Page 26 of Corrupt Shadows

“I do have to go, but are you going to be okay? Maybe you should stay at mine until we figure this out?”

I pull her hand between mine and gently squeeze it. “I can’t run from this. Being at your place will only put the both of us in danger. Just work on extracting what you can from Aiden—safely,” I reply, although I’d prefer if she stopped seeing him altogether. But she’s already made it adamantly clear that she won’t.

She nods. “What about the demon? How are you going to find out anything about him?”

A pinch of excitement erupts inside, and I hate it. This shouldn’t be thrilling. “I’m going to lure him closer.”

Warning swims in her dark irises. “Don’t do anything reckless.”

“I won’t,” I promise, then stand. “I will call you tonight.”

“Please be safe,” she says sternly as she stands. “I’m worried.”

“I know.” I lick my lips as the cold air steals the moisture from them. “Thanks for listening and not thinking I’m crazy.”

I turn and walk away after giving her a hug, then tuck Rosa’s rainbow notebook into my purse. It has the words cuntcake colorfully printed on the cover. Inside, we have pages of possible motives of the demon stalking me and what to do about her so-called “date,” Aiden.

I amble from the park alone, walking the frostbitten streets toward the asylum. I hope the demon was listening earlier, when I announced where I’d be.

Burying my hands in my pockets, I glaze my eyes over the skeletal leaves wrapped in icy body bags. The ashen trees reach high above the long winding road in what looks like a rib cage. Their bare branches hang above like contorted bones knotted together. The leaves throughout the rest of town are alive with oranges and reds, but here, like the cemetery I’m close to, everything is dead.

I light a cigarette as I walk, making my way toward the asylum. I don’t want to go back to the apartment yet. Gomez is safer alone. The demon is stalking me, not him. Besides, there are mirrors in the asylum. For a moment, I feel a sense of control. If I do end up having to use my magic against him, at least no one will be around for me to hurt.

But that’s not how I plan on getting his attention.

The thought of the demon and the Order injects fear into my veins, heating me from my core, despite the freezing weather. At least it’s not raining.

I stop outside the wrought-iron gates of the asylum, which creak when a gust of wind whistles up the path. I stare at the broken windows of the tall, gray-bricked building.

Having my memories shamelessly witnessed by the demon last night had done something to my brain. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces—my victims. I never wanted any of them dead. They were people I cared about, and people who felt the same for me. But they got too close. Being in Darkwood was supposed to be my fresh start, a chance at making things right.

Even though that’s something I can never do.

I shake my head, scattering the thoughts threatening to pull me back into the grip of depression and self-loathing. I need a distraction. The demon in the mirror haunts my mind as I walk. As much as he terrifies me, I can’t stop thinking about him pressed up against me.

I push through the gates, the broken chain swinging from when it was once locked. Slowly, I make my way up the weathered path I normally take with Jay, but this time, I’m alone.

TWELVE

Lorcan

I track Evie in her realm through a mirror attached to the gate at the entrance of her favorite haunt, the asylum. I’ve never understood the purpose of these useless mirrors. You can hardly see anything in them, and what you can see is distorted by the rounded shape.

The gargantuan double doors open a crack as Evie tugs on the handles and slips under the chains that wrap around them and into the dark expanse of the building. I stride forward, excitement thrumming through my body. I don’t bother sneaking under the chains as Evie did. Instead, I hold the chains between my hands and jerk sharply outward. Tendrils of my shadows push the doors open, and a resounding crack ricochets when they smack against the walls.

Dust and mildew assault my nostrils the farther I get into the building. It doesn’t take me long to locate Evie. I turn my head to the side and listen to her distant footsteps on the floor above me. Light streams in from the ragged frame where a window used to be. The dust motes highlighted by the beams of light become glittering particles as my movement through the room disturbs their rest.

The asylum is a place of beauty. It’s so deliciously macabre.

I lengthen my strides to catch up to my little witch. I stop by the stairs and place my hand on the splintered handrail, causing flakes of paint drift to the floor. My gaze travels up the staircase to the rotting roof. Light seeps through the caved patches on the ceiling. Ominous creaks and groans emanate from the abused wood of the stairs as I move up to the second floor.

Darkwood Asylum takes on a sinister look in the Shadow Realm; where there are patches of light in the witch’s view, there are deepening shadows in mine. Ash floats around me, and the silence is deafening. The ghosts within these walls exist on a plane that is not fully anchored to one realm. It blurs between the two, constantly shifting. The spirits appear to me the same as they do to humans.

The most fucked-up thing of it all is that the idea of mental institutions—if they can be called that—were once a beacon of hope for those suffering mental episodes. Sadly, they turned into breeding grounds for the sick and depraved. Of the doctors, nurses, and other employees who made their living in these establishments, the majority were serial killers, murderers, or rapists. What better place to make one’s perversions a reality than on people incapable of stopping or voicing their displeasure at the atrocities being done to them? My morbid fascination withers with the reminder.

I take in my surroundings further, unease settling in my gut. Icy claws of a memory long repressed threatens to take me under. This room reminds me of my childhood. My mild panic eclipses with rage so potent, the edge of my vision blackens and my fisted hands tremble.

These walls would tell stories of sorrow if they could speak.

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