one still beating. The photographs show the objects bear a burned handprint on them.”
“Photographs?”
Bron sighed and tugged out his cell phone. As he scrolled to the dossier files, he considered whether or not he should show her classified Acquisitions information. But then he clicked on the link to the museum, which was on the internet for anyone to access, and handed her his phone.
She scrolled for a while and read the website. “That stuff looks fake. Anyone could have burned a handprint into a book or bucket and called it that. Or Photoshop! You actually believe this stuff?” She handed him back the phone.
“I thought you said you believed in the unbelievable?”
“I do, but I’m not stupid. Check the Snopes website. I’m sure it debunks that museum.”
“All files are fact-checked and verified as genuine before they become an assignment. I have no reason to doubt the validity of the object’s value or use.” He tucked the phone away in a pocket. “The tracker led me to you. I’ve never doubted witch magic before, and I’m not about to begin now.”
She placed a palm over her chest and closed her eyes. With a nod, she seemed to accept his statement. “This is so out of my pay grade. And I don’t even have a salary. But I’m willing to listen and learn. To believe.”
“A willingness is more than most can manage.” He hooked a hand over the end of the stake holstered at his hip.
“Do you always carry that stake?”
“Always.”
“I’ve seen the crossbow you carry. That was cool. What other kinds of weapons do you have? A knife?”
“In the truck I’ve a bowie knife and a garrote. The crossbow and some other weapons. Why do you ask?”
“I suppose a bowie knife would do nicely to cut out my heart. Just needed to know what I’m dealing with.”
“Kisanthra, I’ve promised you that I will not cut out your heart.” He cast his gaze toward the window but couldn’t see beyond the curtains. How to make her believe him? And why did he care? “My word is always good.”
Except when he had been younger, and ego had ruled his life, and he’d done whatever he’d pleased whenever he’d pleased with whomever he’d pleased.
Hell, this trip down memory lane could prove brutal if he did not strike it from his thoughts right now.
“What makes it a portal?” she asked.
Her curiosity was a good sign. He hoped. While he sensed her fear, it was also balanced with a tremendous dose of curiosity. She should not fear him. And if she were to keep her head about her if any other paranormals came after her, then she would be much easier to protect than a screaming madwoman.
“I’ve been told such a heart—your heart,” he said, “bears the handprint from a purgatorial soul. Such as is shown in those artifacts from that museum. Someone gripped it and, well, I’m not sure how that can have happened. That’s where I lose all sense of rationality with this situation.”
“So you have as much trouble believing as I do?”
The best he could offer was a noncommittal shrug. Because, really? It was pretty far out there. But again, he did not question his missions. Sometimes it was simply better not having all the facts.
She suddenly clasped both hands to her chest. Eyes tracing the bed covers, she winced and shook her head.
He could sense her increased breaths and smell the worry on her. “Kisanthra? What is it?”
She shook her head frantically. “Nothing. I...nothing. I think I just need to sleep this off.” She snuggled down into the sheets. “Right. That’s it. Maybe a good night’s sleep will see me waking up from this crazy dream. You going to sleep?”
“In a bit. I’m going to stand watch for a while.”
“Fine. Me and my Purgatory Heart will just catch some shut-eye.”
He turned to face her bed, and just when he almost reached to smooth a reassuring hand down her shoulder, he cautioned himself. Not necessary to protect her in that manner. “You’re taking this very well.”
“How else should I take it?”
“Not sure. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m tired, Bron. I appreciate you looking after me today. And I just want to not talk to anyone right now if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning and decide what next to do.”
“Sure thing.” She pulled the sheet over her head.
Kizzy pressed her shoulders to the brick wall. A hint of orange on the horizon teased at daylight. Standing in the shadows, she clutched the camera bag to her gut. The T-shirt she wore could have been warmer. She shivered, but not so much from the touch of chill in the air.
A heart that has been grasped by a soul in Purgatory.
It made too much sense to her. And that is what freaked her out.
And as if the universe wanted to cram that insane punch line into her psyche she’d woken in the dream again this morning. The recurring dream she’d been having since the accident. The one where a werewolf pulled her heart out of her chest. It was vivid and bloody, and she screamed loudly. Just when she thought the beast was going to eat the pulsing organ, she’d startle herself awake, and the dream would never finish.
Thank God for that. She didn’t want to know why she’d envisioned a werewolf going after her heart. Could be because of all the creatures she believed in, werewolves scared the crap out of her. It all went back to that camping trip with her father when she’d thought the bear was a werewolf. And she could guess at a few reasons why it was her heart, in particular, that was always at the fore of her dream. Open-heart surgery is not something a person goes through without scars. And she had them. Inside and out.
Wakened by the dream, panting from fright, she’d glanced to Bron, fully clothed and with combat boots still on, sleeping on the bed beside her, and had decided to sneak out. Because the dream of some big, furry paw clutching her heart had never made any sense.
Until now.
Kizzy had woken two days following the open-heart surgery, a result of the car accident. After being rushed to the hospital by the ambulance, she had died on the operating-room table. Dead for six minutes the doctor had reported. They’d had to crack open her chest to massage her heart back to life. He’d also reported, almost as an afterthought, there had been odd scarring on her heart that he’d noticed while inside her chest cavity trying to bring her back to life.
But seriously? Keith, who had died instantly following the impact of car to boulders, would have never gone to Purgatory. That man had been destined for Hell. And she knew Keith had not been a werewolf, so that part of the dream must be a crazy manifestation of her beliefs. What better way to illustrate the horrors she’d survived than by inserting a wild creature into it?
“Or maybe I’m going crazy?” Guilt clung to her, because she had survived while Keith had not. She’d never wished that for him. Not even when he’d berated her into tears.
She wanted to run. To her left stood the truck stop. To her right, a stretch of highway that led to the North Dakota border. Running wouldn’t get her far. And it could perhaps even land her in a vampire’s toothy embrace.
Could a bloodthirsty bite be considered an embrace? Why did everyone always romanticize the vampire? She’d looked into that creature’s eyes last night and had seen the hunger for her blood. And he’d smelled like rotting blood. There had been nothing whatsoever romantic about the lustful craving in his eyes, either.
Of