Page 156 of Soul So Dark

“What’s up, Riley?” he replies in his familiar, syrupy voice.

“Same shit, different day. You?” I quip in my artificially lowered tone.

“Just got home. Grabbed drinks with a girl I know.”

“Anything serious?”

“Nah, but she might prove to be useful one day.”

“Is she a SALAD?”

“What’s that?”

“A Sucks-A-Lot-A-Dick?”

“Shit, dude!” Bowen erupts in laughter. “That’s pretty good.”

My mouth opens with a silent, exaggerated cackle and ends with me sticking my tongue out at the screen, which he can’t see. This is how it usually goes; I mock Bowen’s asinine voice in mime fashion while I kick his ass on screen. To Bowen, I’m Riley who he met playingCall of Dutyand then quickly turned on toDark Souls—slowly bringing him over to my world, so to speak.

It’s surreal talking to him, but in a strange and macabre way, I think it helps. Maybe because this way, I control the narrative. This is how I’m slowly infiltrating Bowen’s life, just like he did mine. I’m becoming his mirror image, and this is how I will destroy him.

My way.

I’ll never know if I stood where Evie once did, on that overlook gazing into the eyes of a killer. But I won’t be tricked again. I’m still human, and I won’t fall victim to a monster like Bowen who seeks the ruin of souls. I won’t become hollow like him. I still have my humanity, and I won’t stop until I’m standing over his bloodstain like the character on my screen. He’s going to regret every decision he’s made, and I’ll be the one watching as he marches to his own ruin.

Because becoming a shapeshifter is the only way I’ll get out of this alive

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Alex

I know a lot of weird-ass guys in the military, but I also know a lot of honorable ones.

This is why I don’t bat an eye when I open my front door for Thatcher Stone and see three minimally-dressed women standing in a neat row right behind him. Thatch is the one who went into contracting first and got me a job with the same company. He’s not much to look at, but he goes from zero to 100 in less than two seconds if shit hits the fan…or if Uno is involved.

“RBF!” He greets me with his quintessential crooked smile, holding a container with the one thing I’ve been waiting for.

It’s the first time I’ve heard that name—Resting Barrera Face—since flash frying myself, and it’s oddly comforting.

“Thatch,” I raise an arm as he comes in for a hug.

I haven’t seen him sincethe incident, unless you count video chatting from the hospital, but he looks the exact same with his usual shit-eating grin, buzzed head, and wire-rimmed glasses that look too elegant for his stocky frame. I’m just grateful he didn’t mind driving here from Pittsburgh.

“Who are your friends?”

I might trust him with my life, but I don’t have the same confidence in the two brunettes and one blonde, all dressed in spandex pants and tops with an assortment of straps and ties that shockingly keep their tits in check.

Thatch turns halfway around. “Kendra, Harper, and India,” he motions to each of them, “my partners—” he says with a glint in his eye, “personally and professionally.”

“You always did like to blur the lines between business and pleasure,” I mutter as I shut the door behind them. “Make yourself at home.”

Without a word, the three women follow close behind and based on their sharp, clean movements and how close they stay to him, I wonder if Thatch is building an army of his own…or a cult. Either would be equally plausible.

“Best thing I ever did,” Thatch nods. “Success is all about creativity. And in my case, all you need is decent lighting, some female counterparts that bring solutions to the table, and to know where to find the highest bidder.” Then he gives a half-shrug. “Or some dudes, if you’re into that kind of thing.Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he adds emphatically.

“Did it—” I do a double-take, and now the three women are sitting perfectly spaced next to each other on my sofa, hands folded in their laps and eyes on Thatch. Only then do I notice that they’re all wearing the same thin, black leather choker around their throats with a single silver charm hanging from them. I clear my throat, turning my attention back to Thatch. “Did it give you more time to acquire this?” I nod to the container cradled in the crook of his arm.

Aside from whatever situation Thatch is referring to, he’s also a semi-professional horticulturalist. And when I contacted him and told him what I needed to find, he was more than happy to hunt it down for me.