Hell's Bell (Lizzie Grace 2)

I squatted next to the shirt and reached out—but didn’t quite touch the crisp material.

I didn’t need to.

Evil rolled off it.

Evil and hunger.

Whether the source was the owner of the shirt, or a companion was what we now needed to uncover.

And fast.

I hesitated a second longer, and then grabbed a fistful of the material and reached down to that place deep inside where my psychometry skill lay leashed and waiting. While it usually worked better with possessions worn close to the skin that weren’t washed—things like necklaces, rings, or watches rather than items of clothing—it was still possible to track someone through clothing if the item had only recently been discarded. This shirt had been—it was still damp with perspiration.

But I didn’t open the door to my abilities very wide. Given the foulness emanating from the material, the last thing I needed was to slip into the mind of the stranger as I’d slipped into the mind of the teenager when the vampire had first killed her. I didn’t need to experience whatever hell was being inflicted on him. I just needed to find him.

The shirt led us left, toward the lake and a barely visible strand of trees.

You know, it might be wise at this point to ring Aiden, Belle said.

And tell him what? That I’ve found an evil-feeling shirt? That’ll go down well at this hour of the night.

Her grin flashed. If that man is asleep, I’ll eat my hat.

You don’t wear them.

Well no, because they mess with the hair. But the sentiment nevertheless applies.

I snorted softly. If and when we find something to ring him about, I’ll do so. Not before.

Besides, I was a little peeved at the man. Though he’d come into the café regularly for coffee, cake, and a chat, he’d yet to make any further moves when it came to us going out.

He did say the date could wait until you’d fully recovered, Belle said mildly. It’s possible he’s simply waiting for you to say you are.

Anyone can see that I am. He can’t be that daft.

He’s a man. They sometimes have to be clubbed over the head with the obvious.

I snorted again and continued to follow the shirt’s weakening vibes. We neared the barely visible grove of trees, but weren’t led into them, as I’d half expected. Instead, the shirt tugged me around their left edge. About halfway down the grove, sitting rather neatly side by side, was a pair of black shoes, complete with socks tucked neatly inside.

This is seriously weird. Belle stopped beside me. If it weren’t for the evil rolling off that shirt, I’d think we were tracking nothing more than a werewolf who’s decided to go for a midnight run.

Werewolves don’t need to strip off to shift shape. The shifting ability was an inherent DNA mutation rather than a form of personal magic, but the latter did rather conveniently take care of their clothes and everything they might be carrying.

I know that, but maybe this fellow is drunk or something.

Maybe. I doubted it, though. This whole situation felt darker than that.

We stepped over the shoes and continued on toward the lake. The black water was still and quiet, and, rather strangely, clear of fog. Which meant if the fog was connected to whatever was happening, the lake was not our final destination.

We were guided around the water’s right edge, and soon discovered another item of clothing.

Dress pants, Belle said. I’m betting undies are next.

I think that’s a given at this point.

Three minutes later that proved to be the case.

This time, I didn’t bother stopping. The vibes coming from the shirt were fading fast; either the owner’s presence was leaving the material, or his life was slipping away.