Something Wearing Skin

Eleanor forced herself not to run.

Fear fed things like this.

Panic made them stronger.

That lesson had been carved into her bones long before she ever met Alaric.

Still, every instinct screamed at her to flee as another heavy footstep sounded overhead.

Slow.

Dragging.

Like something learning how to walk inside unfamiliar skin.

The storm outside intensified, thunder rattling the windows hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling beams. Lightning flashed silver through the manor halls, illuminating portraits of long-dead witches whose painted eyes seemed to follow her through the dark.

Another step overhead.

Then silence.

Eleanor tightened her grip around the athame and forced herself to breathe steadily.

Think.

The wards were weakening, not broken entirely. That meant the spirit had entered imperfectly. It was forcing itself through cracks instead of walking freely.

Which meant she still had time.

Maybe.

She backed carefully into the kitchen, never taking her eyes off the staircase at the end of the hall. Shadows gathered there too thickly, writhing unnaturally against the walls.

Watching.

The protection oil still simmered atop the stove.

Good.

Her hands moved quickly despite the trembling in her fingers. She grabbed black salt from the shelf beside the hearth and poured a thick line across the kitchen entrance.

Then another across the back doorway.

The scraping upstairs stopped.

A deep silence settled over the house.

Eleanor’s pulse hammered harder.

Because silence in Blackwood House usually meant listening.

Something wet hit the floor upstairs.

Then another.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Her stomach twisted.

The sound moved slowly across the ceiling above her.

Following her.

A cold breeze suddenly swept through the kitchen.

Impossible.

The windows were shut.

The wards flared weakly in response.

And then—

“Ellie.”

The voice came from directly behind her.

Eleanor spun instantly, athame raised.

Nothing stood there.

But the shadows along the far wall moved wrong.

Bulging.

Twisting.

As if something underneath them was trying to crawl free.

Her breathing quickened despite herself.

“Your wards are weak,” the thing whispered.

Its voice no longer sounded like her mother.

Now it sounded like many voices layered together.

Children.

Women.

Men.

Something ancient trying on human sounds like stolen clothes.

Eleanor grabbed the protection oil and flung it toward the wall.

The glass shattered.

Fire exploded instantly across the shadows.

The house screamed.

Not the spirit.

The house itself.

Blackwood Manor groaned violently around her as flames crawled over the walls in silver streaks. The shadows recoiled sharply, hissing in dozens of distorted voices at once.

For one brief moment, Eleanor saw it clearly.

Tall.

Wrong.

Its limbs bent backward in places they shouldn’t. Hollow faces pressed and writhed beneath its skin like trapped bodies trying to escape.

Its eyes—

Gods.

Its eyes were mouths.

She nearly gagged.

The creature slammed itself against the ceiling with impossible speed.

The entire kitchen shook.

Cabinets burst open violently.

Glass shattered everywhere.

Eleanor cried out as something invisible seized her wrist and threw her hard against the table.

Pain exploded through her shoulder.

The athame skidded across the floor out of reach.

The creature unfolded slowly from the darkness above her.

Smiling now with too many teeth.

“You opened the door,” it whispered happily.

Lightning flashed.

The thing suddenly froze.

Every face beneath its skin turned toward the window at once.

Toward the forest.

A strange sound echoed through the storm outside.

Not thunder.

Something deeper.

The woods themselves groaned as ancient magic tore through Blackwood Forest at terrifying speed.

And for the first time—

The creature looked afraid.

Eleanor felt it too.

The bond on her wrist burned white-hot beneath her skin.

He was close.

Very close.

The monster looming above her slowly backed away from the kitchen window.

“No,” it whispered.

Not to her.

To whatever was coming through the forest.

The walls of Blackwood House began to shake violently.

Outside, something enormous moved through the trees.

And then Eleanor heard it.

Not with her ears.

With her soul.

Her husband’s voice.

Cold.

Furious.

Coming home.