The Lost Souls (The Holy Trinity #2.5)(6)

“You and me, fat?,” he said quietly, “we’re not so different, you know? We’ve both been dealt a shitty hand, and we’re just trying to make it work in any way we can.”

He watched as her black eyes bled to green once again, and in them, he saw the gathering moisture.

“Do me a favor,” Shandor said, choking back his own rising emotion. “Try not to judge so harshly that which you don’t understand.”

She watched him for several heartbreaking moments before whispering, “Okay.”

Okay. Yeah, it was time for him to leave. The last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of Trinity.

He took a crouching step and then paused. “If you find him again,” he said, “tell him…remind him of the Fat Tuesday twins.”

Her brow lifted. “The Fat Tuesday twins?”

This time, his grin was sincere. “Yeah, baby,” he said, his tone crude. “I’ll let him tell you all about it.” This time, before she could delay him again, he took off running, leaping from car to car in order to get as far away from Trinity as fast as he could.

Shandor couldn’t go back. He knew that. He could never go back.

But even knowing that didn’t stop a lifetime of memories from flooding him—of family and friends, of his clan. Nor did it help ease the ache inside him.





Chapter Four


Shivering, Hockey stepped over the sleeping bodies of his companions, looking for a big enough slice of floor to lie down on and get some shut-eye. Wedging between Mira and Tyler, he wrapped his woolen blankets tightly around himself and closed his eyes.

“Hey,” Mira whispered.

His eyes opened.

“It’s extra cold tonight,” she said through chattering teeth. “Winter’s coming quickly. You wanna double up?”

He did. He wanted to triple up, quadruple up even. The warehouse they’d barricaded themselves inside, in preparation for the fast-coming winter, retained heat about as well as a drafty shed. Even with several fires burning inside strategically placed garbage bins, it was still far too cold for comfort. But he wasn’t a social person, even after spending months alongside the people who’d saved his life; he still felt so far removed from them. Yet he owed them his life and Hockey always repaid his debts.

After the botched raid, he’d wandered for weeks—sleeping with one eye open as he searched for his clan, hot-wiring cars and using them until they ran out of gas, eating whatever garbage he could find.

And for a man alone in a world full of demons who would just as soon kill him as look at him, he thought he was doing pretty damn good. It wasn’t fun, he wasn’t happy, but he was surviving.

Until he was attacked.

? ? ?

While digging through the inner remains of a fast-food restaurant, his stomach burning with hunger, Hockey hadn’t heard the Skin Eater until it was nearly on top of him. Sensing the malevolence in the air, he had spun around and found the creature in midjump, fangs bared. Cursing, he stumbled backward, summoning fire to his palms as he tripped over the garbage strewn on the floor. Orange-and-white flames blasted from his palms and wrapped around the Skin Eater. The creature screamed as its skin and organs melted under the onslaught. Dead, it fell to the floor and proceeded to set fire to the wrappers and boxes it had landed on.

Trapped between the growing flames and the restaurant’s drive-through window, Hockey had no choice but to try to squeeze through it. Gripping the top of the window, he hauled his large body up and attempted to squeeze himself through the small opening. But his frame was too wide and his shoulders wouldn’t fit. Feeling the flames licking his legs, he shoved as hard as he could, cracking the window frame. As he fell through the opening, the broken plastic sliced through his shoulder.

Hockey hit the pavement hard on his back and shot immediately to his feet, looking for any threats. Finding himself alone, he hurried back to the minivan he was currently living in. After locking himself inside, he stripped off his shirt.

Fuck.

The slice through his shoulder, although only a few inches long, was deep. His arm was drenched in blood, and the bastard was still bleeding.

After digging through his backpack, he found the small sewing kit he’d swiped from a convenient store. With shaking hands he threaded a needle, and set to work sewing his shoulder back together. He used his shirt as a temporary bandage, wrapping it tightly around the wound before tying it into a knot. The material was dirty and torn, but it was all he had. It would have to do for now.



Two days later, parked on the side of a country road, Hockey found himself shivering and sweating, his thoughts muddled with the fever raging through his body. The gash on his arm was swollen, a painful, angry red mess.

But even fevered, he knew he was going to die.

In a minivan.

And the cause of his death…

A dirty window.

Super.

Time began to pass slowly after that. For days, he faded in and out of consciousness, sometimes awaking to the sun, sometimes to the stars. Instead of dwelling on the pain or the knowledge that this would be the end, he thought of Becki—her smooth brown skin, her deep chocolate eyes, her long mass of curls hanging down her back.



“Holy shit, there’s a dude in here!”

“Is he dead?”

Hockey felt something cool touch his face, but lacked the strength to open his eyes.