Simone had almost become like them, shuffling around, mindlessly doing as they were ordered to do. Intellectually, she knew that the shells moving around down there were not people. Whatever spirit or soul that had made them who they were had disappeared long ago. The thing that was left behind was hollow and empty.
But even though they weren’t human anymore, they still looked human. Their hearts still pounded. Their lungs still breathed. Whatever the ’Gasts did to them kept their bodies alive as well as any medical equipment around. At least for a while.
As she watched, the shell near the pallets took a step and fell over. For several awful seconds, it struggled to regain its footing, but its body was so degraded that every movement was awkward and weak.
A low, furious rumble emanated from Brighton’s chest. “I’m going to put them out of their misery.”
She shifted her position, bodily blocking his path. “No, you’re not. You go killing shells and the ’Gasts will know we’re here.”
“I can’t just leave them like that. I owe them the peace of death.”
“They’re already dead,” she told him. “Nothing left but meat and bones.” At least that’s what she kept telling herself.
“No one knows that for sure.”
“I do.”
She felt him go still. “How?”
That single, tiny word fell on her with the weight of the world. She wasn’t about to spill her guts to a man she’d just met, but at the same time, ignoring his question would only make him more curious. Instead, she gave him the vaguest answer she could. “I’ve gotten close enough to look them in the eyes. I’m sure.”
“Well, I’m not. And until I am, I’m going to end the suffering of every shell I find.”
“You do that, and we’re dead. No hammer, no purse, no living to fight another day. And worse yet, our bodies will be right down there with those shells, wandering around, bumping into things until some unsuspecting human comes along for us to kill.”
He stared down at her for a long time, his mouth tight with anger, his body vibrating with restraint. “I hate it that you’re right.”
“So do I.” Her hand settled on his arm in an uncharacteristic show of sympathy. She knew better than to let herself feel anything for him—even something as simple as concern. Chances were he wouldn’t survive long if he kept messing around with the ’Gasts.
And a man like Brighton had way too much determination to do the smart thing. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be here now, about to walk into a life-or-death kind of situation.
He covered her hand with his, his skin deliciously warm.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
Brighton wove his fingers through hers, chasing away the chill that lingered along her skin. “Let’s do this.”
Simone activated her boots, willing them to layer a web of invisibility over both her and Brighton. Covering his bulk took a bit of effort, but she figured out how the ability worked pretty fast. It was similar to masking whatever she held in her hands, but on a grander scale.
A shimmering wave of warmth rippled across her skin—a familiar feeling. As she waited for the echo to die down, she swore she felt something else between the ripples. It was subtle, but it left the scent of sun-warmed skin and melting chocolate in its wake, and had the distinct feeling of acknowledgment to it. Almost like a homecoming.
If she didn’t know better, she would have thought that the boots recognized their maker.
Before the odd feeling could settle in and take root, it was gone, leaving her with a job to do and not much time left to do it.
“Stay quiet,” she told him. “Move slowly and follow my lead.”
Simone set a path toward the edge of the parking lot on the southern side of the building. None of the shells saw their approach, even though they left behind a path of trampled grass and weeds.
As they got closer, the scent of rotting flesh rose up like an invisible wall, making her falter in her tracks.
Brighton let out a quiet noise somewhere between gagging and a cough as his fingers tightened around hers.
She did the best she could to hold her breath as they slipped between the shells milling about.
Not only was the door on this side of the building cracked open, but it was broken. The handle had been snapped off—likely by one of the clumsy shells. No need for the set of lock picks tucked in the purse.
She waited until the shells were turned away, searching for signs of people approaching, then slipped through the door. It eased shut behind them.
Red lights gave the hallway a bloody glow. Smears of mud and worse dirtied the tile floor, proving that shells moved this way often. There were a few trails leading into the row of offices along this side of the building, but most of the filth went straight toward a pair of double doors about twenty yards away.