Condemned

24 | Jael

The barn's equipment bay has a wide set of double doors that are usually closed with a heavy-duty lock and chain.

Ishmael goes in there sometimes—maybe once or twice a day—and it's no great secret. He probably has something to hide in there, but he acts like it's a trifle, never particularly cautious when he slips inside, closing those doors—and perhaps locking them—at his back.

In passing, I've captured a few glimpses. Hooks, ropes, chains, antique farm equipment, too rusty to serve any agricultural purpose. If there are any other uses, I've never had a reason . . . or the balls . . . to be too curious.

Brock occasionally follows him in there. Some of that shit is heavy and dangerous. A vampire's strength, endurance, and inclination to do manual labor—they dry up, sooner than you might think.

What drifts out of there isn't always what you'd expect. Lately, it sounds like they're shuffling things around, like the area is actually for storage and they're tidying up a bit. A little fall cleaning...

As far as I'm aware, their darker deeds are achieved elsewhere, out of sight but necessarily out of mind.

The wolves don't usually see much. We change and eat in the first stall, and quick business is handled in the small adjacent office.

In truth, we don't usually venture too far into the barn unless duty happens to lead us there, or we're not where we're supposed to be.

What we can hear, however...

That's another matter entirely. Even muffled, the voices tend to carry. Call it a warning you wouldn't need twice. They're usually male, though, and I've made a career out of convincing myself that they deserve whatever it is they're crying and carrying on about. Most of the time, I'm probably right.

On Brock's leash, I've seen more and heard better. So far, it's been impersonal. Better them than me.

I warily await the day it is personal.

That day is coming. Maybe it's here already...

With a muzzle on, wrestled on just minutes ago, Brock is tugging me into the back of the barn at an odd hour—just after dusk. The darkness indoors has truly set in, and no one has bothered to flip on a light switch yet. This is usually the time for a much-needed meal and nap.

Ishmael may be a sadist—hence, the invitation with my name on it—but Brock is a creature of routine, and this is outside of our new normal.

The equipment bay doors are wide open. The space is clear of junk. A few freaks of nature, posing as people, are positioned inside like they're standing on stage, waiting for the fright fest to begin. A cauldron is hanging from a rusty iron tripod, and of course, there's something brewing. The burning coals draw attention to themselves before I can make out who exactly is in attendance, and a noxious metallic odor is masking any other scent. Pinpoints of candlelight are scattered throughout, but the area is a cavernously dark two-stories high. Add in years of dust and soot, and my eyes start to water before I walk through the door. Even if I wanted to take this all in—and I'm not sure I do—I'm running into some hurdles.

Brock and I cross the threshold. Whatever party they're having, we're the last to arrive. With my chain wrapped around Brock's hand and wrist, he slams the doors shut and lowers the wooden bar lock. The echo disrupts the morbid silence of the space.

My wolf eyes slowly adjust. Ivy is by the foot of an antique gurney with a thin, tattered mattress and no sheets. It's empty . . . for the time being...

Rosemary is to Ivy's left. Rollin, in human form, is on her right. Ivy has what appears to be an old spellbook on a stand in front of her. She's poring over the open page and doesn't even flinch at the interruption.