And Custo would do it again. My life for his.
Spencer crossed the room and stood, his back to the bedroom door, gun ready at his chest, and utterly oblivious to the murky forest of dark trees that grew in place of the dissolving walls. Black trunks and skeletal limbs stretched into a violet sky through which brilliant stars blazed, each with a skittering comet’s tail streaming the passage of time.
A gray wind lashed through the room just as Adam kicked in the bedroom door and plugged two bullets in the wraith’s head. She went down with a wide-eyed thump, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, die. That was her trade—a life of monstrous soul feeding in return for immortality.
Adam and Spencer spoke with angry gestures, but the words foundered on the hiss and whip of the crowding shadows. Spencer ducked out of the room when Adam caught sight of the ruined body in the chair.
Adam, there’s another traitor at Segue, Custo said.
But Adam didn’t signify he heard the warning. He fell on his knees before Custo’s chair.
Adam! Listen to me!
The trees grew to maturity, their boughs forming a dark tunnel to God knows where.
Adam!
Custo looked back, one last time, into mortality. His body had been cut free and Adam was struggling to haul it to the bed, his face contracted with rage and grief.
Not necessary. Not worth it. Never worth it. But, of course, Adam couldn’t hear him.
The blackness shuddered, shade upon shade. Something was coming.
From the deep, a gleam of silvery metal arched into a wicked crescent moon. A scythe. The harried shadows parted and a figure emerged, wrapped in a cloak of blackness. Shadowman was partially hooded, but his face caught starlight. His features glowed with fantastic beauty, but his eyes were wells of loneliness. And no wonder—his was an existence filled with solitary, grim work. Custo couldn’t blame the tortured soul for stealing a human moment to love, even if that moment had allowed a demon into the world to raise an army of wraiths. If anyone could find a way to kill the demon, it was Adam and Shadowman’s daughter, the banshee Talia.
I have to warn him. Please.
Shadowman was immovable, his expression as unforgiving as stone. Hand gripping the scythe, he slowly swung out his arm, as if opening a gate to oblivion.
Death. Then Hell. Custo gathered what was left of his courage, clamping down on the naked quake of fear at his core. No sniveling allowed.
He moved out of pain and into uncertainty, the tunnel of sharp branches lengthening to a bright point of light. Probably a white-hot fire to burn at the blood staining his soul for eternity.
On either side of the dark path, whispers. Eyes flashing. Magic gathering to lure strays from the way. The tunnel led to a primeval shore where a narrow skiff waited to carry them across a gray channel toward a high, great gate. The light of the surrounding walls shifted through the varied spectrum of the rainbow, at once blue and yellow, then azure and verdant green.
There must be a mistake—even Spencer knew the truth.
Shadowman delivered him to the gleaming portal, which opened in welcome. The light was blinding. A song of piercing joy rose to cheer an addition to the Host.
Custo turned to Shadowman, but Death was gone.
So not Hell. Worse. A cosmic joke. A bloodied soul to be numbered with the angels.
He was a liar, a murderer, a thief, but never a hypocrite. He didn’t belong here.
The shining gate closed behind him, clanging shut like a Sunday church bell.
Custo braced his hands on the spectacular surface. There had to be a way out. A way to open the gate and a way to warn Adam.
Custo banged a fist against the entrance.
Or if not, good people died every day. Death would be back eventually, and damn if Custo wouldn’t be ready.
Chapter One
ANNABELLA stepped en pointe into a soft arabesque, arms lightly crossed over her breasts, head bowed in a ghostly whisper of submission. With her arching movement, the skirt of her long practice tutu created a silent white wedding bell in the front mirrors of the studio. The moment stretched as the ethereal strains of Giselle filled the room. The first eerie whine of the strings…the second…
One soft breath and she inclined her weight forward just as her partner propelled her into a seamless lift.
“Stop. Stop. Stop.” Thomas Venroy hit his cane against the floor for someone to shut off the music. The artistic director communicated almost everything with that sharp rap of his cane. In spite of the hugging, humid heat of the studio, he wore dress slacks and a button-down shirt. His nearly bald head was covered by a weak gray comb-over.