The Echoed Realm Page 6

  Mason felt his brows knotting. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Hannah sighed. “She’s got a sixth sense about things.”

  Mason sat up and reached for his notepad. “Are you suggesting she’s psychic?”

  “No, not quite.” There was a pause, followed by the sound of pasta or rice being dumped into a pot. “It’s more like she’s got her finger on everyone’s pulse. She knows what’s going on beneath the surface, and it comes at the expense of her own mental health.”

  Mason traced over the question mark he’d drawn on the blank page. “I’m sorry if this is a bit intrusive, but do you believe in the Dreamwalker?”

  Hannah’s breath drew in. “Yes. I know it sounds stupid, but how could I not after everything that’s happened in Black Hollow?”

  “It doesn’t sound stupid,” Mason murmured. “I’m just curious if you think Miya was really possessed by her.”

  “Honestly,” Hannah mused, “it’s hard to say who would possess who.”

  Mason knew the truth—that Miya was the Dreamwalker. He’d seen it with his own eyes, but he was curious if Miya’s friends knew her better than her family seemed to. As far as Mason could tell, Miya was lucky; her best friend knew her quite well.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me, Hannah? Anything at all.”

  “Well, she looked pretty good when I saw her,” Hannah scoffed. “She could have called, but I’m sure she has her reasons for staying away.”

  “You’re not concerned?”

  “No.” Another pause. “New York City is…a haunted place. St. Paul’s Chapel, Mulberry Street, Poe’s residence while he wrote The Raven—there’s no shortage of weird stuff here. If Miya’s somehow tangled up with the Dreamwalker, I guess it makes sense she’d be visiting places that have a history. Maybe it’s her way of making sense of what’s happening to her, without Black Hollow’s baggage.”

  Mason glanced up at the map. Hannah wasn’t wrong. Canada’s neighbour to the south was quite superstitious. There was no shortage of local news reports, blogs, and ghost hunting documentaries that detailed hauntings and demonic possessions, but Mason had no way of figuring out if Miya was involved in any of them. His eyes trailed over New York State, stopping on one notorious name from Long Island: Amityville.

  Perhaps he could narrow the search.

  “Thank you so much for your insight,” he said, hurriedly bringing the call to a close when an idea clobbered him over the head.

  After exchanging goodbyes, Mason jumped to his feet, dove into his chair, and skidded to his desk. Haunted houses were a dime a dozen, but if he found the worst ones in recent memory, maybe he’d have a hope of catching Miya’s trail.

  Mason browsed dozens of websites, yet few cases seemed dire enough to warrant a visit from the Dreamwalker. He needed something big that flew under the radar of popular media—something like Black Hollow.

  There was consistent mention of two states: West Virginia and Louisiana. Since West Virginia was closer to New York, Mason began his dig there, and he didn’t have to dig deep.

  Dawn Macintosh accuses realtor of failing to disclose haunting in under-priced Summersville home.

  Mason skimmed the article, his interest piqued.

  After spending thousands to hire popular ghost hunting team, Ghostventures, Summersville resident claims that the malevolent forces terrorizing her home only grew stronger. Shunned by neighbours and turned away by her local pastor, a desperate Mrs. Macintosh reached out to a specialist in an undisclosed practice, which she described as “a kind of witchcraft.” The unnamed witch allegedly worked free of charge to cleanse Mrs. Macintosh’s home. Mrs. Macintosh reports that the intervention was successful, but she has not provided the name of the specialist she contracted, describing her as a young woman who claimed to be “something like a witch.”

  Mason opened a new tab and searched witches for hire in West Virginia, but he found nothing that matched Dawn Macintosh’s description. The fact that Mrs. Macintosh herself appeared dodgy about the details in her interview with the journalist only aggravated Mason’s suspicion that the woman in question—something like a witch—was the best lead he had. The chances were minuscule, but something in him burned to know if his hunch was right. Besides, why would anyone work for free unless they had no use for the money?

  Mason scratched at his arm, nails digging into the prickling flesh. The itch was somewhere beneath the skin, somewhere close to the bone.

  If only he had a way of knowing.

  The itch sharpened into a sting, and Mason’s fingertips turned slick with something moist. He’d drawn blood from the inside of his forearm, right next to the peculiar black crescent that’d appeared after Miya’s parents visited.

  He’d tried ignoring it, foolishly hoping it would disappear. But there it was, a mark that hadn’t been there before.

  The voice—wasn’t there a voice?

  If you seek truth, I shall give it.

  Mason jolted upright, spinning his chair so fast one of the wheels came loose.

  “Who’s there!” His voice cracked as his eyes darted around the empty room.

  A servant, the voice answered.

  Mason didn’t trust it, but he knew better than to disbelieve.

  “Am I—”

  You are not hallucinating. The voice was gentle, reassuring. Remember, you resolved to discard such rationalizations.

  Mason squeezed his eyes shut. He hated to admit it, but the thing speaking to him was right. No one in his family had a history of psychosis, and aside from his stint in Black Hollow, Mason’s perceptions had never been medically suspect. He’d concluded that his experiences in Black Hollow were real—every last one of them.

  Was it farfetched that he’d again be plagued by mysterious voices and otherworldly truths the moment he resolved to search for Miya—the Dreamwalker and the missing girl all in one?

  No, it wasn’t.

  “How can I trust you?” Mason asked shakily. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed his office.

  I do not ask for your trust, the voice replied. I promise only truth.

  “That’s vague,” Mason countered.

  The voice was silent for a moment, as though considering Mason’s unease.

  I can tell no lies, it said at last. Whatever question you have is mine to answer.

  How Mason wished he had Ama with him. She’d know what to do; she always did, but he had no way of beseeching her advice.

  He would have to brave the storm alone.

  “All right,” Mason huffed, glancing down at the mark on his arm. The wound was starting to scab, the burning itch fading to a tingle. “Who helped Dawn Macintosh cleanse her home?”

  She is the one you seek.

  Mason’s heart pummelled the inside of his chest. His instincts were right. “Is she still in Summersville?”

  No.

  “Then where is she?” he demanded.

  I do not know.

  “I thought you knew everything,” Mason muttered, disgruntled.

  I never claimed that. Only that your questions were mine to answer truthfully.

  “Why don’t you know the answer to this specific question?” he interrogated.

  Because your target is not human. She is a living god. Gods go where they please, sometimes without a trace. This one is chaos; she is not bound by the laws of your reality. She transcends them.

  Defeated, Mason leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “How do I find her then?”

  There was a lull in the air before the voice spoke.

  Your god was born of violence, and to violence she will return.

  Mason’s eyes shot open. Of course. God or no, all people were creatures of habit. They were driven towards the familiar, to the patterns they’d learned in life—or in Miya’s case, throughout multiple lifetimes.

  Gavran had told him repeatedly. Mason could still see those eerie, depthless eyes and that wide, cutting grin, sharper than a knife.
<
br />   Everything beats in cycles.

  7

  KAI

  Kai had a singular purpose when he pulled Miya from The Mangy Spade. His eyes flickered across the rust-coloured wall until he caught a narrow lane stretching behind one of the buildings. The hunger coiled inside him, urgency rising, and when he couldn’t stave it off any longer, he snatched Miya’s hand and led her into the dark.

  The bone-coloured moon hung heavy in the sky; it was past nine, and there was no one for miles. Even if there was, Kai didn’t really give a damn. Want burned in the pit of his stomach and crawled up his ribs where his heart released a jostling thud.

  He pushed Miya to the wall and caught her lips between his teeth, his hands already at her hips. Her gasp was like music—sweet and sharp as she grabbed his wrist and guided his hand between her thighs. A heartbeat later, she kicked her pant leg free and yanked at his belt.

  Fucking was better in the physical world. It felt more real—the smell of her skin, the taste of her sweat, her breath ringing clearer in his ear. Even the orgasms were better. His senses buzzed with life when he felt her coming, her thighs clenched around him as she muffled a cry against his shoulder and released a long, shuddering breath.

  In the dreamscape, it was different—like some vital piece of him was missing.

  When her feet met the ground, she groped for her jeans, splayed over the cobblestones, and tumbled forward against his chest. He wrapped both arms around her, enjoying the warmth of her body before she pulled away and smiled.

  “Couldn’t wait until we got a hotel room, huh?” Her face was still flushed as she wiped the moisture from her brow.

  Kai thumbed the scratch marks on his abdomen where she’d clawed at him beneath his shirt. “More fun this way.”

  Miya pointed at his cargo pants as he zipped up the fly and re-fastened his belt. “But those could have come all the way off if we’d waited.”

  Kai shrugged, unconcerned, then walked over and slung an arm around her shoulders. They meandered from the narrow lane, bricks scraping his shoulder as they tottered clumsily with limbs like soft rubber. “I like watching you put men in their place.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks. “Is that what got you going?”

  Kai hummed in contemplation. “I was already going. But that was probably the last shot of blood my nether-regions could handle.”

  Miya cackled as they strolled onto the main road. “Sorry, not sorry.”

  “You monster,” he murmured in her ear, then nipped her lobe.

  As they emerged into the lamplight, Kai nearly bumped into a bewildered passerby and twisted to avoid collision. Colour drained from the greying man’s face. His saucer eyes wobbled over Kai’s imposing figure as he reeled back, then scurried away.

  Kai glared after him, the rhythmic cry of cicadas pulverizing his ears. He couldn’t tell if the sticky feeling on his skin was from the mid-summer humidity or something else. Wherever he went, he stood out like a bloodstain on a white shirt. Sometimes, he wondered how much of his rage leaked through his pores. Could people smell a loaded shotgun with the safety off? Wrinkling his nose, he shoved down the impulse to yell after the sod who’d gawped at him like he’d murdered a basket of baby rabbits.

  “This town smells like zombie shit,” he seethed quietly. Miya ran a hand up his back, trying to distract him. “I can’t smell it, but I can feel it. We need to learn more about Crowbar’s sister. She’s definitely the reason we’re here.”

  A mosquito whirred, and Kai slapped a hand to his neck in a half-hearted attempt to squash it. Between the bloodsuckers and the serenades of dying, overgrown flies, he wasn’t sure which would break his sanity first.

  Kai glanced down the darkened street, lit only by the meager, piss-coloured glow of lantern-shaped sconces sporadically lining the storefronts. Insects hurled themselves at the muggy glass before dropping dead into the planters that hung from the light fixtures’ ribbed necks.

  So human of them, Kai thought, remembering his last night in Black Hollow. The way flesh tore and bodies fell limp with empty thuds and quiet gargles.

  “Could break into the police station and steal Vince’s records?” he suggested, vaguely wondering how many lives he’d ended that night. Ten? Fifteen? Maybe twenty?

  Miya glanced sideways at him. “Overkill much? Besides, the police won’t be able to give us anything we can use. Pretty sure they don’t jail demons for murder.”

  He shot her a narrow-eyed look. “Out of my head, Lambchop.” She only blinked, befuddled by his meaning, so he pulled her along in the direction dread filled him fastest. It was unsettling how empty Orme’s Rest was. The townspeople seemed to hide as soon as the sun dipped below the skyline, like they knew not to fuck with the funky stench caking the air. Black Hollow was a superstitious cesspool, but people still went out at night, getting trashed, dealing drugs, looking for a lay. In this lethargic stink-hole with its ye olde-timey roads, drooping trees, and plant beds full of daisies to mask the animal shit, doors were slammed shut and crucifixes clutched tightly alongside grandma’s pearls. At least, that’s how Kai imagined it.

  There was no one to snatch up and squeeze secrets out of, and although there shouldn’t have been any rush, Kai could hear Crowbar’s clock, sandwiched between two liquor bottles, ticking against his temples like a warning. They didn’t have much time.

  “Other ideas?” Kai scrunched up his face as he imagined Miya raising Crowbar’s sister from the dead. “I’m not going gravedigging.”

  Miya reached for a row of dappled pink lilies planted around latticed benches. The petals brushed her palms as she ambled onward. “Why would you need to dig up a dead body? I just need something that can give me a glimpse.”

  “A glimpse? Into what?”

  She rolled her neck and pulled the scrunchy from her hair, shaking out her dark brown mane. “Spirits leave a residue on the things they touch. If we had access to Sydney Baron’s murderer, I’d know right away if he was influenced by something. He’s in custody, so we need to find the next best thing.”

  “Like something that belonged to the victim?” Kai asked.

  “That would be good, but we can’t ask Crowbar for her sister’s stuff without one hell of an explanation.”

  Kai slowed and squinted at her. “Not. Going. Gravedigging.”

  Miya tied her hair back up into a messy bun. “Like I said, I don’t need her body. Maybe there’s something around her tombstone we can use.”

  “Fine,” Kai huffed. He hated cemeteries. They were places where the dead were immortalized, commemorated for those left behind. Every death had left Kai with little to remember the loss by. His parents had never been buried. Their bodies disappeared into the earth—rotting corpses desiccated by scavengers and the unyielding attrition of time. Alice had no relatives, no savings to speak of. Her body was cremated by the coroner, her ashes clumsily thrust into the hands of an angry, confused teenage-boy-who-wasn’t-actually-a-boy. Her crumbling bungalow was foreclosed, and Kai’s application for emancipation was tossed on sight. He had a history of juvenile delinquency and anti-social behaviour. Conduct disorder, the shrink had called it. As far as Child Protection Services were concerned, he belonged in a foster home or an institution. He was a dumpster fire they weren’t willing to let loose.

  Kai never got the chance to visit old Alice’s bones, and now every graveyard he saw made his insides writhe with longing for all the things he’d never know.

  Fuck, how he’d changed. Three years ago, the sight of a tombstone would’ve made him feel like a Molotov cocktail begging to be thrown. He couldn’t have known that deep under that hardened rage was something brittle, something that made him look back and regret that he hadn’t done better than a goddamn birthday card to enshrine Alice’s memory. That emotion, he’d learned, was guilt. And it stung worse than an acid-coated knife shanked between his ribs.

  Anger had always been so much less painful.

  “Hey.” Miya tugged on his shirt. Her m
urky green eyes riffled him with concern. “You okay? If you feel that bad about it, we can go back and ask Crowbar.”

  “No.” Kai shook his head. “We’re hunting the thing that attacked you. We shouldn’t get anyone else involved.” Of course, he didn’t mention the thing from the swamp had already made contact…twice.

  Miya plumbed him with a dubious stare. She knew he was hiding something. “All right,” she let it slide. “Which way to the cemetery?”

  Kai tilted his head back and inhaled. In a healthy city, the scent of death wasn’t present outside the usual places—butcher shops, graveyards, funeral homes, crime scenes, accidents. Death was contained, isolated. Here, the flower nectar, the earthy aroma of trees, and the waft of grilled seafood could barely mask the grizzly undertone of rot. It was strong—so strong that he’d already found himself following it.

  “Same way we’re headed.” He pointed eastward, the sky like a sprawling, black plume.

  “Okay.” Miya hooked her arm around his, still scanning his face.

  “I miss Alice,” he answered her probing gaze. “Threw her ashes to the wind—and not in the romantic way. I threw her out. Now that I want to go back, I can’t. I can’t visit her because I destroyed what was left of her.”

  Miya’s hand slid down his arm, and she entwined her fingers with his. “You were going through a rough time. I don’t think she’d hold it against you for not knowing how to react.”

  Kai’s breath hitched, his mouth curving into a ghost of a smile. “She’d probably laugh if she knew her ashes ended up as bird feed.”

  “Then maybe the ashes aren’t what’s important,” Miya offered. “But if you’d like, we can always make her a little shrine in the dreamscape. Maybe we can get a sapling from somewhere?”

  “Maybe,” he murmured, then clutched her hand as he strode forward, away from his own brooding.

  He silently counted the cracks in the sidewalk as he trailed the scent of death to its final resting place. The Orme’s Rest Cemetery was perched on a mound behind the local church: a modest, white-paneled building that looked like a farmhouse with a red-brick spire poking through the front of the roof. Windows lined the side of the rectangular structure, though it was dark inside.