Hell's Bell (Lizzie Grace 2)

Aiden drew his gun as we neared the door. He motioned me to one side, and then stopped on the other, his nostrils flaring as he drew in the heavily scented air. Whether he discovered anything, I couldn’t say. He simply motioned that he’d go through first, started a three-two-one countdown, and then went in fast and low.

I followed—and discovered death.

A man was sitting at the kitchen table, a piece of toast still gripped in one hand, and a dark pool of coffee from an upturned mug surrounding the other. His death had been swift, but horrendous—something that was evident from not only his cut-off scream, but also his expression. Horror, fear, and agony had all been etched into his face during his dying moments.

“The soul eater?” Aiden asked, voice clipped.

“It’s not in the house.” I tucked the knife safely away. “But this man wasn’t present when they used the Ouija board, and that means Ashworth is right—this really isn’t about Larissa or her revenge.”

He glanced at me sharply. “But you do think it’s about revenge?”

I hesitated. “You don’t call forth such a powerful dark spirit unless your intent is either revenge or murder in the most painful way possible.”

He frowned. “Given we’re dealing with a soul eater, I would have thought they were one and the same.”

“Only sometimes,” Ashworth said, as he stepped through the rear glass sliding door. “Remember, the souls of the first victims were taken while they’d been at rest. It’s only the last couple who have suffered, and I daresay that’s due to the fact you two keep walking in on it.”

“And yet we’re no damn closer to either catching this thing or uncovering the person responsible for its presence here.”

“Its actions here suggest otherwise—there was no attempt at seduction this time.”

“If you’ve got any ideas, Ashworth, damn well spit them out. We don’t have time to fuck around.”

Amusement played around the older man’s lips, though his expression remained cold. “Then perhaps you had best ask your girlfriend to stop doing so.”

“Me?” I all but squeaked. “What in the hell do you think I’m holding back?”

“Did you not go back to Marlinda’s apartment today?” he asked.

Aiden swung around to face me. “Why would you do that? And how did you even get in?”

“Maelle gave me the keys. I went to the club to question her about Marlinda, because if I’m right and the unknown Janice is the key to what’s happening, then—given she’s supposedly a friend of Marlinda’s—that was a logical place to search for information about her.”

“We already did a thorough search. There was absolutely no indication that Marlinda knew anyone by the name of Janice. We didn’t even find a photo matching the description we’ve gotten from Larissa.” Aiden’s voice ran with annoyance. He certainly didn’t like the unintended implication that he or his people hadn’t done their job properly.

“Which is exactly the same as I found,” I replied evenly. “I did, however, discover her old phone in her car. It was as dead as a doornail, but once charged, we might find some photos of the elusive Janice on it.”

“And how did you get to her car, given we’ve impounded it?”

“You impounded the one leased by Maelle. Marlinda owned a wagon, which was kept in the parking lot down the road from her apartment.”

“Then it’s either unregistered or listed in another state, because it certainly didn’t come up when we did a search.” The annoyance in his expression, if anything, had increased. “And when, exactly, were you going to tell me all this?”

“I was intending to earlier tonight, when you were supposed to drop by.” I thrust my hands on my hips and met his glare with one of my own. “It’s not like I’m doing any of this for fun—”

“Enough, both of you.” Ashworth’s voice was curt. “We have a dea

d man to look after and a soul eater to worry about. Bickering isn’t helping.”

Aiden took a deep breath, and the annoyance disappeared from his expression. But not, unfortunately, from his aura. “Did you find anything useful on the phone?”

“No, because it was dead, as I said. I’ve got it on charge back at the café.”

“Then bring it to the station in the morning,” he said. “We can scroll through the photographs and see if any match the description we have.”

“Fine.” My gaze went to the stranger. “Do you know who he is?”

“James Morrison,” Ashworth said. When we both glanced at him sharply, he raised an eyebrow and pointed to the stack of bills near the phone. “Or so it says on those.”