Broken Kiss (a Teen Wolf story)

Part 8

            Peter unlocked the gate on the ground floor, then locked it behind him. He went down a flight of stairs lit only by a flickering, low wattage bulb. The walls had been painted an industrial mint green a decade before he’d purchased the building and he’d left them that way. Intentionally unwelcome to discourage anyone from getting too close. Flicking the claws of his right hand out, he approached the security door. There was no handle, no knob, and no doorbell. There were five holes, into which he extended his fingers, twisting them until his claws fit into the small, inset divots. If someone managed to get past the outside door and wasn’t intimidated by the dust and the cobwebs, they’d still think twice before sticking their hand into the lock. Not that it would matter if they were brave or foolish enough to. Based on the locks Talia had commissioned for the Hale vaults, this model was keyed to him. Nobody else could open it.

            When the tumbler clicked, too quiet for human ears, he turned the lock. Air hissed out as the door opened. Inside was an empty room built to create the first impression of a modern empire. Reclaimed hardwood floors. Thirteen layers of pale yellow lacquer on the walls to achieve just the right glow. An angular glass urn that rose out of the floor to house a water effect. This room was meant to impress and set the mood for a sophisticated buyer. The water effect had never been activated. Kate Argent had burned down his home, murdering most of his family in the process, and the rare antiquities business had been the last thing on his mind when he’d recovered.

            The basement did make a kickass secret base when he tired of watching Derek and Scott play their heroic games, however. Beyond the lobby lay his stockroom, housing a curated collection of antiquities - mystical, rare and very, very expensive. Just because he hadn’t focused on the business didn’t mean he was a complete slacker, which was about to come in useful.

            If someone needed to, say, prevent a creature that may or may not be a god from accessing the earthly realm, there was a good chance something in the underground warehouse was up to the task. Lydia had noticed that he disappeared for weeks at a time. It was flattering that she'd noticed. But it was time spent productively. Most of these items had been continents away, and the trail of rumors and warnings leading to them was labyrinthine.

            He headed to the end of the aisle. Everything was meticulously catalogued in his mind. The long wooden case held the pike that had raised Ivan the Terrible’s head. A small, cloudy jar contained Catherine the Great’s advisor’s eye. It turned as Peter passed. He paused, glaring at it until it sank and spun away. Rasputin was so very freaky. Vials and urns, and heavy, battery-powered cases humming with suppression technology.

            He crouched, pushing an endlessly steaming metal bowl out of his way. Behind it sat a rough brown sack. This had been a tricky one, a job he’d taken out of curiosity rather than on a contract. He’d almost missed it. The prior owner had hidden it in a root cellar, among burlap bags full of potatoes and onions. The items inside shifted, rolling against each other, tinkling as they made contact. His teeth ground together. Oh yeah, there was one problem with it.

           Shaking his head to clear it, he pulled the sack off of the shelf with utmost care. In time he could figure out how to keep Hades from crossing over. He tightened his grip around the neck of the bag. For now, he could make Lydia disappear.

***

            Lydia lit the fireplace and settled in front of it. She arranged her laptop and the two books she’d gotten from a new age shop that whispered whenever she passed it. From her bag, she pulled out the navy hoodie Allison had left at her house a million years ago. She stroked the soft inside, then pulled it on over her camisole and pajama pants.

            The books talked about gateways. Not physical places or mystical portals, but gateways of the spirit. Each soul had a frequency, and she could tune towards or away from them. While there was no science behind it – she’d found herself a little embarrassed when she’d started reading it in the store – it had made sense. For her, for a banshee. The other book talked about ley lines, streams of energy like the ones that mixed beneath the Nemeton. That was a bigger concept, and one that brought with it all kinds of bad memories. The Darach. Stiles, being torn apart from the inside by the Nogitsune. The red-hot bolt that had sliced through her when Allison had died. Lydia could still feel it, a raw place beneath her breastbone. Suddenly the fire was too hot, aggravating that spot, the last sense she’d ever felt of Allison. Her eyes burned, too, as they filled with tears.

            Walking out onto the porch, she wiped at her eyes and breathed in the cool air. Her fingernails caught in cracks in the railing. The outside of the house was all mountain ash, which made this the only place she felt safe these days. No supernatural thing was permitted enter the house unless she invited it. She could relax here.

            Wrapping her hands in the ends of her sleeves, she pressed her hands to that soft spot just below her ribs. Full of memories of her best friend, she opened.

            It never should have been me.

            The first voice was always the worst. Every time, in the hush that rose as the physical world fell away, she thought she was going crazy. But then the rest followed: the screamers, the criers, those whose spirits endlessly begged for forgiveness. And those who raged. She twitched, and her eyelids fluttered closed as the chorus of voices clashed inside her mind before settling into a steady current. The frequency of the dead.

            With their death, anyone could make her scream. It was only the restless spirits she could hear afterwards.

            So why couldn’t she hear Allison?

            “Most of the dead are content,” a man said.

           She opened her eyes. He was there, in the same silver robes. With the same black, fathomless eyes. At least he hadn't transported her, or sicced his nasty dog-thing on her.

            “Is she?” Lydia asked, her hands trembling against her stomach.

            “Allison Argent?” His wide upper lip curled slightly on one side as he extended his hand. “Let me show you.”