I’ve just snotted and cried all over him. I hope he has another shirt nearby.

“Sorry,” I mutter, looking around the large hallway rather than at him.

A warm hand slides under my chin and forces my head to turn and look up. As I meet his deep gaze, he smiles at me.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “You’ve gone through a lot. If you need to cry, you can do so in my arms. I promise I’ll hold you for as long as you need and dry your tears whenever they fall.”

My cheeks grow warm, and my mouth dries at his words.

“You’re practically a stranger,” I object, my voice raspy from sobbing. “I shouldn’t have just thrown myself at you.”

My reaper chuckles. It’s a rich, smoothing sound that warms me from the inside out.

“I don’t know about ‘stranger’. I feel like I know you quite well after years of watching you, but how about I introduce myself properly?” He lets go of my face and steps back to give me some room. “My name is Brock Nightshade, reaper from the Realm of the Dead, and your stalker from afar.”

I can’t help it, I giggle.

“I don’t know if stalkers usually admit so proudly that they’re stalkers, but I like it.” As I talk, Brock reaches up and wipes away the salty wet trails on my cheeks, still lingering after my tears. I’m sure he can feel how my skin grows hotter under his touch. “Hi Brock, I’m Willow Harvest. It’s nice to finally be able to talk to you.”

Brock’s smile fades. “While I agree, I do wish this was under more natural circumstances.”

My smile vanishes.

Natural circumstances? I want to scoff. I’ve been running ever since I started helping spirits cross over. My power was a beacon for trouble. Covens, packs, and everything in between, including a corrupted Brotherhood, was after me while I was alive. There was, and still is, nothing natural about me. My entire existence is a fluke. So why would my death be natural?

But I suppose I could have pushed off my demise by not charging headfirst into Everlast, overly confident in my ability to take the Brotherhood down. I hadn’t expected their desire to capture—not kill—me, nor did I consider how hard it would be to fight off enemies coming from two different directions. Dealing with the Ghost BrotherhoodandFulton together was clearly too much for me.

In the end, the bad guys won.

The ice-cold panic in my veins thaws a bit as small ember of anger flares to life at the injustice of it all.

It fades as swiftly as it comes. I’m too tired and overwhelmed to hold onto it at the moment.

“I should have been more careful.” I glance back at the doors I’d come through. Viktor, Theo, Jonah, and Kwil… they’re all here, because of me in some way or another. I don’t know the whole story, or how they got here, but I know it all comes back to me. “I did this to us.”

A vein in Brock’s temple bulges as he looks away. He takes a deep, steadying breath before he turns back to face me. As a soft, small smile pulls at his lips, Brock reaches out and takes my hand. Naturally, our fingers weave together.

“None of this, absolutelynoneof it, was your fault,” he tells me. I open my mouth to object, but Brock shakes his head as an emotion I can’t quite name flickers in his eyes. “Trust me, from what Jonah has told me and what I’ve gathered over the past few days about the events that brought you to the Realm of the Dead, your hands are clean, Willow.”

I close my mouth. If he’s getting his information from Jonah, I have a feeling a lot of it may be a bit biased. But I don’t want to argue. Not right now. I simply don’t have the energy. Looking around, I take in the tall ceilings and wide hallway, lined with a thick red runner and large stained-glass panes that depict nature scenes.

Are we in a castle? Because thisdefinitelyfeels like a castle that a king in the 12thcentury would have lived in.

“Where are we now? Is this your place?”

Brock chuckles and it causes his expression to soften. The vein in his head disappears. “No, this isn’t my home. It’syours, or more specifically, this is yourfather’sresidence.”

“You met my dad?” I thought I remembered my dad’s voice at one point.

Brock pretends to shudder, his face twisting in horror, “Yeah, and let me be the first to tell you, he’s terrifying and magnificent.”

His response drags a weary giggle from me.

“Where is he?” I look past Brock, down the hall. If Dad’s around somewhere, he’ll be able to answer all my questions.

“He’s been coming and going a lot. Turns out, Death is pretty busy. But when he’s here, he’s been checking on you often. He and your friends have been working hard to keep you stable.”

I ignore, for the moment, the title he’s given the others. They are so much more than ‘friends’. My mind registers something more disconcerting than that.

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