Page 16 of Chasing the Flame (The Sacred Flames Of Ruin #1)

There’s a great satisfaction in how I feel when words are put to paper, or in this case, typed in a good ol’ document on my computer.

I like knowing I’ve accomplished something, even if it’s only one new chapter or several hundred words.

Even if I have been overly distracted today, I’ve gotten a lot done.

Progress is progress, or at least that’s what my mom always says.

Thinking of my mother sends another swirl of guilt rolling through my belly.

I’ve not spoken to her in almost a week, blaming it on my PA and her incessant back-and-forth over the novel I’m trying to sell.

I’ve lied more times than I care to admit, but I can’t handle her questioning right now.

Not when I know things are only calm because Luke has his hands full at work.

Or at least, that’s the story he’s telling.

I haven’t quite figured out what happened the night Luke and Jettson went for a joy ride down to Lake Superior. Neither of them was saying much when they got back, and I haven’t spoken to Jettson—aside from stiff morning pleasantries—since that night.

That night everything changed.

Jettson has poured himself into finishing the outside renovations—like staying busy might keep the memory of that night from catching up to him .

It’s been another long week of silence between us after I made a fool of myself on the beach, and since they took that joy ride.

Jettson finished the siding yesterday and moved to painting any white-colored paint he could find outside the house.

After his careful work, the house looks magnificent.

Finally, like the gothic home of my dreams.

Jettson has worked like a man possessed, determined to make this everything that I could’ve hoped for.

I know soon he will have to move into the house and start work on some of the custom furniture pieces I requested.

Matt will also begin the painstaking job of painting every room to meet my vision for the house.

I’ve chosen a palette of greens, black, and gray, and painstakingly chosen metalwork to match each room.

I still need to decide on the theme for the smaller bathroom upstairs and figure out what we need to do to get the one in the main bedroom working again.

When we bought the house, Luke seemed sure that it was minor plumbing issues.

I’d hate for him to be proven wrong, but we need to have Jettson’s crew look at it, or at the very least let Jettson bring in plumbers.

Between that and the custom furniture I’m having Jettson design for the kitchen, he’s probably just swamped. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s avoiding me.

“Probably because you were a crying, sobbing mess, Averie Marie Blackthorne,” I say aloud, berating myself for showing a moment of weakness. Shaking my head, I slide the laptop shut, turn off the mouse, and pull my earbuds out—and instantly, my blood goes cold.

I can hear sounds of shuffling and shifting upstairs, like something is being dragged across the floor.

My heart starts thumping wildly, and my stomach does little flip-flops, like butterflies swirling around.

No one should be in the house except me, and that thought alone has me sneaking out of my office straight to the kitchen knives I’d just unboxed this morning .

The dark wood handle gleams, and the gray galvanized steel is ridged in an intricate pattern, its sharp edge glinting in the waning sunlight. My hand grips the handle, holding the knife away from me as I pass back under the arch in the kitchen and pad toward the stairs in the living room.

Gripping the knife handle tightly in one hand and grabbing the banister with my other, I begin my ascent up the stairs to the second floor of our home.

I never come up here, not after what happened, but today?

Fuck the rules. The shuffling sound is louder now, coming directly from a cracked-open door at the end of the hall.

With every step I take, my heart pounds even harder. Anticipation is building, shooting adrenaline through my body at warp speed. My breaths turn shallow, my palms sweat, and I nearly jump out of my skin whenever I hear movement.

What the fuck is going on ?

When I reach the door, I stall, my breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to bowl me over.

Pressing my back against the door, I nudge it open, grimacing when it squeals.

Upon first glance, the room is empty. Antique furniture litters the room, white curtains hang to my left, and as I scan my surroundings, nothing seems or feels amiss.

The temperature drops as I move into the room, and my teeth chatter at the sudden chill. The hair on my body stands up, this energy intensifying and electric as it coils through me.

There’s a feeling of wrongness I can’t put my finger on. I’m on high alert as I step further and further into the room, brandishing my knife like a lunatic. Then, on my right, a flutter of movement catches my attention again.

Another chill skates down my spine, my gaze connecting with a bookshelf on the far right wall. There, pretty as you please, is a handprint in the middle of the dust-covered shelf. The fear hits first—loud, fast, relentless—but it's the need to know that roots me in place.

Even though a part of me lives for this kind of shit, another part whispers the truth—evil does go bump in the night, and someone very real might be hiding in this room.

I’m sure I look fucking ridiculous, holding the knife high above my head, poised and ready for the kill. My heart’s pumping wildly, my eyes glued to the spot on the bookshelf. Then…the blasted thumping sound resumes.

I flinch so hard it feels like my soul is trying to escape my body.

I’m fucking panicking at this point, convinced that the next thing I hear is going to send me over the edge. Inch by agonizing inch, I make my way toward it. Apprehension fills me to the brim, but I reach out my free hand anyway, feeling along the edges of the bookshelf.

I don’t know why I need to check it or why I instinctively know there’s something here. What’s even stranger? The thumping has now stopped, and the temperature is returning to normal. It’s like something wanted me to see this.

Running my hand along the edges of the top shelf, my fingers find nothing but smooth edges—at least, until I move to the middle.

A small groove lines the spot directly underneath, mirroring exactly where the handprint is.

The moment my finger connects, a soft click sounds, and I watch completely enthralled as the bookshelf moves to the side, exposing a small, hidden room.

“What the actual fuck…” It leaves me in a rush, confusion flooding me, making it hard to comprehend what I’m seeing. This can’t be real, can it?

Inside stands an altar, and as my gaze sweeps across the varying tools littering the small table, a chill runs down my spine.

Behind the altar stands an image illustrating twisted branches reaching into a dark figure.

My eyes widen, connecting with yellow orbs that send my pulse racing.

From there, horns sit atop the figure’s head, and its clawed hands reach toward me as if beckoning me toward the darkness.

My gaze roams over the table again, taking in creepy-looking jars filled with bones, nails, and pieces of what appears to be flesh. Nausea churns in my stomach, swirling around like a vortex. I take a deep, steady breath, forcing myself to take in everything before me.

Bottles, scrolls, an athame still covered with flakes of dried blood, and a bowl filled with bone fragments used for divination litter the desk in the corner of the room.

Behind that desk sits a towering bookcase filled with bottles of things I can’t even begin to put a name to.

Terror claws its way through me, but I make my way into the small room, determined to unearth every discovery.

Ancient scrolls lie on the worn old desk, and I study them, searching the foreign languages for something familiar while my fingers graze each paragraph.

I linger longest on a bottle with dubious contents, my stomach churning in discontent.

A whiff of formaldehyde assaults my nostrils, and I gag at the stench.

I’ve never liked the smell of a funeral home, and this is certainly no different.

When my fingers graze the top of the lid, something shifts in the room.

The hairs on my body stand up, an intense and deep knowing centering in my gut.

Bright light blinds me, bringing forward visions that flit around in a deadly dance.

“ Danger …” I whisper, my voice taking on a spectral quality.

Spirits seem to float inside me, each fighting for dominance to show me what I need to know.

It’s absolutely terrifying, watching as scene after scene ends the same way. A flash of dark robes, chanting, steel glinting in the candlelight, a dark and horrible foreboding feeling as fog and shadows ebb and flow at the corners of my mind .

Familiar hands grip the edges of the hood, pulling it back to reveal a man I’d know anywhere.

My blood freezes at the sight of my husband, chanting in a feverish pitch, his voice apart from the rest. My heart pounds erratically in my chest, the breath stolen from me as I watch him drive the athame in a beautiful woman’s chest.

Her shrill cry will haunt me for the rest of my life.

And then…it starts over again. The scene may change and vary location to location, but it always ends the same way. A woman crying and begging for her life on a cold stone slab, and Luke at the pivotal moment of her demise.

After what feels like a lifetime, the spirits release me, going where? I don’t know, but I can’t say I care as sweet air fills my lungs.

I let loose a sob, the oppressive energy of the entire ordeal lingering and reminding me of the evil that stalks this home.

Minutes seem to tick by at warp speed, and my chest is so tight I’m convinced for a moment that I might be having an actual heart attack.

I’ve never experienced anything of this magnitude, especially not so vividly.

My mind races to Luke, wondering just who exactly he is. I’d always assumed that he wasn’t one for the occult. He never seemed to take an interest in any of it. He’s never said, but I always felt he didn’t like my witchy ways, so I slowly stopped practicing my craft.

An intense flash of anger burrows itself into my heart. It sinks its teeth into me, festering until I’m vibrating with anxiety and anger.

I shake it off, trembling as I reach out and push the sliding bookcase back into place. With Luke’s anger, the last thing I want is for him to realize I’ve been snooping around. Even if it is his, hell, even if it’s not …he’ll still find a way to blame me for this whole disaster.

No, I’d better keep this to myself .

With that thought, I turn on my heel and race back down the stairs, leaving everything I’d discovered behind and buried in the shadows where it belongs.