“Hello?” she said, but her voice didn’t carry. She wasn’t keen on shouting either. The place felt claustrophobic despite its size. Much better to tiptoe forward, then run like hell should anyone appear.
She moved farther, swinging the light left and right. Just more empty, dirty space. The smoke thickened in the air as she progressed. Above, to one side of the building, was a row of high windows. Even though it was midmorning, no light seeped through them. Spooky.
Metal debris clanged underfoot. She swished the light to her feet to find a curling, black piece of metal.
Curious, she toed it. The piece rolled to the side. The curls became open leaves around a strange, wrought-iron flower.
She stooped and picked up the creation. The flower should have been cold, like the weather and the room, but it was warm, near hot. It was heavy too, larger than her palm, and clearly made by hand. A black flower, delicate and . . . wicked. A treasure left behind as junk.
When she brought her attention back up, she noticed a low-licking fire, its glow barely lifting the press of darkness. And nearby an anvil, flat and wide, with a horn on one end. On its surface lay a hammer.
A blacksmith’s workshop. On the New Jersey docks. In one of Thorne’s warehouses. It made no sense whatsoever.
“Hello?” This time she called loud and clear. The smith had to be near. No one would leave an open fire unattended in this old building.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat answered her. This time it wasn’t in her head.
Shocked, Layla turned, and though the warehouse was matted with shadows, she could easily see a gate looming black and beautiful before her. The iron portal shook on its posts. How could she have not seen it until now? The sound should have been audible from the street.
Even to her untrained eye, she could tell that the gate had been crafted by a master. The vertical pieces were tall, barbed spears, made for war. But laced among the black shafts, giving them structure and support, were twisted vines. An occasional gorgeous bloom, like the one in her hand, faced outward.
The gate trembled, as if alive. Her bones trembled with it. She tried to turn away, but her stiffened muscles wouldn’t obey.
kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat
It called to her, had been in her head for days. She knew now that it would never let her go. It was made for her.
Never alone again, it said.
Her eyes teared. She felt exposed, the hole in her chest so easily revealed. She crossed her arms over the pain. Ty had tried to fill it, had offered her a fantasy of children, a happy life without the drive of her dangerous work.
kat-a-kat: Never alone.
But Ty wasn’t the answer. He was just a nice guy. And she was his challenge.
Home, the gate promised.
The gate knew her. If she opened it, her isolation would be at an end.
The darkness around seemed to shift, as if something or someone was coming—the street thugs or dreaded wraiths even—but she couldn’t so much as lift her flashlight to pierce the dark.
Her deepest wish could come true.
kat-a-kat, the gate explained, and Layla understood perfectly. The gate was meant to be opened. Why else make a gate, except to open it?
The shadows churned, whipped, and lashed.
Layla dropped her flashlight and stretched out her hand as she stepped closer. A turn of that twisted, black metal and her lifetime longing would be at an end.
“Don’t,” a man said in her ear.
Where he came from, Layla had no idea and didn’t care. His urgent, low voice was compelling and familiar, but the pull of the gate was stronger.
“It is evil,” he explained.
“Can’t be,” Layla answered. Her every cell quaked with expectation. She took another step.
The man’s voice came out of the shadows. “You fought those men on the street. Fight this.”
kat-a-kat: Open me! Now!
Layla shuddered, eyes tearing again in awe of the livid creation. There was no way to explain this feeling. It was much easier to keep it simple. “I don’t want to fight it.”
Shadowman knew he never should have saved her. Meddling with Fate always had repercussions. The woman should be dead in the street, her body slack, her soul just entering Twilight.
And now she was clearly going to open the gate to Hell. The thing must have insinuated itself into her weak mortal mind.
Death gathered Shadow to him until the mass of darkness snapped and thrashed in his grasp. He sent it rolling toward her, to crush her, to knock her from her path to the gate.
If it had any effect, she did not let on. Her reaction was the same as it had been at the door. The same as with his repeated attempts to impede her progress through the warehouse. She was impervious.
He could not use Shadow against her and didn’t have the time to figure out why.
There would be no retrieving Kathleen if devils poured out into the world. He was work weakened, gate plagued, and he didn’t even have his scythe.