21

“ I s she alive?” I asked Clay, who hovered over her on the couch, fingering the material of her skirts.

“This cotton has to predate anything in the last century; it’s pure, and there doesn’t appear to be any trace of synthetic materials in it,” he mumbled to himself, brain stirring with endless dramatic, and brilliant thoughts.

“How would you even…” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

I knelt in front of her, tracing the delicate round features of her face with my eyes. Full cheeks speckled with freckles over the bridge of her swooping nose. Her cupid’s bow lips and long, soft-looking neck. I’d collected her into my arms before she hit the ground, scooping her against my chest despite both Wes and Clay growling in protest. I laid her in the sitting room as Wes followed closely behind, whispering to Clay about something they didn’t want my input on.

She was a magnet.

“Where did you find it anyway?” Wes snapped.

“There’s an atrium.” Clay pointed lazily behind him as he moved to stand with Wes on the far wall by the door. “And yes, Koen, she’s alive.”

“Alive?” A ragged scoff left Wes’ lips as he rolled his eyes. “We know nothing about this thing.”

I looked over at him, disapproval on my face.

“Don’t do that.” He looked away from me, his hands still gripping the shotgun, his jaw still tight enough to break teeth. “It’s a case, just like any other.”

Wes doesn’t budge on his code. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. Going through the catalog of all the horrible threats she could turn out to be. All the ways he would end her life if she was. He licked his bottom lip and turned his gaze on Clay, but not the gun. That stayed trained in her direction.

“Clay, do you have any idea what it might be?”

“ She , as far as I can tell,” Clay noted, much to my content, “seems to heal, not instantly, but fast–there are no traces of the shotgun wounds on her skin.”

Her shirt was still soaked with blood but the peppered gashes on her throat had closed before I even laid her on the couch. There was no telling what was under the tattered fabric but the bleeding had stopped. By all accounts it looked as though it had taken the time to walk from the kitchen to the sitting room for them to heal. Even Clay sounded confused. Which, frankly, was some pretty foreign territory.

“She’s not cold,” I added, and Wes growled. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Let her hit the ground! You had no idea what you were doing. What if it had been a ploy to get you close enough to turn on you?” He barked at me, rage flickering like a wildfire behind his hazel eyes. He stripped from his leather jacket, juggling the gun before throwing the coat against a nearby chair.

“She wasn’t going to,” I argued .

Not knowing for sure, I enjoyed how the argument seemed to rile Wes up to no end.

He mocked me. “You’re reckless.”

“Learned from th’best.” My words were clipped as I rolled my eyes.

“No, I taught you to be cautious, always. Whatever the hell you’re pulling now is bullshit.” He raised his voice.

“You taught me to assess the situation and act! She’s not a threat!”

Wes tensed. “We’re leaving, pack your bags.”

“And leave her? Don’t you wanna know why?” I argued, considering standing up from where I was crouched beside her, but my body felt like lead, my fascination manifesting as a rope tied tight between her and me.

“No.” He shrugged. “I want to get out of here before someone comes looking for us. We killed three cops with a fourth still out there.” Wes shook his head, golden curls falling out of place around his square jaw.

“Three ghouls.”

“Three men that don’t look like monsters on the outside. Not to the public,” he argued. He had a point.

He looked over at the woman, who seemed perfectly normal from the outside. She looked so peaceful as she slept. Her auburn hair fell out of the bun laying against her jaw and throat in long waves that I wanted to touch.

“But we have extensive research on ghouls,” Clay finally piped up.

I pointed at him, snapping my fingers in agreement. Hope ignited as Clay joined the conversation productively. Wes watched him with restraint, knowing that if he was going to get control of the situation he needed Clay on his side.

But Clay, the most intelligent of all of us, would always throw caution to the wind in the name of lore. Especially lore he had yet to study.

“So you’re siding with him?” Wes snarled at Clay.

“He’s siding with his incessant need to be a know-it-all ,” I scoffed.

“All I’m saying is maybe a few days to learn more?” He sighed, his chest heaving beneath the dark dress shirt, buttons straining to expose pieces of the large, wispy black artwork of an angel across his chest.

“He still needs to heal,” I added.

Wes just rolled his eyes. “That excuse is shite.”

“He’s right,” Clay said, tilting his head to the side. “I’m in no condition to fight anything.”

“So we drive, get out of here before we find more trouble.”

“It’s too late for that.” Clay nodded to the woman on the couch.

Trouble had found us, I thought and looked back at her to find a set of emerald eyes observing my every move.

Wes instinctively raised his gun back from the slack position it had fallen into during the argument. Clay tensed from his spot on the far wall as she shifted to sit up on the couch. A stiff grumble fell from her plump bottom lip as she managed to do it herself. I kept my hands off her but close enough that if she needed it, I could assist.

Her eyes widened as she took in everything around her: Wes on guard, Clay watching and scribbling in his leather-bound notebook, and then back to me. Confusion, frustration, and fear ticked across her face as she opened her mouth to speak but closed it again.

“Koen,” I pressed my palm flat to my chest, unsure how much she remembered from before, in the kitchen. “Clayton.” I point to Clay, who nodded at her gently, only looking up from his notes for a split second.

“Just Clay,” he added.

“Do not–” Wes huffed in a pitiful attempt to silence me.

“Wesley.” I ignored his order.

I turned back to her, hoping that she understood that by giving her our names, she was safe to do so in return. A name could mean figuring out who she was. At least it would help Clay. I just wanted to know out of selfish curiosity. Was the name as beautiful as the woman?

“Florence.”

Florence.

The name seemed oddly appropriate to her, as if it had been made for her in some way. It didn’t make sense, but it sent a tickle of euphoria through my veins. Her brows furrowed as Clay stepped toward his bag, her body tensing back against the ratty couch. I could see her searching her vicinity for a weapon to defend herself.

“They aren’t as scary as they look.” I tried to calm her. “As long as you aren’t hurling plants at them.”

Clay snorted from behind me. The human noise seemingly made Florence relax a touch.

“Wes.” I turned to him when her eyes didn’t move from the shotgun. “Put it down.”

“No,” he instantly responded, practically cutting off my request.

“It won’t work,” she spoke.

All three of us listened. Her voice was soft, with an Irish lilt that was even thicker than my own and it made me wonder where, and weirdly– when, she was from .

“Guns.” She pulled at the collar of her blouse, exposing the skin stained with blood but perfect otherwise. There wasn’t a trace of injury. Not even a scar. “Neither will knives,” she added her sharp gaze clocking the hunting knife tucked in Wes’s belt, “or toxins, falling from great heights, or rope.”

The last one made us go still.

Clay was the first to move, inching closer to her with his notebook, studying her like an animal. He did the same to everyone, person, ghost, or monster. He craved knowledge, the unknown.

“Are you saying you’ve tried to hang yourself?” He asked her, and she nodded. “With no long-term effects?”

Her eyes twitched briefly in the direction of the open landing at the top of the double staircase out in the foyer. I swallowed the lump in my throat that formed immediately at the thought of her swaying lifelessly beneath the decrepit chandelier.

“Why would you do that?” I asked in a short breath.

“Not that I’m aware of…” She answered Clay. “Desperation,” she whispered when she looked back at me before she went quiet again, retreating into her shell.

“Fascinating,” Clay whispered, his glasses sliding down his nose as his eyes roamed over her stiff posture. He opened his mouth to ask more, but Wes was quicker.

Heartbreaking .

“What are you?” Wes asked. “And don’t lie to us.”