Page 129 of Live To Tell

He smiles. “I'm saying, keep away from impaling instruments.”

“We've suffered enough impaling in recent days,” I say.

Grayson's fingers trace my face, and he watches as they stroke my cheek. “Be careful, Violet.”

Before I can pull away, he presses a hand against the back of my head and kisses me in a way that makes Leif clear his throat. Grayson’s fingers linger as he speaks to Leif. “Where do we hide?”

“This way.”

As the pair meld into the evening, me and Rowan edge around the house, keeping to the shadows too. We edge through the broken entrance and across the torn floor towards the hole in the ceiling. I nimbly leap up and reach down to help Rowan through.

“If he's there and chained, what do we do? Call the police?” Rowan whispers as he stands and brushes away the dust.

“I don’t trust humans. They might allow shifter interference if they do. This isn’t a human matter. We could take him somewhere until Dorian arrives and let Ethan take over, with the elders?” I suggest.

“Have you seen the size of Trent? Hardly easy to hide. And where do you suggest? Your room? Holly would freak out.” His voice drops to a whisper as I push at the small door to the attic. “Has Dorian replied to your message yet?”

“No. I’ve told Dorian that if we find anything, I’ll meet him in the least public place the runes can transport him too,” I say.

“And you told him we found Viktor and Trent.”

“Yes.”

“Send another message,” he hisses after me as I guide myself up the steps into the attic. “Better still, call him.”

My sight immediately sharpens on the undead shifter lying on the bed, hands manacled either side by the chains, ankles cuffed to the frame. Trent’s completely still and quiet. First, I panic he’s dead dead, and secondly I’m somewhat relived that he's here and we could possibly help.

Sneaking over, I look down at Trent. He's unconscious but not in sleep—the construct barely breathing. Rowan climbs the steps behind, as silently as possible, but uncomfortably loudly to me.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes out as he emerges into the attic. “Is he...?”

“Deader than before?” I lean over and touch Trent’s forehead, but he doesn't move the tiniest of muscles. “Viktor likely spelled Trent into inaction until he wants his construct’s 'help'.”

“And not help with installing wiring,” mutters Rowan.

Rowan hasn't conjured a witch light, but the moonlight that was unhelpful outdoors now shines through the small window positioned above us onto a scene clearly horrifying Rowan.

“Dorian has to listen now,” I say.

“I still think we should call the police,” he mumbles. “Viktor isn't dumb enough to leave Trent like this when he knows you're around. He'll be back.”

“Then find Leif and Grayson.” I take a walk around the attic, re-examining the space for other objects in case Viktor left something else in the room.

Sending a quick text to Leif, Rowan heads back down the stairs. I should share his horror that Viktor did this to Trent, but that isn't the worst the witch has done to the guy. I’m faced with another confronting example of the spell. Right now, necromancy is less of a magic I'm proud to possess and more a disgust that I've something in common with Viktor.

My eyes go to Trent’s torn shirt and my heart skips. A familiar rune adorns Trent's chest. If that’s Blackwood, I’ve more proof Viktor’s connected. Has his life ended like the last victims? No—blood whooshes through his veins, slowly, as a shifters does, and there're no other visible injuries.

I quickly kneel. Apart from the runic carving, his chest is intact, and I gently turn Trent's head to one side, and then the other. Again, nothing. The edges of the rune bleed from incisions deep enough to show the shapes beneath the blood oozing around. I've seen the photos from Wesley's and Rory's investigation files, and I'm looking at exactly the same rune.

Footsteps sound on the steps again as Rowan returns. “Couldn't you find them?” I ask when I don’t hear voices.

But even before he emerges, in a stuttering heartbeat, I know Rowan isn’t climbing the stairs.

Viktor.

He pauses and gasps. “Violet Blackwood, what have you done?”

“Where's Rowan?” I ask sharply, looking behind him.

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