Runebinder (The Runebinder Chronicles #1)(45)
They pulled to a stop in front of an old farmhouse at the end of a winding drive, the tangled path and fading facade illuminated in the headlights. The house was huge—three stories tall with peeling whitewashed siding and large picture windows. A wraparound porch stuck out from the front, complete with broken rocking chairs and a swing. Something about it made Tenn’s gut twist: a familiarity, a call. Even though he was positive he’d never been there before.
“This’ll work,” Jarrett said. Air glowed in his throat as well, and Tenn had no doubt he was scanning the interior, making sure the place really was as abandoned as expected. The fact that they hadn’t run into any wayward Howls was unusual. The cold must have driven them to shelter, whatever that was to the undead, and he couldn’t imagine any necromancers traipsing around in this weather.
The first snow. When Tenn was younger, it would have been cause to run around outside, catching snowflakes on his tongue. He’d long since outgrown that, but staring at the snow-coated house through the beams of their headlights brought a little bit back. Some trace of antiquity, of perfection, even if his gut was saying the place was eerie. If not for the obvious disrepair, the scene could have been from a greeting card.
Devon killed the engine and they got out, grabbed their things and then trudged through the snow up to the front door. Tiny orbs of light hovered around Devon as he opened to Fire, snow hissing against their glow. Everything was white and black, and it made Tenn feel like they were in some vintage fairy-tale film. Or noir horror.
The front porch creaked under their combined weight. Definitely noir horror.
Jarrett pushed the door open, the hinges shrill, the only sounds beyond the gusting wind. The air inside smelled stale from years of neglect.
As they walked in, Devon shot lights into every room, upstairs and down. Dreya and Jarrett went off to investigate the kitchen and bedrooms and to scavenge for provisions, while Tenn stalked down another hall alone. In here, sheltered from the wind and snow, he could hear every shudder of the house, every throb of his blood. He paused by a door, listening to whistling on the other side. Pressing his hand to the ice-encrusted knob, he opened the door and stepped inside.
Immediately, he knew he didn’t want to be in there. He’d never really liked abandoned places. To him, they smelled like ghosts. This room especially. Mainly because it howled like one.
Two orbs of light hovered up near the crystal chandelier, making everything in the dining room a pallid grayscale. The air was even colder: with the great picture windows in the far wall shattered, a frigid breeze gusted in, billowing the long drapes in perfect horror-story undulations. What he had first mistaken for ice on the carpet was actually shards of glass, all glittering in the half-light like crystal knives. Everything was broken or flung about, from the overturned dining table to the chairs reduced to kindling to the plates and cups dashed to pieces as fine as snow.
His fingers shook, and not from the cold. The air in here just felt wrong. Like it carried the rawness of an old wound, a scab peeled back from flesh.
Almost against his will, his fingers trailed along the overturned table.
Water uncurled in a wave.
“What the hell is that?” the woman asks. “James, did you hear that?”
Screams pierce the night. All close. Too close. Screams, and the thunder of gunshots.
The man’s eyes are wide as he looks from his wife and kids to the window, to the flashes of light that last far too long for lightning or rifles.
“Stay here,” he says, his voice frantic. He pushes himself from the table, toppling his chair, and runs to the hall. The woman stands and gathers her two sons, pulling them back to the wall. Their wide eyes reflect the light and chaos outside, but in here, they are so silent they can hear the rapid flutter of their breath.
The man is back in a moment. He holds a shotgun.
“Get to the basement,” he says. “Quick.”
They turn. The basement is safety. It’s where they’ve gone for tornado sirens. It’s where they can escape.
But before they can move, something crashes through the window, sends glass screaming through the room. They flinch. Cower. It isn’t a brick or bomb landing before them. It’s a human. He stands slowly, unfolding himself until he towers above them all. Save for his height, there’s nothing to make him stand out—faded blue jeans, old flannel. Eighteen, maybe. But his eyes...
His eyes keep them from running. They are the most piercing blue.
Those eyes stop the breath in their throats.
“Good evening,” he says calmly, as though he hasn’t just crashed through a window. The mother pulls her boys close, and it is only now that she realizes the boy hasn’t been cut by his entrance. The husband moves in front of his family. A shepherd, vainly trying to defend his flock. “I thought I might join you for dinner.”
“Get out,” the husband says. His words waver. Outside, another scream rips through the air, cut off with a gurgle that makes the youngest boy shudder. “Whatever the hell you are, get out.”
The intruder smiles.
“That is no way to treat a guest.” His voice has a slow, Southern drawl. Charming. And dangerous.
The stranger steps forward.
The man shoots.
The blast from the gun is too loud for the room, too awful for the place they’ve quietly made their home. The echo is the nail in the coffin, the trumpet blaring that their quiet life is dead.