Page 3 of Eclipse Born (Hellbound and Hollow #2)

FRACTURED HOMECOMING

CADE

T he morning sun cast long shadows as I made my way through Sterling's neighborhood.

The suburban streets were beginning to stir with people collecting newspapers, walking dogs, heading out for early commutes.

Normal lives untouched by the supernatural horrors that formed the backdrop of my existence.

I moved among them like a ghost, present but not belonging.

The mark on my chest pulsed slightly as I approached Sterling's street, responding to the protective wards hidden throughout the neighborhood.

Old magic, layered over years by a paranoid man who'd survived this long by leaving nothing to chance.

I felt the wards recognize me, catalog me, allow me passage but with reluctance, as if the magic itself sensed the wrongness within me.

Sterling's house stood apart from its neighbors, not physically, but in presence.

Two stories of brick and siding that looked ordinary to civilian eyes, but I could see the subtle differences.

Devil's traps worked into the concrete of the walkway.

Sigils hidden in seemingly decorative trim.

Iron reinforcing the doorframes and windowsills.

A fortress disguised as a suburban home.

Light burned in the kitchen window despite the early hour. Sterling was awake, or had never gone to sleep.

I walked up the path to the front door. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if I were walking through water. Not physical resistance, but psychological, crossing the threshold between the limbo I'd inhabited since my return and whatever awaited within.

The porch steps creaked beneath my weight, intentional design, an early warning system.

I stood before the door, listening. Movement inside ceased abruptly, then resumed with deliberate casualness.

Sterling had heard me. Was probably already holding a weapon, moving to a defensive position with clear sightlines to the entrance.

I raised my hand and knocked, the sound sharp in the morning stillness.

Silence, then the soft shuffle of careful footsteps. The peephole darkened momentarily. More silence, weighted and tense. Then the unmistakable metallic slide of a shotgun being racked.

The door swung open, revealing Sterling in flannel and jeans, shotgun aimed center mass at my chest. The older hunter's face was carved from stone, eyes narrowed and assessing, no trace of welcome in his weathered features.

“You got three seconds to tell me what the hell you are,” Sterling said, voice steady, finger resting alongside the trigger guard with practiced discipline.

I held my hands up, showing empty palms, throat suddenly dry. “It's me.” The words emerged rougher than intended, my voice still unfamiliar to my own ears.

Sterling's eyes flicked over me, assessing. Professional. Detached. Decades of hunting experience distilled into a single evaluating gaze that stripped away pretense and sought the truth beneath. His lips curled into a grimace of disbelief.

“Bullshit,” he replied, no heat in the word, just flat rejection of an impossibility. He moved smoothly to the side, maintaining aim while reaching for a flask on the nearby table. In one fluid motion, he flicked it open and flung its contents directly into my face.

I flinched automatically, blinking as the liquid struck me. Water, cool against my skin. Nothing more. No burning, no pain. Just ordinary water, running down my face and dampening my collar.

Sterling's expression shifted minutely, confusion overlapping suspicion.

He'd expected a reaction: the sizzle of holy water against demon flesh, the revealing flash of a shapeshifter's true form, something to confirm what his instincts told him must be true.

That this couldn't be Cade Cross. Not really.

“Not a demon, then,” Sterling muttered, shotgun remaining steady. “Silver next?” He reached slowly for something in his pocket, maintaining eye contact.

I extended my arm, palm up. “Go ahead.”

Sterling pressed a silver blade against my forearm, applying enough pressure to break skin slightly. A bead of blood welled up, ordinary red against pale skin. No reaction, no burning flesh.

Sterling's expression changed again, suspicion giving way to confused disbelief. “You can't be...” He lowered the shotgun slightly, not enough to render himself defenseless, but enough to signal a shift from imminent threat to cautious assessment.

“I am,” I said simply.

“You went into that demon gate. We saw it take you. There was nothing left, not even...” Sterling trailed off, clearly struggling with the cognitive dissonance of seeing a man he'd believed impossible to recover. “Sean tried everything. For months.”

Sean. Six months of unknown variables. What had happened to him? What changes had occurred in my absence?

Sterling studied me for another long moment, then shook his head, decision made. “Get inside. Now.” He stepped back, creating space for me to enter while maintaining distance.

I crossed the threshold, feeling the subtle resistance of additional wards layered within the home itself.

The door closed behind me with a finality that felt significant. The first test was complete. Sterling hadn't shot me. It was a start.

Sterling's living room was both exactly as I remembered and subtly different. The same worn leather couch, the same bookshelves overflowing with obscure texts and reference materials. The same wall of weapons, meticulously maintained and organized.

But changes had accumulated in my absence. New books, their spines still uncreased. Additional weapons, some that I didn't recognize. A small bulletin board with recent clippings and notes. Six months of Sterling searching for answers, for any sign of how to bring me back.

I took it all in, cataloging the additions, the changes, the information they revealed about Sterling's activities during my absence. It seemed that he had been busy, driven, obsessive.

Sterling moved past me, placing the shotgun within easy reach but no longer aimed directly at me. He positioned himself across the room, maintaining distance, his hand resting casually near a silver letter opener on the side table, another weapon if needed.

“So,” Sterling said, breaking the tense silence. “You gonna explain how you're standing in my living room? Or should I start guessing?”

I chose my words carefully, revealing as much truth as I myself understood. “I woke up in Central Park. In a crater. I don't know how I got there.”

Sterling's eyes narrowed. “Just... woke up. After six months. After going into a demon gate that should have torn you apart atom by atom.”

“Yes.”

“And you don't remember anything in between? Hell? Purgatory? Whatever's on the other side of that gate?”

My hand moved unconsciously to my chest, where the mark pulsed gently beneath my shirt. Flashes threatened, chains, fire, screaming , but I pushed them back, maintaining the wall in my mind that separated now from then, here from there.

“No,” I admitted.

Sterling studied me, decades of hunter's instinct reading between the sparse words. “But something. Something happened to you in there.”

It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer. The silence stretched between us, heavy with implication.

Sterling moved to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured generous measures, sliding one across the coffee table toward me without approaching.

“Drink,” Sterling instructed. Not a request. Another test.

I picked up the glass, noting the slight tremor in my hand. My body still remembering trauma my mind couldn't fully access. I swallowed the whiskey in one motion, the burn welcome, clarifying. Human.

Sterling watched me, noting the normal reaction, the absence of any supernatural rejection of the alcohol. He nodded once, seemingly satisfied, and took a drink from his own glass.

“You look like hell,” he observed finally.

“I may have been there,” I replied, the attempt at humor falling flat, too close to potential truth.

Sterling didn't smile. “We thought so. Sean spent months trying to figure out how to open that gate again. How to get to you.”

The simple statement landed with weight, implications expanding outward. Sean had tried to reach me. Had believed Hell was where I'd gone. Had been willing to enter that nightmare himself to bring me back.

The knowledge should have brought emotion, gratitude, or something. But the hollow space inside me registered only none.

“I need to see him,” I said.

Sterling's expression hardened. “No. Not yet.”

“He deserves to know I'm back,” I argued, my voice remaining level despite the disagreement.

“He deserves to not have his heart ripped out twice,” Sterling countered, setting his glass down with more force than necessary. “You have no damn idea what he went through. What it did to him when you disappeared.”

Sterling moved to the window, looking out at the suburban street beyond, his profile silhouetted against the morning light. For a moment, I glimpsed something beneath the gruff exterior, genuine care, protectiveness toward Sean that went beyond professional concern.

“He nearly killed himself trying to find a way to get you back,” Sterling continued, voice rougher. “I had to physically restrain him when he found a ritual that might have opened the gate. Would have opened it directly into a nest of greater demons, but he didn't care.”

I absorbed this, fitting it into my understanding of the Sean I'd known. Reckless when emotionally involved. Willing to sacrifice himself for others. It tracked with established patterns.

“He's stabilized now,” Sterling added. “Still hunting, still searching, but the immediate self-destructive phase has passed. If you show up looking like...” He gestured vaguely at my disheveled appearance, the hollow eyes, the too-thin frame.

“Like that. Like something that crawled out of the pit but isn't fully back. It'll break him all over again.”