still lifted.
If only that would work. He knew. He’d tried.
But it wouldn’t, so instead of concerning himself with it, he lifted a hand and watched as the gate opened in the ground right below the orin. “Go on.”
No, the demon couldn’t enter this woman, but there were any number of bodies around. Will wasn’t about to let this thing roam around until it found a host.
It screeched, a sound not heard on the mortal plain.
As it faded, the gate closed. And he looked up at the woman in front of him.
The woman he now had to kill.
Chapter Four
Loch Lomond
“You better bump up that body count, Will.”
It had been eighteen hours since Will had unceremoniously left him in the middle of the road, just outside of Drymens. The little village wasn’t far from Loch Lomond and Buchanan Castle.
Finn had done what seemed wisest at the time—he’d found a B&B and since it was still off-season, they’d had a room they were happy to offer him. They seemed rather bemused at his lack of a car, but they didn’t ask questions.
He’d been certain the friendly couple would chat about it—and he was right, he heard them talking after he’d locked himself inside his little suite of rooms.
The white house with the bright red trim was quiet and he’d fallen facedown on the mattress with one idea in mind.
Sleep.
He didn’t have to have it, but he preferred to get it. For a Grimm, he was still young and it wore on him if he went too long without rest. Besides, in his dreams, sometimes he was lucky—sometimes he found Becky.
He hadn’t last night.
He’d relived that awful night from more than seven decades past—a young woman’s blood spilling hot on his hands while she stared at him with eyes that made him feel like he should know her.
He woke up even hearing her voice in his ears.
You…
Which led to his current predicament. He’d left a note for his hosts, explaining he didn’t need breakfast, but if the room was available, he’d like to rent it indefinitely.
If he knew anything about innkeepers, that word would make their blood sing.
Indefinitely . Or at least until they booked up for the tourist season.
And now he was out here, pacing the shores of Loch Lomond and trying to pinpoint the location of that stink. It was death—he’d know it anywhere and it hung in the air like fog, clinging to his nasal passages, lining his throat.
The stench would have been enough to make Finn sick, if he hadn’t gotten over that sort of thing a lifetime ago—no, wait. He did the mental calculation. A couple of lifetimes ago. He’d long since inured himself to the way blood and broken flesh and death created a reeking miasma that all but congealed and clung to the inside of the nasal passages, lining the throat until it seemed you’d never be free of it.
It couldn’t make him sick anymore.
But he was damn tired of it.
Even as much death as he’d seen in his life, there was so much of it in the air it made him even more tired than he already was.
He should have grabbed a couple of bottles of booze to help get him through this.
If he hit the scotch hard enough and fast enough, it might take the edge off. For a few minutes. Besides, he liked how it tasted.
A bitter smirk twisted his lips, recalling how many times he’d heard that bit of shit over his years. But in his case, it was true enough. Liked the burn of it, even liked the memory of the bliss he’d gotten back when he’d been alive and able to lose himself in the fog of alcohol.
He was willing to try it if it helped navigate the despair that clung like a fog, wisping along the ground. He practically expected to see it morph into a demon all on its own, there was that much misery in the air.
That much bad energy could probably give way to some sort of sentient being if everything lined up right—or wrong, depending on how you looked at it.
From Finn’s point of view, it could go either way. He didn’t really want to see some nasty get conjured
If only that would work. He knew. He’d tried.
But it wouldn’t, so instead of concerning himself with it, he lifted a hand and watched as the gate opened in the ground right below the orin. “Go on.”
No, the demon couldn’t enter this woman, but there were any number of bodies around. Will wasn’t about to let this thing roam around until it found a host.
It screeched, a sound not heard on the mortal plain.
As it faded, the gate closed. And he looked up at the woman in front of him.
The woman he now had to kill.
Chapter Four
Loch Lomond
“You better bump up that body count, Will.”
It had been eighteen hours since Will had unceremoniously left him in the middle of the road, just outside of Drymens. The little village wasn’t far from Loch Lomond and Buchanan Castle.
Finn had done what seemed wisest at the time—he’d found a B&B and since it was still off-season, they’d had a room they were happy to offer him. They seemed rather bemused at his lack of a car, but they didn’t ask questions.
He’d been certain the friendly couple would chat about it—and he was right, he heard them talking after he’d locked himself inside his little suite of rooms.
The white house with the bright red trim was quiet and he’d fallen facedown on the mattress with one idea in mind.
Sleep.
He didn’t have to have it, but he preferred to get it. For a Grimm, he was still young and it wore on him if he went too long without rest. Besides, in his dreams, sometimes he was lucky—sometimes he found Becky.
He hadn’t last night.
He’d relived that awful night from more than seven decades past—a young woman’s blood spilling hot on his hands while she stared at him with eyes that made him feel like he should know her.
He woke up even hearing her voice in his ears.
You…
Which led to his current predicament. He’d left a note for his hosts, explaining he didn’t need breakfast, but if the room was available, he’d like to rent it indefinitely.
If he knew anything about innkeepers, that word would make their blood sing.
Indefinitely . Or at least until they booked up for the tourist season.
And now he was out here, pacing the shores of Loch Lomond and trying to pinpoint the location of that stink. It was death—he’d know it anywhere and it hung in the air like fog, clinging to his nasal passages, lining his throat.
The stench would have been enough to make Finn sick, if he hadn’t gotten over that sort of thing a lifetime ago—no, wait. He did the mental calculation. A couple of lifetimes ago. He’d long since inured himself to the way blood and broken flesh and death created a reeking miasma that all but congealed and clung to the inside of the nasal passages, lining the throat until it seemed you’d never be free of it.
It couldn’t make him sick anymore.
But he was damn tired of it.
Even as much death as he’d seen in his life, there was so much of it in the air it made him even more tired than he already was.
He should have grabbed a couple of bottles of booze to help get him through this.
If he hit the scotch hard enough and fast enough, it might take the edge off. For a few minutes. Besides, he liked how it tasted.
A bitter smirk twisted his lips, recalling how many times he’d heard that bit of shit over his years. But in his case, it was true enough. Liked the burn of it, even liked the memory of the bliss he’d gotten back when he’d been alive and able to lose himself in the fog of alcohol.
He was willing to try it if it helped navigate the despair that clung like a fog, wisping along the ground. He practically expected to see it morph into a demon all on its own, there was that much misery in the air.
That much bad energy could probably give way to some sort of sentient being if everything lined up right—or wrong, depending on how you looked at it.
From Finn’s point of view, it could go either way. He didn’t really want to see some nasty get conjured
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